The Works of Hildebrand Jacob ... Containing Poems on Various Subjects, and Occasions; With the Fatal Constancy, a Tragedy; and Several Pieces in Prose. The Greatest Part Never Before Publish'd |
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 | The Works of Hildebrand Jacob |  |
104
EPISTLE I. To Syrisca.
Vice-Gerent of the Queen of Love,
Who with persuasive Arts remove
Coy Maidens Scruples, and inspire
The hardest hearts with soft Desire!
Who with persuasive Arts remove
Coy Maidens Scruples, and inspire
The hardest hearts with soft Desire!
Thy Aid, Syrisca, I implore!
My once lov'd Phillis is no more:
Repair the Injury of Fate!
'Tis sad, to live without a Mate.
The widow'd Bird still hangs its Wings,
No longer sports, no longer sings,
Till the new season brings along
Another Partner in his Song.
O, lure by thy inticing Charms
Some fair Companion to my Arms!
Give me no painted, gaudy Thing,
New dress'd like Flora, in the Spring,
To haunt the Park's licentious Grove,
Trick'd up for adventitious Love,
Noisy, and vain, affecting Wit;
A Nymph admiring Fools might hit,
Or eager Mariners adore,
Just landed hot from Africk's Shore.
My once lov'd Phillis is no more:
Repair the Injury of Fate!
'Tis sad, to live without a Mate.
The widow'd Bird still hangs its Wings,
No longer sports, no longer sings,
Till the new season brings along
Another Partner in his Song.
O, lure by thy inticing Charms
Some fair Companion to my Arms!
105
New dress'd like Flora, in the Spring,
To haunt the Park's licentious Grove,
Trick'd up for adventitious Love,
Noisy, and vain, affecting Wit;
A Nymph admiring Fools might hit,
Or eager Mariners adore,
Just landed hot from Africk's Shore.
Nor let my Chance, Syrisca, be
Some oft-restor'd Virginity,
First bought at an excessive Rate
By some grave Pillar of the State.
Some oft-restor'd Virginity,
First bought at an excessive Rate
By some grave Pillar of the State.
Or fallen Matron in distress,
With awkward Fears, and forc'd Caress;
Reduc'd to what, poor wretched Dame!
Is acted ill in Want, and Shame:
For Love, effeminated Boy,
In Indolence, and Ease must toy,
From Poverty affrighted flys,
Or in the House of Sorrow dyes,
With awkward Fears, and forc'd Caress;
Reduc'd to what, poor wretched Dame!
Is acted ill in Want, and Shame:
For Love, effeminated Boy,
In Indolence, and Ease must toy,
From Poverty affrighted flys,
Or in the House of Sorrow dyes,
106
May she, who shares my softer Hours,
Be fresh, and sweet as vernal Flow'rs,
Still gayly smiling, and excell
In loving, or deceiving well!
Such as, Syrisca, we are told,
Thou to our Fathers wast of old.
Be fresh, and sweet as vernal Flow'rs,
Still gayly smiling, and excell
In loving, or deceiving well!
Such as, Syrisca, we are told,
Thou to our Fathers wast of old.
EPISTLE II. To a Friend going abroad.
Tho' Matters go not to your mind;
Tho' Britain you ungrateful find;
Belinda false, and Fortune blind,
Leave you for this your native shore,
As wand'ring cou'd your Peace restore?
Tho' Britain you ungrateful find;
Belinda false, and Fortune blind,
Leave you for this your native shore,
As wand'ring cou'd your Peace restore?
Alas! this Toil you well may spare;
You cou'd not, Friend, out-travel Care,
Around all Europe shou'd you strole,
Or visit either distant Pole:
Tho' all her Sails the Vessel crouds,
Sorrow will sit upon her shrowds,
Swift as the strongest Gale that blows;
And in all Climes Affliction grows:
The Cure must in your self be found,
In a firm Mind, serene, and sound.
You cou'd not, Friend, out-travel Care,
107
Or visit either distant Pole:
Tho' all her Sails the Vessel crouds,
Sorrow will sit upon her shrowds,
Swift as the strongest Gale that blows;
And in all Climes Affliction grows:
The Cure must in your self be found,
In a firm Mind, serene, and sound.
From the bright East whence Sol ascends,
To where his rapid Journey ends,
Wretches in his Carreer he sees
In ev'ry Land, of all Degrees,
From Monarchs to the Slave, who waits
Obsequious at their lofty Gates.
To where his rapid Journey ends,
Wretches in his Carreer he sees
In ev'ry Land, of all Degrees,
From Monarchs to the Slave, who waits
Obsequious at their lofty Gates.
Yet Nature none to want design'd:
Vain Man on Nature has refin'd;
His fond Desires breed Discontent,
The kind Creator never meant.
Vain Man on Nature has refin'd;
His fond Desires breed Discontent,
The kind Creator never meant.
Turn o'er our Annals, or the Page,
Which paints the Greek, and Roman Age,
Ambition's dire Effects you'll find,
And how Excesses make us blind.
Which paints the Greek, and Roman Age,
108
And how Excesses make us blind.
Content is in the golden Mean,
And Fortune but an arrant Quean:
Still make the best of what you have,
And you'll no longer be her Slave;
But live, a quiet, happy Man,
Here, or at Thule, or Japan.
And Fortune but an arrant Quean:
Still make the best of what you have,
And you'll no longer be her Slave;
But live, a quiet, happy Man,
Here, or at Thule, or Japan.
EPISTLE III. Reasons for not writing Satire.
To R. D. Esq;
Write
Satires! no good, moral Friend,
Whom Man's Disorders so offend!
How shou'd I think, the Race to mend,
When Horace, Pope, and Young in vain
Of their Enormities complain?
Can my low Voice e'er pierce the Croud!
Alas! their Follies are too loud!
Bid me go wash the Negro white,
Or read without my Lamp at night:
My weak Advice will not go down,
Besides, I find their Faults my own:
Physic from me wou'd Men endure,
Who my own self cou'd never cure!
Whom Man's Disorders so offend!
How shou'd I think, the Race to mend,
When Horace, Pope, and Young in vain
Of their Enormities complain?
109
Alas! their Follies are too loud!
Bid me go wash the Negro white,
Or read without my Lamp at night:
My weak Advice will not go down,
Besides, I find their Faults my own:
Physic from me wou'd Men endure,
Who my own self cou'd never cure!
But let's suppose, that I cou'd write,
The World from their Offences fright,
Wise, serious in earnest grow,
And tell them, all they ought, to know;
I still, well meaning Friend, have thought
This Preaching never worth a Groat,
One might as well lay down, and sleep;
The Roots are fix'd, the Stains lye deep.
I judge from all I've seen, or read
Of Mortals now Alive, or Dead,
That Vanities were still the same,
And Man had still this Itch to blame.
The World from their Offences fright,
Wise, serious in earnest grow,
And tell them, all they ought, to know;
I still, well meaning Friend, have thought
This Preaching never worth a Groat,
One might as well lay down, and sleep;
The Roots are fix'd, the Stains lye deep.
I judge from all I've seen, or read
Of Mortals now Alive, or Dead,
That Vanities were still the same,
And Man had still this Itch to blame.
110
Yet might we ev'ry Folly glean,
And purge, my Friend, the Lepers clean,
Some think, the Cure wou'd do more harm,
And that their Errors keep them warm.
And purge, my Friend, the Lepers clean,
Some think, the Cure wou'd do more harm,
And that their Errors keep them warm.
Better, they cry, to steal away
One's Mantle in a frosty Day,
Than thus inhumanly succeed:
Of all our Follies we have need;
Our Vanities, however great,
Scarce serve us, to support our Fate:
Shou'd we behold our selves undress'd
No Creatures wou'd be more distress'd!
One's Mantle in a frosty Day,
Than thus inhumanly succeed:
Of all our Follies we have need;
Our Vanities, however great,
Scarce serve us, to support our Fate:
Shou'd we behold our selves undress'd
No Creatures wou'd be more distress'd!
For all these Reasons I refuse,
To tempt, good Friend, my wanton Muse,
In Satire her low Flight to prove,
Contented still to sing of Love.
To tempt, good Friend, my wanton Muse,
In Satire her low Flight to prove,
Contented still to sing of Love.
111
EPISTLE IV. To B. B. Esq
Friend
, whether it be wrong, or right,
In Verse, or Prose I needs must write;
You may as well oppose the Stream,
For I am doom'd, to blot a Ream,
Or two of Paper, e'er I dye.
Then to some Purpose write you cry;
Strive to be useful: what avails,
To sing of Love in wanton Tales?
Do something worthy of the Age,
Or for the Church, or for the Stage.
Translate anew old David's Lays;
Or rival Otway, Young, or Bays;
Or else, in a severer Tone,
Tell the mistaken World their own.
Suppose you back some Party's Cause!
You're sure of Readers, and Applause.
In Verse, or Prose I needs must write;
You may as well oppose the Stream,
For I am doom'd, to blot a Ream,
Or two of Paper, e'er I dye.
Then to some Purpose write you cry;
Strive to be useful: what avails,
To sing of Love in wanton Tales?
Do something worthy of the Age,
Or for the Church, or for the Stage.
Translate anew old David's Lays;
Or rival Otway, Young, or Bays;
112
Tell the mistaken World their own.
Suppose you back some Party's Cause!
You're sure of Readers, and Applause.
My Friend, I never cou'd take Pains,
Still sporting in light, idle Strains;
I'm Stranger to all State Affairs,
And leave Ambition to my Heirs;
Satire, I've too good Cause to hate,
Nor have I Patience to Translate:
What e'er I send you, is my own.
So much the worse, you say, and frown.
Still sporting in light, idle Strains;
I'm Stranger to all State Affairs,
And leave Ambition to my Heirs;
Satire, I've too good Cause to hate,
Nor have I Patience to Translate:
What e'er I send you, is my own.
So much the worse, you say, and frown.
113
EPISTLE V. To C. F. Esq
Whether the French, ally'd with Spain,
Or German Troops the Battle gain;
Whether the Bards, in former Days,
Writ better than our modern Bays,
What matters it to us, my Friend?
Shall we in vain Enquiries spend
Our Moments, as they ne'er wou'd end?
Or German Troops the Battle gain;
Whether the Bards, in former Days,
Writ better than our modern Bays,
What matters it to us, my Friend?
Shall we in vain Enquiries spend
Our Moments, as they ne'er wou'd end?
While rapid Time drives on our Hours,
your Claret in the Country sow'rs.
When at your Villa shall we dine,
And taste your rich Hungarian Wine?
The russet Autumn now has past,
And Winter, since we saw it last.
Once more the teeming Spring we prove;
Kind Nature calls for Mirth, and Love.
Your Groves no longer bend with Snow;
Your thaw'd Canals, and Fountains flow:
Yet think, when Age the Blood congeals,
No second Spring the Body feels.
your Claret in the Country sow'rs.
When at your Villa shall we dine,
And taste your rich Hungarian Wine?
The russet Autumn now has past,
And Winter, since we saw it last.
114
Kind Nature calls for Mirth, and Love.
Your Groves no longer bend with Snow;
Your thaw'd Canals, and Fountains flow:
Yet think, when Age the Blood congeals,
No second Spring the Body feels.
Say, sweet Cuzzoni, shall I bring,
With Rival'd Philomel to sing?
Or will you ask the Sisters fair,
And Laura, with her auburn Hair?
But let not Mentor be your Guest;
His Politicks will damp our Feast.
With Rival'd Philomel to sing?
Or will you ask the Sisters fair,
And Laura, with her auburn Hair?
But let not Mentor be your Guest;
His Politicks will damp our Feast.
115
EPISTLE VI. To Dr. P--- at T. W. with ---
While you the Sick to Health restore,
Like your Hippocrates of yore,
On Thames's Banks I court the Muse,
Blest, when her Aid she don't refuse,
And, careless, no Ambition prove,
But humbly thus to Sing, and Love;
Not wishing, what I can't possess;
Content, cou'd Fortune give me less,
So I your Friendship still may share,
And fancy Cloë true, and fair.
Like your Hippocrates of yore,
On Thames's Banks I court the Muse,
Blest, when her Aid she don't refuse,
And, careless, no Ambition prove,
But humbly thus to Sing, and Love;
Not wishing, what I can't possess;
Content, cou'd Fortune give me less,
So I your Friendship still may share,
And fancy Cloë true, and fair.
When I my artless Lays impart,
You show your Candour, and your Heart,
To all my Errors just; but kind;
Rather to Praise, than blame inclin'd;
Indulgent, tender; yet sincere:
I need a Critick more severe.
Lay by the palliating Friend;
I only ask Advice, to mend.
You show your Candour, and your Heart,
116
Rather to Praise, than blame inclin'd;
Indulgent, tender; yet sincere:
I need a Critick more severe.
Lay by the palliating Friend;
I only ask Advice, to mend.
Say, am I truly now inspir'd,
Or with delusive Ardour fir'd?
Hid from my self, I want your Light;
'Tis you, my Friend, must set me right;
Resign'd before my Judge I stand,
And wait Correction from your Hand.
Or with delusive Ardour fir'd?
Hid from my self, I want your Light;
'Tis you, my Friend, must set me right;
Resign'd before my Judge I stand,
And wait Correction from your Hand.
The God of Med'cine, we are told,
Apollo's skillful Son, of old
Wrought Wonders; but with all his Art,
He only reach'd the mortal Part:
Your Talents are not so confin'd;
Phœbus his Pow'rs in you has join'd:
You make th' afflicted Body Whole;
You can inform the Poet's Soul.
Apollo's skillful Son, of old
Wrought Wonders; but with all his Art,
He only reach'd the mortal Part:
Your Talents are not so confin'd;
Phœbus his Pow'rs in you has join'd:
You make th' afflicted Body Whole;
You can inform the Poet's Soul.
117
EPISTLE VII. To ---
Concerning Travel, and Education.
—Tali Auxilio—
Tempus eget—
Tempus eget—
Your
Son near eighteen Years of Age,
Too tall for School, or a Court Page,
(Tho oft your Neighbour, his good Grace,
Promis'd his Godson such a Place,
Sets out: no matter; you have Friends,
And something better Ned attends
At his Return from foreign Land,
Where now he's sent by your Command.
Too tall for School, or a Court Page,
(Tho oft your Neighbour, his good Grace,
Promis'd his Godson such a Place,
Sets out: no matter; you have Friends,
And something better Ned attends
At his Return from foreign Land,
Where now he's sent by your Command.
He's gone; but, with an aching Mind,
To leave his darling Hounds behind;
The weary Task performs in haste,
And thinks his Time, and Labour waste,
Impatient, restless, and in pain,
Till he can hunt at home again;
Remembring nothing that he sees,
But Rivers, Steeples, Hills, and Trees;
For how shou'd the raw Country 'Squire
A Taste for the fine Arts acquire,
Or Rome, or Raphael's Hand admire?
To leave his darling Hounds behind;
118
And thinks his Time, and Labour waste,
Impatient, restless, and in pain,
Till he can hunt at home again;
Remembring nothing that he sees,
But Rivers, Steeples, Hills, and Trees;
For how shou'd the raw Country 'Squire
A Taste for the fine Arts acquire,
Or Rome, or Raphael's Hand admire?
His Tutor, a meer Scholar bred,
With College Mutton duely fed,
Stranger to all Fatigue before,
Consents to post half Europe o'er,
And guard the Lad from foreign Vice,
Lewd Women, Popery, and Dice,
So that your Parish be his Prize,
When the good, old Incumbent dies;
All his Ambition a good Stock
To plough Church Lands; a docile Flock;
A fruitful Spouse; a House, that's clean;
Perhaps in Time to be a Dean:
With Thoughts like these, all Tongues unknown,
But Classic Latin, and his own,
He went, and grudges all his Pains,
Till Cam or Isis he regains.
With College Mutton duely fed,
Stranger to all Fatigue before,
Consents to post half Europe o'er,
And guard the Lad from foreign Vice,
Lewd Women, Popery, and Dice,
So that your Parish be his Prize,
When the good, old Incumbent dies;
All his Ambition a good Stock
To plough Church Lands; a docile Flock;
119
Perhaps in Time to be a Dean:
With Thoughts like these, all Tongues unknown,
But Classic Latin, and his own,
He went, and grudges all his Pains,
Till Cam or Isis he regains.
This Mentor, this Telemachus,
For one another fitted thus,
In all the Inns where they have lain,
The wish'd Politeness needs must gain.
For one another fitted thus,
In all the Inns where they have lain,
The wish'd Politeness needs must gain.
Thus, while retir'd with your good Wife,
You lead a frugal, Country Life,
And mortgage Farms for ready Pelf,
To keep young Master like himself.
The Youth in Search of Knowledge goes,
And ev'ry Road exactly knows;
Learns how wild Boars the Germans take;
What Fishes fill Geneva's Lake;
Each Prince, or Post-Boy that he meets
Can name, and all the Paris Streets.
This is the best you must expect;
For, shou'd our Guard his Charge neglect,
Things may go worse,—the 'Squire suppose
At his Return without a Nose;
Or forc't on Marriage to some poor
Coquet, or cast Venetian Whore;
Or to a Coxcomb from a Clown
Improv'd, 'twill add to his Renown!
You lead a frugal, Country Life,
And mortgage Farms for ready Pelf,
To keep young Master like himself.
The Youth in Search of Knowledge goes,
And ev'ry Road exactly knows;
Learns how wild Boars the Germans take;
What Fishes fill Geneva's Lake;
Each Prince, or Post-Boy that he meets
Can name, and all the Paris Streets.
120
For, shou'd our Guard his Charge neglect,
Things may go worse,—the 'Squire suppose
At his Return without a Nose;
Or forc't on Marriage to some poor
Coquet, or cast Venetian Whore;
Or to a Coxcomb from a Clown
Improv'd, 'twill add to his Renown!
Had it not better been to stay,
And Educate the good, old Way,
With solid Learning store his Mind
From Books, he left unread behind,
The Structure well contriv'd within,
Th' external Ornaments begin;
Nor, like a vain, fond Architect,
A gaudy Frontispiece erect,
And all the useful Rooms neglect,
And Educate the good, old Way,
With solid Learning store his Mind
From Books, he left unread behind,
The Structure well contriv'd within,
Th' external Ornaments begin;
Nor, like a vain, fond Architect,
A gaudy Frontispiece erect,
And all the useful Rooms neglect,
Thus when he came indeed of Age,
Grew curious himself, and sage,
You might have chose your Heir to send
Abroad with our experienc'd Friend,
Who, like Ulysses, has been out
Some Years, and rang'd the World about,
To read Mankind, their Manners know,
Nor Vice's Slave, nor Pleasure's Foe:
Of Him he might have learnt to live,
And form a Taste—but you'll forgive.
Grew curious himself, and sage,
121
Abroad with our experienc'd Friend,
Who, like Ulysses, has been out
Some Years, and rang'd the World about,
To read Mankind, their Manners know,
Nor Vice's Slave, nor Pleasure's Foe:
Of Him he might have learnt to live,
And form a Taste—but you'll forgive.
The dark'ning Age declines apace:
With Tears I think upon the Race
Our future Progeny must breed,
And fear, our Grandsons will not read.
With Tears I think upon the Race
Our future Progeny must breed,
And fear, our Grandsons will not read.
122
EPISTLE VIII. To ------
After receiving a Present of Wine.
Pamper your Steed with Oats and Beans,
The Creature guesses strait it means,
That for some Journey you prepare,
And neighs aloud, and snuffs the Air.
The Creature guesses strait it means,
That for some Journey you prepare,
And neighs aloud, and snuffs the Air.
Or take your Gun in Hand, and say,
Hy to the Woods! and cunning Tray
Will wag his Tail, and know your Heart,
Spite of the Doctrine of Des Carte,
Who writes, that barking nothing means,
And that all Beasts are mere Machines.
Hy to the Woods! and cunning Tray
Will wag his Tail, and know your Heart,
Spite of the Doctrine of Des Carte,
Who writes, that barking nothing means,
And that all Beasts are mere Machines.
As shrewdly, Friend, did I divine,
When Tom, your Butler, brought the Wine,
You meant it, to inrich my Brain,
And take it out in Rhimes again.
When Tom, your Butler, brought the Wine,
123
And take it out in Rhimes again.
Unless to mend her Milk, who leads
His Straw-fed Cow to flow'ry Meads,
Or fattens her, when old, with Clover,
But hopes, to sell her to the Drover?
His Straw-fed Cow to flow'ry Meads,
Or fattens her, when old, with Clover,
But hopes, to sell her to the Drover?
Nought in this Age is done for Nought:
E'en Votes, like Verses, now are bought;
Honour, and Freedom may be sold,
And Ilia be had for Gold.
E'en Votes, like Verses, now are bought;
Honour, and Freedom may be sold,
And Ilia be had for Gold.
'Tis just, good Friend, you have your Will:
The Chymist sure may use his Still.
Evaporated, not refin'd,
Thro' the Alembic of the Mind,
Behold your Drink!—nay, never curse!
My own dull Port had turn'd out worse.
The Chymist sure may use his Still.
Evaporated, not refin'd,
Thro' the Alembic of the Mind,
Behold your Drink!—nay, never curse!
My own dull Port had turn'd out worse.
124
EPISTLE IX. To S. W. Y.
From the Country, in Answer to some Verses.
While I, as Faunus us'd of old,
The awkward, rural Nymphs pursue,
Who sometimes kind; but oftner cold,
Now hugg, and kiss; now scratch, and scold,
The awkward, rural Nymphs pursue,
Who sometimes kind; but oftner cold,
Now hugg, and kiss; now scratch, and scold,
And make me black, and blew.
While thus in Ditch, or under Hedge
Of Love we give the surest Pledge,
While thus in Ditch, or under Hedge
Of Love we give the surest Pledge,
Expos'd to Wind, and Weather,
May you, and bright Lavinia play
On Velvet Couches all the Day,
May you, and bright Lavinia play
On Velvet Couches all the Day,
And toy at Ease together!
Still may the charming Nymph inspire
New Vigour, new Poetic Fire,
While we the tuneful, happy Swain admire.
125
New Vigour, new Poetic Fire,
While we the tuneful, happy Swain admire.
| The Works of Hildebrand Jacob | |