University of Virginia Library

previous section A new collection of Original poems
no next section

To his GRACE the Duke of Newcastle.

While Flatt'ry stains the venal Poet's Page,
And dull Prose-Politics hide private Rage,
The Muse to You directs her freer Pen,
Patron of Poetry, and Judge of Men.
To please the Great is Glory—and if crost,
'Tis but Ambition in the soaring lost.
Thee, Letter'd Peer, when first thy Athens held,
The Muse with Wonder, and with Joy beheld,

And as she mark'd thy dawn of Morning bright,
Securely prophecy'd the Noon-day Light:
For tho' mean Stars uncertain Courses run,
Yet none can doubt the Progress of the Sun.
Hail happy Cam! thy Groves more glady grow!
Thy fruitful Streams with rich abundance flow,
Uncommon Rev'rence may thy Mansions claim!
Since bless'd and hallow'd by NEWCASTLE's Name.
Thus once of old the Poplar was rever'd,
Where Socrates pronounc'd, and Plato heard.
How bright shines Honour, when the Wearer came
Thro' Learning's Gates to reach the House of Fame.
He woo'd the Muse e'er yet her Patron grown,
Her Darling first, then Guardian of her Throne.

Discoverers thus with studious Toil explore
The happy Island, or the Golden Shore;
Thro' Dangers force their Way, successful Fight,
Then hold the Province in the Royal Right.
Well may the Living thy Protection share,
That stretches to the Dead a Father's Care;
Makes his own Bough the Poet's Ashes skreen,
Elude the Fates, and bid his Urn look green.
O Dryden! (if our After-Thanks display'd,
Give Joy, or Triumph to the loosen'd Shade)
Smile on the pious Office, and inspire
A Genius like thy own to strike the Lyre.
But I transgress—the glorious Deed is done—
Congreve to such a Sire the Lineal Son,
(Like next Relations in the Roman Days)
Has sir'd the Pile, and spread the Fun'ral Blaze.
That Debt of Friendship, and of Honour too,
Is doubly paid, by being paid to You.

Shines any Genius by the Muse belov'd,
Whom your indulgent Smiles have not approv'd?
Is any worthy of Apollo's Ear,
Whom his Vicegerent has refus'd to hear?
You fat to Garth, when he his Patriot drew,
And Cato's Spirit caught new Fire from You.
Forgive great Shades! the Tribute that I bring,
By you directed to the Muses King.
O! had You liv'd to fann the kindled Rage,
E'en I the least, the lowest of the Stage,
To your own fav'rite Theme the Lyre had strung,
And great Plantagenet triumphant sung,
First of his Line , which mighty in extent,
Shines forth in George, and brightens by descent.

Then had you heard the Poet-Monarch's Strains,
And view'd your Garter first on Jewry's Plains.
Mean time, My Lord, receive these humble Lays,
Which Pardon crave, but dare not hope for Praise;
Happy their Fortune, if by You they spread,
The best Names Living, and the Greatest Dead.
G. Sewell.
 

A Subject recommended to the Author for a Tragedy, by the late Mr. Addison.

Richard the First—

1

ON CONSCIENCE.

Conscience , thou home-felt Friend, or inmate Foe,
Impartial Arbiter of Bliss, or Woe;
From thee in vain with hasty speed we run,
We carry with us what our Flight would shun.
Thee, the proud Victor, 'midst his Triumphs hears,
Without elated, but within he fears,
Tho Murmurs break from his applauding Croud,
Thy Voice is gentle—but it speaks as loud,
2

Thy secret Whisper checks his mounting Pride,
Externals vail thee, yet they cannot hide.
Unseen Companion of our Daylight Schemes,
Secret Awakener of our Midnight Dreams,
In vain the warbling Lyre, or flowing Bowl,
Defy thy Force, and would thy Powers controul;
You enter silent with a careful Wing,
And pall the Draught, and sigh upon the String.
Atheists, with Vanity of Wit undone
Set thee at distance—and cry out—be gone.
You go—an interval of Mirth succeeds,
Deep in the Heart increasing Folly breeds;
Till some new stroke the giddy Mind alarms,
And Fear returning gives thee double Arms.
Then ye sad Sons of Shame and Sorrow tell
How deep the Torture, and how fierce the Hell!
3

A Hell, that does like starts of Madness show,
But different in the Pain—these Wretches know—
Like one surrounded with a Ring of Swords,
Where Fate no Passage for the Limbs affords;
He fears them all, from all he fearing bounds,
And only proves variety of Wounds.
Such are the stings that angry Conscience darts,
So presses every way the guilty Hearts.
But O! Thou art not always thus—sweet Guest,
Thou canst as well compose the troubled Breast.
When Man reviews himself with thought sincere,
And sees his Actions fair, his Bosom clear;
No unrepented trace of Sin behind,
To taint and rankle in the fester'd Mind,
The Soul well-pleas'd, its own fair Picture loves,
And Conscience ratifies, what Heaven approves.
4

Then Peace is sown within, the pregnant Seed
Quickens with active Life, and Blessings breed,
The Face with social Humour shines, the Eye
Darts Joy, the Hand is ready to supply,
And Heaven is half obtain'd—before we Die.
5

ON BEAUTY:

By Mrs. SINGER.

Victorious Beauty, by what potent Charm
Dost thou the Soul of all its force disarm?
We bless thy Chains, abhor our Liberty,
And quit the uncontested Field to Thee.
Whether we rash or calm Designs pursue,
Thine is the soft Temptation still in view;
6

For thee we search the wide Creation round,
But thou art no where in Perfection found;
Some Blemish still remains on mortal Pride,
And crowding Years its airy Boasts deride.
Triumphant Beauty sits in Flavia's Eyes,
But while we gaze the trembling Lustre dies:
Thyrsis compleatly form'd with every Grace,
A faultless Shape, and an enchanting Face,
In all his Motions each becoming Air,
Greatness, and native Elegance appear,
Careless and free, in Life's deluding Bloom,
But envious Death threatens a hasty Doom;
Some gentle Mistress full of Love and Truth,
Shall soon lament the dear unrival'd Youth.
“Thou lovely, flattering, transitory Thing,
“From what immense Perfection dost thou spring?
7

To what compleat Original return,
While we thy vain Appearance only mourn?
Howe'er our doating Thoughts mistake the way
To certain Bliss, thine is a friendly Ray,
That points the Passage to unblemish'd Day.
Ye heavenly Forms in all your Pride appear,
And shew us what immortal Beauties are,
What Life, what rosy Bloom your Faces wear!
Put on each smiling Grace, and conquering Charm,
And all the force of mortal Love disarm;
For still our restless Thoughts take glorious Aims,
Howe'er seduc'd by these inferior Flames,
The leading Passion, the supreme Desire,
To things Divine and Infinite aspire.
Eternal Excellence, 'tis only thee
We search through Nature's bright Variety;
8

Our eager Wishes with impetuous Force,
To thee unknown, keep on their restless Course;
'Tis thee we seek and love, for thee we pine,
The powerful Charm, the soft Attraction's thine;
To thee, these Sighs, these tender Vows ascend,
Th'unseen Divinity we still intend;
Sick of these fading Toys our Thoughts press on
To Joys untasted, Excellence unknown.
Thou great Original of all that's fair,
Whose Glories no Similitude can bear;
Before the darting Splendor of thy Eyes,
The Pride of all created Beauty dies.
9

ANSWER TO Mrs. SINGER's VERSES ON BEAUTY;

Occasion'd by these LINES:
Thou lovely, flattering, transitory Thing,
From what immense Perfection dost thou spring?

Silvia , why question'st thou in Words divine,
From what fair Centre Beauty draws its Line;
How that Line runs, or how affects the Soul,
Whether it dwells in scatter'd Parts, or whole?
10

Notions sublime! which human Wit in vain
Trying to trace, finds nothing but the Pain.
Plato will tell (whoso can Plato read)
From some First Pattern Beauty must proceed;
'Tis infinite Idea, boundless Scheme,
And coexistent with the Mind Supreme.
From that Original this lovely Frame
Of low, subordinate Perfection came.
Bold reach of Wit! but yet what Tongue shall say,
That the High Being in himself saw Clay;
That Purity immense reflecting drew
The Flower that fades, the sickly Charms we view?
That Saints, and Chloes were together laid
In his mix'd Plan, who the Creation weigh'd?
And yet the Schools, and all the learned Tribe!
To Plato with Church-Confidence subscribe.
11

Dream on, ye Sophists,—I had rather lose
All Creeds, than One Infinity abuse.
You cry, resolve me,—or my Scheme avow,
That Beauty's there, my Thoughts with yours allow,
But whisper—Human Science knows not how.
Then lower tune the tenor of the Song,
And see what Charms to human Forms belong.
Tell me what Gesture is, what Air, what Grace,
Are they diffus'd, or are confind to Place.
When Delia leans, reclin'd in pensive Mood,
Why dost thou swell, my Heart, why throb, my Blood?
Yet when she rises, all these Motions cease,
And Rebel Nature lies compos'd in Peace.
When bold Thalestris sets the mettled Steed,
And passing cuts the Sight with wingy speed,
12

Why dance my Eye-balls, and pursue her still,
Till lost, I curse the Cloud, or envious Hill?
Yet with indifference I behold her mov'd
In the gay Coach,—and wonder how I lov'd.
Cælia does all things with a graceful Ease,
Yet in Myrtilla all these things displease.
These Eyes ne'er saw thee, Sylvia, yet I find
I could behold thee till these Eyes grew blind;
I'm touch'd with Sympathy unfelt before,
Long to be near, and languish to adore:
Like Zealots, who their Heav'n in Fancy paint,
I form, and worship low my absent Saint.
Appear, Fair Angel, stand reveal'd to Sight,
All cloath'd in Glory of thy native white;
What tho' too fierce the Flame, too strong the Fire,
I'll look—and dare like Semele expire.
13

AN Imperfect Copy of Verses,

Occasioned by seeing the Funeral of Mr. ADDISON In Westminster-Abbey.

Ye sacred Seats! ye venerable Urns!
Where Guilded Royalty to Dust returns,
Where Bards, who promis'd everlasting Breath,
Mock their own Boast, and meet their Kings in Death:
Receive the Debt your cruel Mansions crave,
As great, as Nature ever paid the Grave.
14

Earth open wide! rejoice thy greedy Womb!
Be proud, O Death! and triumph o'er the Tomb!
This was a Conquest—At a single Spoil
To plunder half the Learning of our Isle.
In Fields of Battle where the Sword wastes wide,
And You o'er Ruin heap'd in Triumph ride;
Sedate the thinking Mind the Fate surveys,
Of Creatures form'd to last but half our Days:
And often feels a deeper Loss in one,
Mourning a Plato, or an Addison.
Great Bard! what various Thoughts disturb'd my Head,
When I beheld thee number'd with the Dead?
Distinguish'd only by a decent Care,
To say—what late Immortal Guest lodg'd—there.
15

Is this, I cry'd,—then rose the Thought profane,
But by thy Virtue check'd, recoil'd again—
“Such Pow'r the Ashes of the Virtuous crave,
“To shoot a secret Influence from the Grave;
“Their Tombs are Lectures, and discharge the Trust
“Of living Eloquence from silent Dust.
Recover'd thus; I view'd around me spread
The scepter'd Monarch, and the mitred Head;
Kings more than dead, as seeming to accuse
Thy Fate, and want of thy recording Muse.
16

A DEFENCE of WOMEN;

OF THE Proclamation of CUPID: A POEM from Chaucer.

To the LADIES.

To You, bright British Fair, whom she defends,
The Muse her undesigning Verse commends:
Smile, while she makes old Chaucer plead your Cause;
It is no Crime to give the Dead Applause,
17

For never Man, nor even Woman yet
Made lewd Constructions on a buried Wit.
If Graves and Tombstones don't offend your Ears,
He has been shrowded—full three hundred Years;
And now returns to shame this graceless Age,
Who Libel Woman from the Press, and Stage:
Fools, with ill Faces, and ill Manners too,
Who wild and rough like ancient Satyrs wooe;
And when they by their Fate, or Folly fail,
Fly to the Loser's Privilege,—and Rail.
Our Bard, who if from Picture we may trace,
Had Strength, and Vigour, and an English Face,
Scorn'd the Design of Nature's Gifts to spoil,
And damn his comely Person by his Style.
He knew, whate'er might be his secret Thoughts,
The Sex too well, to tell them half their Faults,
18

Not that he flatter'd them, and gave Pretence
To those he courted, to suspect his Sense.
Women to those an equal Scorn have shown,
Who grant them all Things, or allow them none.
Hence Fops, whom Nature made to grin, and give,
The Sexes Bubbles, and Aversion live;
And Wits of nicer parts with Over-Care,
Seeking a Perfect One, lose all the Fair.
Chaucer, who shuns the Folly of Extremes,
With Wit and Truth records these common Themes;
Not wholly to the Fair devotes his Pen,
But wisely turns the Satyr on the Men:
Their Arts, their Stratagems at large displays,
And telling them, gives Women silent Praise.
He nor too much extols the Sex, nor blames,
(For surely there have been some guilty Dames)
19

But gilds their Weakness with an artful Touch,
For fulsom Panegyrick is too much.
See! how he pities where he can't defend,
The granting Mistress, and deceitful Friend:
Alas! He knew the Torrent of Desire,
When the Nerves tremble, and the Eyes shake Fire.
But I offend—let Chaucer's Muse advise;
The Nymph is safe who on the Bard relies:
For in the mighty Calendar of Love,
Many are Confessors, Few Martyrs prove.
23

THE PROCLAMATION OF CUPID.

We Cupid, King, whose arbitrary Sway
Our Kindred Deities on high obey,
Whose Pow'r invades the deep infernal Coasts,
Awes the grim King, and all the bloodless Ghosts,
Whose Shrines the busie World for ever grace
With Vot'ries num'rous, as their Mortal Race,
24

To all who to our Altars duely bend,
We, Cytherea's Son, our self commend,
And to our Subjects hearty Greetings send.
Be it to all, and every Person known,
That high Complaints are offer'd to our Throne;
The Female Sex in gen'ral send their Grief,
Ask our Assistance, and demand Relief.
Their smooth Petitions in a moving Strain,
Of Man's Ingratitude, and Guilt, complain:
In one Part Lyes and Perjuries abound,
Here Censures blacken, and there Satyrs wound.
Nor is there one of all the softer Tribe
Whose Hand or Mark does not her Grief subscribe;
For at the bottom of the Page I find
By Matron, Spinster, Duchess, Cookmaid—Sign'd.
25

But no Complaints so much affect our Rest,
And with Compassion touch our Royal Breast,
As those which from a little Island came
Of our Dominions, which they BRITAIN name.
They say, that there the rank infected Soil
Shoots up in Harvests of successful Guile;
That Men so perfect play the subtle Part,
And honest Nature's so disguis'd by Art,
That their Breasts tremble with dissembl'd Sighs,
And Tears suborn'd seem starting from their Eyes.
Thus their feign'd Woes the kind Believer wound,
While no true Sorrow at the Heart is found.
There pale and wan the Lover's Looks appear,
All full of humble Hope, and awful Fear,
Their Speech with winning Eloquence ensnares,
Soften'd with Vows, and Sanctify'd with Pray'rs.
26

They cry, their Suff'rings are too great to bear,
And if unheeded by the Cruel Fair,
They talk of dying on the Spot they stand,
Of the sharp Knife, and executing Hand.
“Ah Lady mine, (the rapt'rous Lover cries,)
“Here by thy self I swear, by those bright Eyes,
“That from this Moment to the parting Grave
“I am thy humblest, thy sincerest Slave.
“Nor think this Slave can so ungen'rous prove
“As to divulge the Secret of thy Love;
“Sooner thy self shall tell thy own Disgrace,
“And strive to blast the Beauties of thy Face,
“Than my false Tongue against my Heart rebel,
“Or seize me Furies! and confound me Hell!
Full hard it is to search the secret Part,
And pierce the cover'd Foldings of the Heart.
27

Words sooth our Ear, and Persons please our Eye,
But none the Truth can by Appearance try.
Thus faithful Woman, innocently free,
Suspects no Falshood, where she none can see;
Led by fair Shows she hastens to her Fate,
Too soon believes them, and repents too late.
These said Degrees the Fair Ones often prove,
They pity first, and Pity kindles Love:
Fearful that Man to fierce Extreams may drive,
To stop his Ruin, they their own contrive,
To him resign their Love, their Fame, their All,
And give the Gift they never can recall.
But when the Wretch, in frequent Joys carest,
Discerns his Conquest o'er the weaker Breast;
If in the Circle of his Range he sees
Another Face that better seems to please;
28

He then no more his past Resolves allows,
Forswears his Promises, recants his Vows;
To his new Idol with fierce Passion cleaves,
Again is perjur'd, and again deceives.
And now, since None's so bad but he may find
Some Friend or dark Companion of his Kind,
Soon as the Traitor quits the mournful Dame,
He boasts the Triumph of her Murder'd Fame.
Thus uncontented with a private Wrong,
He spreads his Baseness with a busie Tongue,
'Till o'er the Town the growing Scandal flies,
The Jest of Fools, and Sorrow of the Wise.
Is this Man's Honour, this his boasted Pride,
To publish that which Honour bids him hide?
Thus does he all the Sexes Love repay,
Seduce them first, then, doubly false, betray?
29

Fool! who reflects not that he stains with Shame
At once his own, and the fair Suff'rer's Name.
And yet not her's—To Her we justly owe
All tender Thoughts that can from Pity flow.
Soft to Persuasion, and to Falshood blind,
She only to the cruel Part preferr'd the kind.
But he who spoke so fair, and basely thought;
His be the Shame, as it in Reason ought.
But she deserves our Gratitude and Praise,
Who in these evil, and uncourteous Days,
Free of her Store, and bounteous in Relief,
Thro' too much Charity preferr'd a Thief.
Yet more Excuses for the Sex succeed,
(And who refuses for the Fair to plead?)
Since Man is form'd with strong superiour Parts,
By Nature subtle, and improv'd by Arts,
30

No wonder if, with all these Gifts endu'd,
Poor, easie, harmless Woman is subdu'd.
Who has not heard how ancient Troy was won,
And a whole Empire by a Man undone?
In vain beleager'd ten long tedious Years,
She fell a Prey to guileful Sinon's Tears.
All Scenes of Ill in Traitor Man are wrought,
And States and Nations ruin'd at a Thought.
The Politician spins so fine a Thread,
That Princes think they lead, when they are led;
Well-pleas'd they slumber o'er the fancied Scheme,
And wake in Ruin from the Golden Dream.
What knowing Judgment, or what piercing Eye,
Can this Mysterious Maze of Falshood try?
Intriguing Man, of a suspicious Mind,
Man only knows the Cunning of his Kind,
With equal Wit can counterwork his Foes,
And Art with Art, and Fraud with Fraud oppose.
31

Then heed, ye Fair, e'er you their Cunning prove,
And think of Treach'ry, while they talk of Love.
A thousand Tricks as yet remain untold,
Which faithless Men as useful Maxims hold.
One Gallant, when the common Methods fail,
Nor Arguments, nor Vows, nor Oaths prevail,
Commits his Purpose to a trusty Spy,
To watch her Actions with a careful Eye,
To find her Byas, and to trace her Haunts,
Then bribe her Appetites, or press her Wants.
Ah! little think the Fair what various Ways
Perfidious Man their weaker Sex betrays.
Another Wretch unto his Fellow cries,
“Thou fishest fair, and happy is thy Prize;
“For She, whose Beauty now subdues thy Mind,
“Is faithless, false, inconstant as the Wind;
32

“A Hackney-Jade, that plies about for Fare,
“Her Arms as common as a Barber's Chair;
“Then speed thee fast, and ride thy Journey on,
“Another comes as soon as thou art gone;
“And then a third: for She's so lib'ral grown,
“She lends her Carcase but to half the Town.
“Nor minds She whom, but shuns superior Charms,
“And languishes in dirty Porter's Arms;
“Forces an Appetite to nauseous Vice,
“And buys Damnation at a double Price.
“Nor vainly think that her alone I blame,
“Believe me, Sir, the Sex are all the same.
“There's hardly One of all that cursed Kind,
“But changes twenty times a Day her Mind:
“And would her Man, could She as many find.
The preaching Fool with Disappointments vext,
Thus rails at large, and riots on the Text.
33

Malice through all his poor Disguise is seen,
Since publick Satyr is but private Spleen.
For whence proceeds this Bitterness of Tongue,
But from Resentment of a secret Wrong?
When he who lov'd, despairing of Success,
Envies the Beauty which he can't possess;
With Grief he looks on all his Passion cost,
On Oaths, and Pray'rs, and Equipages lost:
On Confessors seduc'd by holy Gain,
And Chamber-Maids and Saints address'd in vain.
Hopeless to win, and scorning now to court,
To downright Scandal is his last Resort.
“Women, he cries, are sick of one Disease,
“And the same Med'cine all the Sex will ease:
“Take but the Time, and some Love-Story tell,
“Talk to their Vanity, and flatter well,
“Repeat the same again, and look, and sigh,
“And they'll say nothing, rather than deny.
34

“Then who would such an easie Conquest wait,
“Or purchase Pleasure at so cheap a Rate?
“Who for the Sex one Moment's Pain endure,
“I recommend a Mad-House for their Cure.
This Scandal sure but ill becomes their Kind,
And shews a peevish Impotence of Mind;
Slander in all Degrees is Baseness thought,
But to a Woman is a double Fault:
Man stands oblig'd to arm in their Defence,
From Nature, Custom, and the Rules of Sense;
Nor holds he Right by any other Claim,
To gen'rous Breeding, and to Honour's Name.
But Slander will the fairest Fame disgrace,
Will cancel Titles, and the Blood debase;
No Vice so bad as Levity of Tongue;
He that talks much is often in the Wrong.
35

The Tongue of Man no Pow'rs of Art can tye,
It moves so swiftly, and it mounts so high;
And Reason follows with so slow a Pace,
She soon is lost and distanc'd in the Race.
From hence is all that Vanity of Speech,
Which Boys are fond of, and which Madmen teach.
But now suppose we may one Woman find,
Loaded with all the Follies of her Kind;
Inconstant, humoursome, affected, nice,
Strong in her Passions, of a Gust for Vice;
O'ercharg'd with Malice, Turbulence, and Spleen,
In Speech provoking, in Resentments keen,
Self-will'd, imperious, proud, to Vengeance prone,
Dissembling all Things, and believing none,
Lavish of Faith, and prodigal of Fame,
Stranger alike to Virtue, and to Shame;
36

Grant all these Follies in one Woman meet,
And shew the Vices of the Sex compleat:
Because one is, must ev'ry Fair be so?
The Fools say, Yes; but wiser Chaucer, No.
For sure one Woman cannot be a Test
To damn the Sex, and scandal all the rest.
When the high God his Ranks of Angels fram'd,
Were all among that Heav'nly Host unblam'd?
We know that many from their Glory fell,
By Pride sent headlong to the Depths of Hell.
What tho' they fell, shall Mortals be allow'd
From their Offence to style all Angels proud?
Yet wave the sacred Text; We ought to know,
What we to Woman as our Mother owe;
Shall Branches on the Root Reproaches bring,
Or the descending Stream despise the Spring?
37

Could this have flow'd, or that have flourish'd green,
Unless the Mother-Fount, and Tree had been?
An antique Proverb is in English told,
(Proverbs are better still for being old)
Ill is the Bird that soils his proper Nest;
Avoid a Title to a homely Jest.
Hold fair thy Mother, and protect her Fame,
Since thou must be a Sharer in her Shame.
And yet the Ladies long Complaints have made
On wicked Scholars of the writing Trade,
Who unprovok'd, in senseless Rhymes proclaim
The Sexes Falshood, and insult their Fame.
A Race of Blockheads who pretend to think,
And cooly murder with their Pen and Ink.
These sorry Books (for sorry sure they are)
Recite unnumber'd Treasons of the Fair;
38

They tell of David, Sampson, Solomon,
And thousands more by faithless Dames undone;
And when they can no farther stretch their Lays,
Condemn poor Woman by Et Cætera's.
Ovid, who wrote the Remedy of Love,
(Vain Bard to write what he could never prove!)
Reproaches Women in malicious Strains;
Yet was he but an Ass for all his Pains:
And so is every one whose Pen upbraids,
Or true, or false, the Levity of Maids.
But all the learned Clerks, as Custom goes,
This Maxim hold in Metre, and in Prose,
The Sex against their Knowledge to blaspheme,
And Lye at large, when Woman is the Theme.
These wicked Clerks, averse to honest Truth,
Debauch the tender Principles of Youth!
39

Teach them, by idle Books, and foolish Rhymes,
To shun their Charms, and hate the Sex betimes;
Of guilty Maids, and Lovers lost, enroll
A canting, lying, lamentable Scroll.
Thus ev'ry Boy of some false Nymph can tell,
And curses Woman, as he learns to spell.
Yet naught avails it what these Scholars feign,
Their Saws, their Sayings, and their Books are vain.
For here I swear, from this auspicious Hour,
What between mine, and Lady Nature's Pow'r,
Long as this worldly Frame, and Men endure,
The Force of Love no Remedy shall cure.
These very Wretches, who my Pow'r disdain,
Have felt my Arrows, and have hugg'd my Chain.
But now unwieldy Age, unfit for Sport,
Hath cut the Vigour of their Talents short;
40

They want the Courage to engage in Fight;
So laugh at Love, turn splenetic, and write.
Well said wise Reynard, when he wanted Pow'r
To reach the distant Vine,—Those Grapes are sow'r.
But maugre those who censure Woman most,
(Such is the fatal Force my Arrows boast)
One Blow shall strike the sawcy Babblers mute,
Confound their Satyr, and their Pride refute.
If so I will, for all that they can muse,
These Wits shall seek the Refuse of the Stews,
Blindly pursue the lowest, meanest Flirt,
Grow fond, and court Deformity and Dirt;
Nor less for her shall be the painful Smart,
Than if a Duchess had enflam'd his Heart!
So can I set the Soul of Man on Fire,
And Joy, or Sorrow, at my Will inspire!
41

Then woe the Wretch! who dares condemn the Fair,
Long shall he weep, and struggle in the Snare,
Smit by my piercing Dart his Folly moan,
And all my Godhead in its Terrors own.
Let Ovid, subtle Clerk, a Witness stand
To future Times, of my avenging Hand.
He and a thousand more with Learning fraught,
Spite of their Learning, were by Woman caught.
Well may it seem a Mystery to some,
That he, the first and greatest Wit of Rome,
Who tutor'd others in the Lover's School,
Should prove no better than a Woman's Fool.
But none should wonder at such Sights as these,
Since Women see the Frauds of Men with Ease,
Their soft Seducements and alluring Arts,
And treach'rous Falshood lurking at their Hearts.
42

Thus taught by Men, the Female Sex oppose,
With their own Weapons their invading Foes,
Wiles against Wiles are happily employ'd,
As Poyson by another Poyson is destroy'd.
Yet heed me well, ye honourable Fair,
Nor draw Examples from so false a Snare.
Bad were the Dames who ancient Clerks betray'd,
And yet the Clerks in proper Coin were paid.
For if these wicked Men who Love pretend,
Were but sincere, and fearful to offend,
Woman the true and constant Part would play,
But Man is false, and changes every Day;
His Love is Form, his Principle Deceit:
Then where's the Baseness to betray a Cheat?
Another Scandal on the Sex is thrown,
That they to Lewdness are by Nature prone,
43

Easie of Faith, and impotent of Mind,
To the first Coxcomb that they meet inclin'd.
If silly Woman is subdu'd so soon,
How idle was the Pen of John de Mohun,
Who in his peerless Legend of the Rose,
Spins such a Series of unnumber'd Woes,
Of Wiles, and Stratagems, and Dangers past,
And all to gain a simple Maid at last?
The Case is plain, where Force and Cunning press,
The certain Consequence must be Success:
Thus in the bloody Field are Battels won,
Thus Towns are taken, Women thus undone.
Yet if it asks such Engines, and such Pain,
The Fortress of a Female Heart to gain;
44

Then are they not that weak and easie Tribe,
Or so inconstant, as the Men describe.
But are as Women ought, and were design'd,
Friendly of Heart, and pitiful of Mind.
How kindly good Medea was of old,
Who taught the Youth to win the Fleecy Gold,
How false to her did perjur'd Jason prove,
Who gave him Victory, and Fame, and Love?
What Pity Dido to Æneas show'd,
Receiv'd the shipwreck'd Wand'rer as a God,
Unask'd reliev'd his Wants, heal'd ev'ry Smart,
And gave an Empire dower'd with her Heart?
Yet false, ungrateful, and forsworn he flew,
And her who sav'd him, by Unkindness slew.
My Legend too of Natures will supply
A thousand Falshoods of as black a Dye;
45

The Reader there, (if so he list) may find,
Nor Vows, nor Oaths can tie the faithless Kind;
That fearless Man pursues his wicked Game,
Nor feels the Conscience of repenting Shame;
That their whole Heart is one infected Ground,
Rank with Deceit, inconstant, and unsound.
And yet these Legendary Clerks devise,
To blemish Woman with repeated Lyes.
“Hearken, they cry, ye bold Felonious Brood,
“Who live by Murder, and grow fat by Blood;
“Would you some new, some mighty Crime begin,
“Let Woman be a Sharer in the Sin.
“Do Tears and soft Compassion plead for Life?
“Give Her the fatal Sword, or murd'ring Knife:
“To all the gentle Ties of Nature blind,
“She'll stab—and justifie her wicked Kind.
46

Oh! to what height Invention will arrive,
When Malice sows the Seed, and bids it thrive!
Scandal may safely under Covert shoot,
But Things improbable themselves refute.
For who, alas! can fear a Woman's Heart?
At cruel Deeds their softer Tempers start.
Oppression is a Stranger to the Sex,
They burn no Towns, no harrass'd Subjects vex;
No Instruments of War, or Fraud employ,
Betray no Empires, and no Kings destroy;
By them no Heirs are lost, no Bubbles made,
The Courtiers, Lawyers, and Physicians Trade.
From Nature, and from Custom, they possess
A tender Charity, inclin'd to bless;
Good Will, and fair Belief their Actions crown;
Some Sense they have—but Love is all their own.
47

The Wrath of Man their milder Words controul,
Disarm his Rage, and softly sooth his Soul;
For Eloquence innate their Language warms,
And outward Beauty speaks their inward Charms.
Woman is all the Wonders that we paint,
A Guardian Angel, and a Saving Saint,
Full of Devotion, to Compassion prone,
Humble as Strangers in a Land unknown.
Their glowing Blushes tell their modest Thought,
Yet are they Free, where Freedom is no Fault;
Awful and silent, yet when Reason calls,
In measurable Words their Meaning falls.
But now if One among the Female Kind,
(And One perhaps a curious Eye may find)
Is not with all these proper Virtues blest;
Know that, That One has Nature's Rules transgrest:
48

And let some Trav'ler say, who long has sought,
At last he found a Woman with a Fault.
The next and last Recourse of wicked Men,
Is to wound Woman with the sacred Pen,
To curse poor Eve, and urge the Text that bears
The sad Entail—To Her and to her Heirs.
What Time her fatal Hand presum'd to draw
The Fruit Forbidden, and to break the Law.
To Sermon thus as holy Churchmen ought,
Perhaps in us weak Laymen is a Fault;
And yet I fear not, least the grave Divines
To Penance damn me for unhallow'd Lines.
On other Sinners may their Curses show'r,
I love the Clergy—for I know their Pow'r.
If they cannot my ruder Lines approve,
Let them to Woman justifie my Love.
49

Know then, this Deed our Mother ne'er had done,
But by the Devil's smooth Suggestions won,
Who well might cheat the wisest Woman's Eyes,
Bely'd beneath the Serpent's new Disguise.
Tho' Man was lost by her too forward Fault,
The Loss of Man was never in her Thought.
Let any Railer at the Sex that can,
Prove her Intention to deceive the Man.
Deceit supposes, e'er the Deed be wrought,
A Will to do it, and a Train of Thought;
Adapts the Means and Manner to deceive,
But what injurious Tongue says this of Eve?
No Man betrays, but casts his Purpose first:
This Satan did; by him we stand accurst.
The Fiend's Contrivance gave the fatal Stroke,
The Woman only her Obedience broke:
50

Which Law the best and wisest of us all
Daily infringe, yet damn Her for our Fall.
Vain Partiality! absurd Abuse!
That will not lend, yet borrows Her Excuse.
But Man is stedfast, in his Purpose strong;
And Woman light, and leaning to the Wrong.
So Authors say, and this we still embrace;
But who can witness this in Adam's Case?
Their Frailties were alike, both Pardon need,
Tho' more Excuses for the Woman plead,
Since Willingly the Fiend did her deceive,
And so did not she Adam, by your Leave.
Yet happy was this Sin to human Race,
The Spring of endless Joy, the Source of Grace.
51

Himself deceiv'd the great Deceiver found,
And felt in Man Redeem'd the threaten'd Wound.
Nor would High God, All-knowing, and All-wise,
Who pierces Nature with unslumb'ring Eyes,
Had He in Woman seen what Men record,
Deem'd her a Lodging suited to our Lord,
Or planted in that Sex whence Sin began
A Second Tree of Life, and rais'd immortal Man,
O Lady, full of Excellence, and Grace!
O dear Renewer of a ruin'd Race!
What Prophet, or what Angel will inspire
My glowing Heart, and touch my Lips with Fire?
No lower Praise can with thy Blessings vie,
Nor human Voice attempt a Song so high.
52

Ye Sons of Men, for Her alone revere
The sacred Sex with Wonder, Love, and Fear.
If farther we in Holy Writ proceed,
More Miracles of Female Truth we read.
The Son of God, abandon'd, and forlorn,
Left by his Friends, and to his Foes a Scorn,
While some his Person fled, and some deny'd,
Yet Woman, constant Woman, never ly'd.
Then sacred Faith from ev'ry Bosom flown,
In Woman lodg'd— She was the Churce alone.
She felt his Agonies, his Wounds, his Thirst,
Last left Him dying, met him rising First.
O Magdalen! O Holy Sainted Maid!
O Strength Divine in Weakness more display'd!
53

Scornful of Life for thy Celestial King,
O fairest Jewel in the Martyr's Ring!
What Host of Converts by thy Faith were led!
How didst thou living dye, and triumph dead!
Yet construe, Sirs, aright what I intend,
I not the Virgin, but the Saint commend:
Trust me, it never enter'd once my Head,
To be the Patron of a barren Bed.
I ever was, and will be still a Foe
To Hearts of Ice, and chilly Breasts of Snow.
The Church may praise the Virtues of a Nun,
But I cannot,—and I am only one.
Now hold this true, and once in Cupid trust,
All I have said of Womankind is just.
No vulgar Incense courts their Beauties here,
The servile Sacrifice of Fools that fear;
54

Nor flatt'ring Song, ambitious to ensnare,
By pow'rful Numbers, the deluded Fair.
Their Features with impartial Hand I strike;
And draw the Picture beautiful, yet like,
That when the Sex the just Resemblance see,
Of what they are, or what they ought to be,
They may the Tract of Honour still maintain,
Nor only by their Charms, but Virtue reign.
O Virtue, brightest Pow'r, O Guest Divine!
When Woman's Bosom is thy sacred Shrine,
Pride flies thy Presence, Pride, that teaches how
To form the Gate, and falsify the Brow;
Pride, that allows the Praise of Fools to pass
With the fond Fair, and proves it by her Glass:
With thee sweet Guest, nor Folly dwells, nor Sin,
But all is just without, and pure within.
55

Thus then we purpose by our Sov'reign Will,
(And we have sworn our Purpose to fulfil)
Let all our Ministers attend our Nod,
And thus perform the Sentence of their God.
Put these False Men, our Rebel Foes, to Flight,
And banish them for ever from our Sight.
Let them unpity'd and despairing rove,
Nor dare again approach the Court of Love.
On Pain of our Displeasure, none presume,
Or to defer, or mitigate their Doom.
Giv'n at our Court, where, wonderful to tell!
Millions and Millions of true Lovers dwell.
See that, at full our Warrant you obey,
Thus written In the Lusty Month of May.
 

John de Mohun, a French Author, whom Chaucer has translated; the Title of the Book is the Romaunt of the Rose; the Subject is all Love.

A Piece of Chaucer's in Defence of Women.

This whole Line stands as in the Original.

In this Address to the Virgin Mary the Poet goes much farther than I dared to do; he attributes to her the Power of forgiving Sins, &c. as the Romish Church maintain.

Let the Learned see whether this Doctrine be true, it is certainly very much to the Honour of the Women.

56

PROLOGUE, Spoken by Mr. RYAN,

On the first time of his playing the Part of ORONOOKO.

If Oronooko in the Drama shines,
And wildly great on Europe's Sense refines,
That be the Poet's Praise—whose Magic Hand,
Could raise an Eden in a barren Land.
If his Imoinda's chaste and beauteous too,
That Copy, Ladies, he transcrib'd from you.
57

The Actor's Part is last, then know the Share
He claims between the Poet, and the Fair.
If He has strove to please, your Favours first
Broke through Depression, and his own Distrust;
Studious to rise he sought a wise Exchange,
For Slaves must drudge it on—the Free will range.
The Bird confin'd may sing against his Will,
But the wild Musick is the sweetest still.
O! let us vary then our Notes with ease,
And pleasing, have Ambition more to please.
On you, Ye shining Fair, our Cause depends,
For Beauties ever to Distress were Friends.
Orpheus rais'd Theatres, but greater You,
Can raise the Poet, and the Player too.
58

TO Mr. POPE, ON HIS POEMS and TRANSLATIONS.

Among the Gifts of all the raptur'd Nine,
Accept, Great Bard, this Off'ring at thy Shrine;
And while, as to the God of Verse I pay my Vow,
Smile on my Zeal, and move thy laurel'd Brow.
For as when Kings are crown'd, tho' Princes wait
The first bright Objects in the Pomp of State,
Yet will the Crowd officiously appear,
Rude in their Praise, untunefully sincere.
59

So We, who from Wit's Throne at distance stand,
(The humble Commons of the Muses Land)
To our new Monarch raise each artless Voice,
And claim a Subjects Priv'lege—to rejoice.
Nature but slowly to Perfection climbs,
And ripens Wonders by a length of Times;
First doubtful Types the gazing World surmise,
That by successive Steps still higher rise.
Thus Ennius rough, and thus Lucretius came
Preludes and Symbols yet of Virgil's Fame,
Who rais'd from ruin'd Troy the Roman Name.
So we a Waller, and a Denham knew,
Then Dryden (sacred Name) appear'd to view:
In him, the Bards in Mysteries unskill'd,
Presum'd the great Design of Fate fulfill'd.
60

Thus Rome mistook in her first Cæsar's Claim,
But own'd the second in Augustus' Name.
Now we the long-expected Promise see,
The British Muse her Æra draws from Thee.
We know that partial Spirits will complain,
But so they did in young Octavius' Reign.
Libels like Coronation-Serpents fly,
Blaze with a sputt'ring Fire, then hiss, and die.
Then let this Verse, if you refuse my Song,
At least congratulate my Mother-Tongue.
I see it now—Thy Homer makes it plain,
Our Language bears the boldest Grecian strain;
When fir'd beyond Mortality he flies,
Guest of the Gods, and sits above the Skies.
I see you follow with an equal Wing,
I hear on high their own Apollo sing.
61

'Tis true, the Greek, a wide and copious Tongue,
Seems as invented for harmonious Song:
There words with equal Elegance, and Strength,
Fall short, or deepen'd to a graceful length:
There strange varieties of Sound appear,
To please the Fancy, and to catch the Ear.
In rough, rude Verse, the tumbling Ocean roars,
The shatter'd Waves divide, resound the Shores;
When Phœbus shoots, what various Changes ring,
How twangs the Bow, how sings the jarring String,
How the Shaft dances with a feather'd Wing!
And yet thy pow'rful Numbers equal all,
That in the compass of his Language fall:
Here bold, and nervous, there more smoothly slow,
Now harsh as Frost—now melting as the Snow.
62

Thy Helen and the Grecians are the Same,
A doubtful Piece, a guilty, lovely Dame,
Worthy to set another World on Flame.
Proceed, Great Bard, the stern Achilles show,
To Friendship faithful, but to Pity slow;
Paint him from Sorrow kindling into Rage,
See him with Heroes and with Gods engage:
Pursue, while o'er the dead-strown Field he raves,
And boil up Xanthus with new flaming Waves.
While this We hope from thy immortal Lays,
Muse raise four Altars in Apollo's Praise:
Let Greece and England share the sacred Prize,
And two for POPE, and two for HOMER rise.
63

TO Major PACK,

Requesting him to write TRAGEDY.

See how the Muses undistinguish'd lie,
Bards after Bards, like common Mortals, die!
The Stage declines—while Shakespear's Fire on Flight
Darts faintly back, and leaves a glimm'ring Light.
To You it points—to save the Blaze from Death,
And re-inspire it with uncommon Breath.
Thus once to chear his great desponding Sire,
O'er young Ascanius hung the sacred Fire.
64

Catch the glad Omen—stop the Stage's Doom,
And in Britannia found a second Rome.
How many English Chiefs whose Names survive,
In long dull Annals, ought in Verse to live:
Their Wounds like Cæsar's in our Shakespear's Song,
Open, and ask the Musick of thy Tongue.
What Nymphs by Fate to hapless Love decreed,
Might rise by Thee, and wish again to bleed?
But if the Hero less deserve thy Care,
A Warrior-Poet should record the Fair.
'Tis true, the Theatre, like Egypt's Soil,
With Famine plagu'd, and worn with fruitless Toil,
Wisely the Product of thin Harvests fears,
And lives upon the Crop of former Years.
But what is this to Thee, whose gen'rous Hand,
Can pour a Nile upon the barren Land?
65

All Ruins call for Pity, chiefly those,
Where Arts have flourish'd, and where Learning rose;
The fall of dull Bœotia we can bear,
But who sees Athens now without a Tear?
Be it no Terror to thy daring Muse,
That the just Town our Impotence accuse;
That Poetry is now Mechanic made,
And Boys bound 'Prentice to the Muses Trade;
Who lur'd by Vanity, or forc'd by Need,
Begin to write, as soon as they can read.
The Ancient Mine is yours, thence freely draw,
While Fancy paints, and Judgment gives the Law,
Language, and Manners, and the stealing Pow'rs,
That win the Heart, flow from a Soul like yours.
66

If not convinc'd, you baulk the courting Stage,
Think of the next degenerating Age,
In what a faded Light thy Scenes they'll see,
Since we are Mortal all—the World agree,
Oldfield and Booth—as well as—You—or me.
67

TO THE Memory of my dear Friend, Sir Samuel Garth, M. D.

The Praise, that in thy Life we dar'd not pay,
Is safely offer'd to the silent Clay:
Heroes and Poets are of equal Fame,
And after Death their Shrines, and Incense claim.
O! may the Lays cast Lustre o'er thy Urn,
Like Lamps that in sepulchral Marbles burn,
68

Which waiting on the Minutes of Decay,
Watchfully pious waste themselves away.
Scandal and Envy fly the sacred Ground,
Or come with new-felt Awe, and fear to wound.
Thus Lions once forgot their wonted Rage,
When the great Prophet lodg'd within their Cage.
Doubtful of Choice, whom first shall I commend,
The Man, the Patriot, Poet, or the Friend?
In single Characters too rarely met,
But all in Thee, like Gemms in Circles set.
So common Trees their single Fruits produce,
But the rich Vine in Clusters lends its Juice.
While other lumpish Wits have labour'd long,
At a dull Satyr, or a nothing Song;
Thy quicker Genius with a happy Flight,
Shot to the destin'd Mark, and hit the White;
69

Thus heavy Fowl, scarce flutter by our Eyes,
The Lark in Minutes mounts from Earth to Skies.
Whatever Virtues of the social kind,
Old Sages taught, or Modern Wit refin'd;
Grew from thy Nature as its proper Root,
Art gave them Flow'rs, and Learning solid Fruit.
Well dist thou chuse a Science from the rest,
Where thy Humanity might shine confest,
To shew Heav'ns Blessings not bestow'd in vain,
Smooth the sick Couch, and calm the Midnight Pain.
To make the World unmock'd by happy Skies,
And bid the Sun with chearful Lustre rise.
Thrice happy Skill! when thy Professors know
The secret Joy of mitigating Woe;
Studious of Health, unmindful of the Gain,
While they give Aid, they share the Suff'rer's Pain.
70

O'er the pale Virgin's fading Roses mourn,
And sigh—till sickning Chiefs for Conquest burn.
Such, Garth, were Marks of thy excelling Art,
These built a College in each grateful Heart.
O! may the pious Youth to Thee return,
The Grief once destin'd to his Parent's Urn;
The Tears thy Pow'r from Nations us'd to save,
For dying Patriots—flow upon thy Grave!
But most the Muse with tuneful Sorrow strive
To deck thy Tomb, and keep thy Fame alive.
Vain Hopes in them—For as when Kings are slain,
The Palaces they rais'd their Pride maintain,
So to late Times thy polish'd Works shall stand,
Spreading the Glory of the Builder's Hand,
With thy own Nassau, and thy Malbro live,
And equal Fame receive, and equal give.
71

The FORCE of MUSICK, a Fragment after the Manner of SPENSER.

There story'd on the Walls were to behold,
The Miracles by Musick done of old.
72

The Founders too of ev'ry diff'rent Part,
That gives Perfection to the sacred Art:
Who shap'd the bending Bow, or stretch'd the String,
Or taught in Notes the Concave Wood to ring,
Who form'd the Pipe direct, or try'd to turn
The Spiral Trumpet, or the Snake-like Horn.
There stood that Engine fam'd in ancient Lays,
On which, as the judicious Artist plays,
The bubbling Waters in melodious Chime,
Run just Divisions through the Scale of Time.
The tuneful Element in Measure floats,
And falls, and rises in harmonious Notes.
Nor wanted there the First, whose Skill renown'd,
To high, and low, and mean, distinguish'd Sound,
73

With half-clos'd Eyes, and Neck-reclin'd he stood,
As list'ning to himself in museful Mood;
Before lay Rolls with Notes unfinish'd wrote,
Ripe for the Hand to catch the rising Thought.
A distant Quarter of the Fabric held,
Old fabl'd Artists that in Song excell'd.
There on cold Hæmus Top young Orpheus stood,
And from the Mountain call'd the list'ning Wood;
The barren Heath with sudden Groves array'd,
Smiles beautiful, and wonders at its Shade.
Again the Lyre his flying Fingers sweep,
And curling Winds upon the Ocean sleep,
O'er the rough Stream he casts a pleasing Look,
And holds in sweet Suspence the huddling Brook.
But different Scenes his gloomy Journey show
To the deep Regions of infernal Woe:
74

The chorded Instrument he wakes, and sings
With Voice divine, responsive to the Strings.
Then heart-sick Agony uprear'd her Head,
And Care sat smiling on his Iron Bed;
Convulsive Pain, that wont with restless Woe,
To writh her tortur'd Body to and fro,
The Smart remitted which she felt before,
Lean'd on her Hand, and listen'd to his Lore.
As sharp Revenge his Iron Weapon swung,
He heard; the Blow in Air suspended hung.
Pale Fear, that ever doubtful of Surprize,
Unweary'd roll'd the Quickness of her Eyes,
Shudd'ring, and starting oft from Place to Place,
Stood still, and fix'd her sight on Orpheus' Face.
Despairing Love, (for Love this World invades)
Self-slain, the saddest Object of the Shade,
Was figur'd straying on a lonely Plain,
And bending seem to meet the wafted Strain,
75

He look'd, as waking from bewilder'd Thought,
And in his Arms the fleeting Æther caught.
 

The Water-Organ.

84

THE SONG of TROILUS.

If no Love is—O God what feel I so?
And, if Love is—what Thing, and which is He?
If Love be good, from whence proceeds my Woe?
If it be Ill? How can that Ill agree?
His bitter Potions I the sweetest think,
And ever thirst the more, the more I drink.
85

If willingly I bear the burning Charm,
Whence are my Wailings, and my deep Complaint?
If Harm is pleasing, why do I grieve the Harm?
Why with the Load unwearied, am I faint?
Sweet Harm, how holds my Heart of thee so much,
But that my Heart consents it should be such?
And if my Heart consent and I agree?
The Folly of Complaint fair Wisdom binds,
Thus like a Boat all steerless in the Sea,
My Heart is toss'd betwixt two jarring Winds.
Alas! what wondrous Woe poor Lovers try?
For Heat of Cold, for Cold of Heat I dye.
86

TO A LADY on the First of MAY.

The fairest Month of the fair Year,
Like thy own Beauty fresh and clear,
Presents thee on this happy Day,
With the First-Fruits of Infant May.
For where should Flora spread her Sweets,
But where she equal Fragrance meets?
To thee their Breath the Zephyrs bring,
And rob again to make the Spring.
87

How happy is the Youth that sips
The tasteful Nectar of thy Lips?
Hyblæan Store! Partition sweet!
See now the Sister-Corals meet!
Now they divide again—then kiss,
Each senseless of the other's bliss.
O! what a glorious Theft it were,
To steal the Balm that lodges there.
Flora, it more than May would cost,
But to repair what One Kiss lost.
FINIS.
previous section A new collection of Original poems
no next section