The Works of Mr. John Oldham :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Mr. John Oldham

Together with his Remains

Oldham, John (1653-1683)

[Book I.]

II.

[Book II.]

SOME NEW PIECES Never before Publish'd.

III.

[Book III.]

REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.

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[Book II.]

SOME NEW PIECES Never before Publish'd.

By the Author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuites.

------ Nos otia vitæ
Solamur cantu, ventosaque gaudia famæ
Quærimus. ------
Stat. Sylv.

HORACE His ART of POETRY,

Imitated in English.

[_]

Address'd by way of Letter to a Friend.

Should some ill Painter in a wild design
To a mans Head an Horses shoulders joyn,
Or Fishes Tail to a fair Womans Was
Or draw the Limbs of many a different Beast,
Ill match'd, and with as motly Feathers drest;
If you by chance were to pass by his Shop;
Could you forbear from laughing at the Fop,
And not believe him whimsical, or mad?
Credit me, Sir; that Book is quite as bad,

As worthy laughter, which throughout is fill'd
With monstrous inconsistencies, more vain, and wild
Than sick mens Dreams, whose neither head, nor tail,
Nor any parts in due proportion fall.
But 'twill be said, None ever did deny
Painters and Poets their free liberty
Of feigning any thing: We grant it true,
And the same privilege crave and allow:
But to mix natures clearly opposite,
To make the Serpent and the Dove unite,
Or Lambs from savage Tygers seek defence,
Shocks Reason, and the Rules of common Sense.

Some, who would have us think they meant to treat
At first on Arguments of greatest weight,
Are pleas'd, when here and there a glittering line
Does through the mass of their coarse rubbish shine:
In gay digressions they delight to rove,
Describing here a Temple, there a Grove,
A Vale enamel'd o're with pleasant streams,
A painted Rainbow, or the gliding Thames.

But how does this relate to their design?
Though good elsewhere, 'tis here but foisted in.
A common Dawber may perhaps have skill
To paint a Tavern Sign, or Landskip well:
But what is this to drawing of a Fight,
A Wrack, a Storm, or the last Judgment right?
When the fair Model, and Foundation shews,
That you some great Escurial would produce,
How comes it dwindled to a Cottage thus?
In fine, whatever work you mean to frame,
Be uniform, and every where the same.

Most Poets, Sir, ('tis easie to observe)
Into the worst of faults are apt to swerve
Through a false hope of reaching excellence:
Avoiding length, we often cramp our Sense,
And make't obscure; oft, when we'd have our stile
Easie, and flowing, lose its force the while:
Some, striving to surmount the common flight,
Soar up in airy Bombast out of sight.
Others, who fear to a bold pitch to trust
Themselves, flag low, and humbly sweep the dust:

And many fond of seeming marvellous,
While they too carelesly transgress the Laws
Of likelihood, most odd Chimeras feign,
Dolphins in Woods, and Boars upon the Main.
Thus they, who would take aim, but want the skill,
Miss always, and shoot wide, or narrow still.

One of the meanest Workmen in the Town
Can imitate the Nails, or Hair in Stone,
And to the life enough perhaps, who yet
Wants mastery to make the Work complete:
Troth, Sir, if 'twere my fancy to compose,
Rather than be this bungling wretch, I'd choose
To wear a crooked and unsightly Nose
'Mongst other handsom features of a Face
Which only would set off my ugliness.

Be sure all you that undertake to write,
To chuse a Subject for your Genius fit:
Try long and often what your Talents are;
What is the burthen, which your parts will bear,
And where they'l fail: he that discerns with skill
To cull his Argument, and matter well,

Will never be to seek for Eloquence
To dress, or method to dispose his Sense.
They the chief Art, and Grace in order show
(If I may claim any pretence to know)
Who time discreetly what's to be discours'd.
What should be said at last, and what at first:
Some passages at present may be heard,
Others till afterward are best deferr'd:
Verse, which disdains the Laws of History,
Speaks things not as they are, but ought to be:
Whoever will in Poetry excel,
Must learn, and use this hidden secret well.

'Tis next to be observ'd, that care is due,
And sparingness in framing words anew:
You shew your mast'ry, if you have the knack
So to make use of what known word you take,
To give't a newer sense: if there be need
For some uncommon matter to be said;
Pow'r of inventing terms may be allow'd,
Which Chaucer and his Age ne're understood:

Provided always, as 'twas said before,
We seldom, and discreetly use that pow'r.
Words new and forein may be best brought in,
If borrow'd from a Language near akin:
Why should the peevish Criticks now forbid
To Lee, and Dryden, what was not deny'd
To Shakespear, Ben, and Fletcher heretofore,
For which they praise, and commendation bore?
If Spencer's Muse be justly so ador'd
For that rich copiousness, wherewith he stor'd
Our Native Tongue; for Gods sake why should I
Straight be thought arrogant; if modestly
I claim and use the self-same liberty?
This the just Right of Poets ever was,
And will be still, to coin what words they please,
Well fitted to the present Age, and Place,

Words with the Leaves of Trees a semblance hold
In this respect, where every year the old
Fall off, and new ones in their places grow:
Death is the Fate of all things here below:

Nature her self by Art has changes felt,
The Tangier Mole (by our great Monarch built)
Like a vast Bulwark in the Ocean set,
From Pyrates and from Storms defends our Fleet:
Fens every day are drain'd, and Men now Plow,
And Sow, and Reap, where they before might Row,
And Rivers have been taught by Middleton
From their old course within new Banks to run,
And pay their useful Tribute to the Town.
If Mans and Natures works submit to Fate,
Much less must words expect a lasting date:
Many which we approve for currant now,
In the next Age out of request shall grow:
And others which are now thrown out of doors,
Shall be reviv'd, and come again in force,
If custom please: from whence their vogue they draw,
Which of our Speech is the sole Judg, and Law.

Homer first shew'd us in Heroick strains
To write of Wars, of Battles and Campaigns,
Kings and great Leaders, mighty in Renown,
And him we still for our chief Pattern own,

Soft Elegy, design'd for grief, and tears,
Was first devis'd to grace some mournful Herse:
Since to a brisker note 'tis taught to move,
And cloaths our gayest Passions, Joy, and Love.
But, who was first Inventer of the kind,
Criticks have sought, but never yet could find.
Gods, Heroes, Warriors, and the lofty praise
Of peaceful Conquerors in Pisa's Race,
The Mirth and Joys, which Love and Wine produce,
With other wanton sallies of a Muse,
The stately Ode does for its Subjects choose.

Archilochus to vent his Gall and spite,
In keen Iambicks first was known to write:
Dramatick Authors us'd this sort of Verse
On all the Greek and Roman Theaters,
As for Discourse and Conversation fit,
And apt'st to drown the noises of the Pit,

If I discern not the true stile and air,
Nor how to give the proper Character

To every kind of work; how dare I claim,
And challenge to my self a Poets Name?
And why had I with awkard modesty,
Rather than learn, always unskilful be?
Volpone and Morose will not admit
Of Catiline's high strains, nor is it fit
To make Sejanus on the Stage appear
In the low dress, which Comick persons wear.
What e're the Subject be, on which you write,
Give each thing its due place, and time aright:

Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her stile,
And angry Chremes is allow'd to swell,
And Tragedy alike sometimes has leave
To throw off Majesty, when 'tis to grieve:
Peleus and Telephus in misery,
Lay their big words, and blust'ring language by,
If they expect to make their Audience cry.
'Tis not enough to have your Plays succeed;
That they be elegant: they must not need

Those warm and moving touches which impart
A kind concernment to each Hearers heart,
And ravish it which way they please with art.
Where Joy and Sorrow put on good disguise,
Ours with the persons looks straight sympathize:
Would'st have me weep? thy self must first begin:
Then, Telephus, to pity I incline,
And think thy case, and all thy suff'rings mine;
But if thou'rt made to act thy part amiss,
I can't forbear to sleep, or laugh, or hiss,
Let words express the looks, which speakers wear;
Sad, fit a mournful, and dejected air;
The passionate must huff, and storm, and rave;
The gay be pleasant, and the serious grave.
For Nature works, and moulds our Frame within,
To take all manner of Impressions in.
Now makes us hot, and ready to take fire,
Now hope, now joy, now sorrow does inspire,
And all these passions in our face appear,
Of which the Tongue is sole interpreter:

But he whose words, and Fortunes do not suit,
By Pit and Gall'ry both, is hooted out.

Observe what Characters your persons fit,
Whether the Master speak, or Todelet:
Whether a man, that's elderly in growth,
Or a brisk Hotspur in his boiling youth:
A roaring Bully, or a shirking Cheat,
A Court-bred Lady, or a tawdry Cit:
A prating Gossip, or a jilting Whore,
A travell'd Merchant, or an home spun Boor:
Spaniard, or French, Italian, Dutch, or Dane;
Native of Turky, India, or Japan.

Either from History your persons take,
Or let them nothing inconsistent speak:
If you bring great Achilles on the Stage,
Let him be fierce and brave, all heat and rage,
Inflexible, and head-strong to all Laws,
But those, which Arms and his own will impose.
Cruel Medea must no pity have,
Ixion must be treacherous, Ino grieve,
Io must wander, and Orestes rave,

But if you dare to tread in paths unknown,
And boldly start new persons of your own;
Be sure to make them in one strain agree,
And let the end like the beginning be.

'Tis difficult for Writers to succeed
On Arguments, which none before have tri'd:
The Iliad, or the Odyssee with ease
Will better furnish Subjects for your Plays,
Than that you should your own Invention trust,
And broach unheard of things your self the first.
In copying others works, to make them pass,
And seem your own, let these few Rules take place:
When you some of their Story represent,
Take care that you new Episodes invent:
Be not too nice the Authors words to trace,
But vary all with a fresh air, and grace;
Nor such strict rules of imitation choose,
Which you must still be tied to follow close,
Or forc'd to a retreat for want of room,
Give over, and ridiculous become:

Do not like that affected Fool begin,
King Priam's Fate, and Troy's fam'd War, I sing.
What will this mighty Promiser produce?
You look for Mountains, and out creeps a Mouse.
How short is this of Homer's fine Address,
And Art, who ne're says any thing amiss?
Muse, speak the man, Who since Troy's laying waste
Into such numerous Dangers has been cast,
So many Towns, and various People past:
He does not lavish at a blaze his Fire,
To glare a while, and in a Snuff expire:
But modesty at first conceals his light,
In dazling wonders, then breaks forth to sight;
Surprizes you with Miracles all o're,
Makes dreadful Scylla and Charybdis roar,
Cyclops, and bloudy Lestrygons devour:
Nor does he time in long Preambles spend,
Describing Meleager's rusul end,
When he's of Diomed's return to treat;
Nor when he would the Trojan War relate,
The Tale of brooding Leda's Eggs repeat.

But still to the design'd event hastes on,
And at first dash, as if before 'twere known,
Embarques you in the middle of the Plot,
And what is unimprovable leaves out,
And mixes Truth and Fiction skilfully,
That nothing in the whole may disagree.

Who e're you are, that set your selves to write,
If you expect to have your Audience sit
Till the fifth Act be done, and Curtain fall;
Mind what Instructions I shall further tell:
Our Guise, and Manners alter with our Age,
And such they must be brought upon the Stage.

A Child, who newly has to Speech attain'd,
And now can go without the Nurses hand,
To play with those of his own growth is pleas'd,
Suddenly angry, and as soon appeas'd,
Fond of new Trifles, and as quickly cloy'd,
And loaths next hour what he the last enjoy'd.

The beardless Youth from Pedagogue got loose,
Does Dogs and Horses for his pleasures choose;

Yielding, and soft to every print of vice,
Resty to those who would his faults chastise,
Careless of Profit, of expences vain,
Haughty, and eager his desires t'obtain.
And swift to quit the same desires again.

Those, who to manly years, and sense are grown,
Seek Wealth and Friendship, Honour and Renown:
And are discreet, and fearful how to act
What after they must alter and correct.

Diseases, Ills, and Troubles numberless
Attend old Men, and with their Age increase:
In painful toil they spend their wretched years,
Still heaping Wealth, and with that wealth new cares:
Fond to possess, and fearful to enjoy,
Slow, and suspicious in their managry,
Full of Delays, and Hopes, lovers of ease,
Greedy of life, morose, and hard to please,
Envious at Pleasures of the young and gay,
Where they themselves now want a stock to play;
Ill natur'd Censors of the present Age,
And what has past since they have quit the Stage:

But loud Admirers of Queen Besse's time,
And what was done when they were in their prime.

Thus, what our tide of flowing years brings in,
Still with our ebb of life goes out agen:
The humors of Fourscore will never hit
One of Fifteen, nor a Boy's part befit
A full-grown man: it shews no mean Address,
If you the tempers of each Age express.

Some things are best to act, others to tell;
Those by the ear convey'd, do not so well,
Nor half so movingly affect the mind,
As what we to our eyes presented find.
Yet there are many things, which should not come
In view, nor pass beyond the Tiring Room:
Which, after in expressive Language told,
Shall please the Audience more, than to behold:
Let not Medea shew her fatal rage,
And cut her Childrens Throats upon the Stage:
Nor Oedipus tear out his eye-balls there,
Nor bloudy Atreus his dire Feast prepare:

Cadmus, nor Progne their odd changes take,
This to a Bird, the other to a Snake:
Whatever so incredible you show,
Shocks my Belief, and straight does nauseous grow.

Five Acts, no more, nor less, your Play must have,
If you'l an handsom Third Days share receive.
Let not a God be summon'd to attend
On a slight errand, nor on Wire descend,
Unless th' importance of the Plot engage;
And let but Three at once speak on the Stage.

Be sure to make the Chorus still promote
The chief Intrigue and business of the Plot:
Betwixt the Acts there must be nothing Sung,
Which does not to the main Design belong:
The praises of the Good must here be told,
The Passions curb'd, and foes of Vice extoll'd:
Here Thrift and Temperance, and wholesome Laws,
Strict Justice, and the gentle calms of Peace
Must have their Commendations, and Applause:

And Prayers must be sent to Heaven to guide
Blind Fortunes blessings to the juster side,
To raise the Poor, and lower prosp'rous Pride.

At first the Musick of our Stage was rude,
Whilst in the Cock-Pit and Black Friers it stood:
And this might please enough in former Reigns,
A thrifty, thin, and bashful Audience:
When Bussy d' Ambois and his Fustian took,
And men were ravish'd with Queen Gordobuc.
But since our Monarch by kind Heaven sent,
Brought back the Arts with him from Banishment,
And by his gentle influence gave increase
To all the harmless Luxuries of peace:
Favour'd by him, our Stage has flourish'd too,
And every day in outward splendor grew:
In Musick, Song, and Dance of every kind,
And all the grace of Action 'tis tefin'd;
And since that Opera's at length came in,
Our Players have so well improv'd the Scene
With gallantry of Habit, and Machine,

As makes our Theater in Glory vie
With the best Ages of Antiquity:
And mighty Roscius were he living now,
Would envy both our Stage, and Acting too.

Those, who did first in Tragedy essay
(When a vile Goat was all the Poets day)
Us'd to allay their Subjects gravity
With enterludes of Mirth, and Raillery:
Here they brought rough, and naked Satyrs in,
Whose Farce-like Gesture, Motion, Speech, and Meen
Resemble those of modern Harlequin.
Because such antick Tricks, and odd grimace,
After their drunken Feasts on Holidays,
The giddy and hot-headed Rout would please:
As the wild Feats of Merry Andrews now
Divert the sensless Crowd at Bartholmew.

But he, that would in this Mock-way excel,
And exercise the Art of Railing well,
Had need with diligence observe this Rule
In turning serious things to ridicule:

If he an Hero, or a God bring in,
With Kingly Robes and Scepter lately seen,
Let them not speak, like Burlesque Characters,
The wit of Billingsgate and Temple-stairs:
Nor, while they of those meannesses beware,
In tearing lines of Bajazet appear.
Majestick Tragedy as much disdains
To condescend to low, and trivial strains:
As a Court-Lady thinks her self disgrac'd
To Dance with Dowdies at a May-pole-Feast.

If in this kind you will attempt to write,
You must no broad and clownish words admit:
Nor must you so confound your Characters,
As not to mind what person 'tis appears.
Take a known Subject, and invent it well,
And let your stile be smooth and natural:
Though others think it easie to attain,
They'l find it hard, and imitate in vain:
So much does method and connexion grace
The common'st things, the plainest matters raise.

In my opinion 'tis absurd and odd,
To make wild Satyrs, coming from the Wood,
Speak the fine Language of the Park and Mall,
As if they had their Training at Whitehall:
Yet, tho I would not have their Words too quaint,
Much less can I allow them impudent:
For men of Breeding, and of Quality
Must needs be shock'd with fulsom Ribaldry:
Which, though it pass the Footboy and the Cit,
Is always nauseous to the Box, and Pit.

There are but few, who have such skilful ears
To judg of artless, and ill-measured Verse.
This till of late was hardly understood,
And still, there's too much liberty allow'd.
But will you therefore be so much a fool
To write at random, and neglect a Rule?
Or, while your faults are set to general view,
Hope all men should be blind, or pardon you?
Who would not such fool-hardiness condemn,
Where, tho perchance you may escape from blame.
Yet praise you never can expect, or claim?

Therefore be sure your study to apply
To the great patterns of Antiquity:
Ne're lay the Greeks and Romans out of sight,
Ply them by day, and think on them by night.
Rough hobbling numbers were allow'd for Rhime,
And clench for deep conceit in former time:
With too much patience (not to call it worse)
Both were applauded in our Ancestors:
If you, or I have sense to judg aright
Betwixt a Quibble, and true sterling Wit:
Or ear enough to give the difference
Of sweet well-sounding Verse from doggrel strains.

Thespis ('tis said) did Tragedy devise,
Unknown before, and rude at its first rise:
In Carts the Gypsie Actors strowl'd about,
With faces smear'd with Lees of Wine and Soot,
And through the Towns amus'd the wondring rout
Till Æschylus appearing to the Age,
Contriv'd a Play-house, and convenient Stage.

Found out the use of Vizards, and a Dress
(An handsomer, and more gentile Disguise)
And taught the Actors with a stately Air,
And Meen to speak, and Tread, and whatsoe're
Gave Port, and grandeur to the Theater.

Next this succeeded ancient Comedy,
With good applause, till too much liberty
Usurp'd by Writers had debauch'd the Stage,
And made it grow the Grievance of the Age:
No merit was secure, no person free
From its licentious Buffoonery:
Till for redress the Magistrate was fain
By Law those Insolencies to restrain.

Our Authors in each kind their praise may claim,
Who leave no paths untrod, that lead to fame:
And well they merit it, who scorn'd to be
So much the Vassals of Antiquity,
As those, who know no better than to cloy
With the old musty Tales of Thebes and Troy:
But boldly the dull beaten track forsook,
And Subjects from our Country-story took.

Nor would our Nation less in Wit appear,
Than in its great performances of War;
Were there encouragements to bribe our care,
Would we to file, and finish spare the pains,
And add but justness to our manly sense.
But, Sir, let nothing tempt you to bely
Your skill, and judgment, by mean flattery:
Never pretend to like a piece of Wit,
But what, you're certain, is correctly writ:
But what has stood all Tests, and is allow'd
By all to be unquestionably good.

Because some wild Enthusiasts there be
Who bar the Rules of Art in Poetry.
Would have it rapture all, and scarce admit
A man of sober sense to be a Wit;
Others by this conceit have been misled
So much, that they're grown statutably mad:
The Sots affect to be retir'd alone,
Court Solitude and Conversation shun,
In dirty Cloaths, and a wild Garb appear,
And scarce are brought to cut their Nails and Hair,

And hope to purchace credit and esteem,
When they, like Cromwel's Porter, frantick seem,
Strange! that the very height of Lunacy,
Beyond the cure of Allen, e're should be
A mark of the Elect in Poetry.
How much an Ass am I that us'd to Bleed,
And take a Purge each Spring to clear my Head?
None otherwise would be so good as I,
At lofty strains, and rants of Poetry:
But, faith, I am not yet so fond of Fame,
To lose my Reason for a Poets name.
Tho I my self am not dispos'd to write;
In others I may serve to sharpen Wit:
Acquaint them what a Poet's duty is,
And how he shall perform it with success:
Whence the materials for his work are sought,
And how with skilful Art they must be wrought:
And shew what is and is not decency,
And where his faults and excellencies lie.

Good sense must be the certain standard still
To all that will pretend to writing well:

If you'l arrive at that, you needs must be
Well vers'd and grounded in Philosophy:
Then choose a Subject, which you throughly know,
And words unsought thereon will easie flow.
Whoe're will write, must diligently mind
The several sorts and ranks of humane kind:
He that has learnt, what to his Country's due,
What we to Parents, Friends, and Kindred owe,
What charge a Statesman, or a Judg does bear,
And what the parts of a Commander are;
Will never be at loss (he may be sure)
To give each person their due portraiture.
Take humane life for your original,
Keep but your Draughts to that, you'l never fail.
Sometimes in Plays, though else but badly writ
With nought of Force, or Grace, of Art, or Wit,
Some one well humour'd Character we meet,
That takes us more than all the empty Scenes,
And jingling toys of more elaborate Pens.

Greece had command of Language, Wit and Sense,
For cultivating which she spar'd no pains:

Glory her sole design, and all her aim
Was how to gain here self immortal Fame:
Our English Youth another way are bred,
They're fitted for a Prentiship, and Trade,
And Wingate's all the Authors, which they've read.
The Boy has been a year at Writing-School,
Has learnt Division, and the Golden Rule;
Scholar enough! cries the old doting Fool,
I'll hold a Piece, he'l prove an Alderman,
And come to sit at Church with's Furs and Chain.
This is the top design, the only praise,
And sole ambition of the booby Race:
While this base spirit in the Age does reign,
And men might nought but Wealth and sordid gain,
Can we expect or hope it should bring forth
A work in Poetry of any worth,
Fit for the learned Bodley to admit
Among its Sacred Monuments of Wit?

A Poet should inform us, or divert,
But joyning both he shews his chiefest Art:

Whatever Precepts you pretend to give,
Be sure to lay them down both clear and brief:
By that they're easier far to apprehend,
By this more faithfully preserv'd in mind:
All things superfluous are apt to cloy
The Judgment, and surcharge the Memory.

Let whatsoe'r of Fiction you bring in,
Be so like Truth, to seem at least akin:
Do not improbabilities conceive,
And hope to ram them into my belief:
Ne're make a Witch upon the Stage appear,
Riding enchanted Broomstick through the Air:
Nor Canibal a living Infant spew,
Which he had murther'd, and devour'd but now.
The graver sort dislike all Poetry,
Which does not (as they call it) edifie:
And youthful sparks as much that Wit dispise,
Which is not strew'd with pleasant Gaieties.
But he, that has the knack of mingling well
What is of use with what's agreeable,

That knows at once how to instruct and please,
Is justly crown'd by all mens suffrages:
These are the works, which valued every where,
Enrich Paul's Church-yard and the Stationer:
These admiration through all Nations claim,
And through all Ages spread their Author's Fame.

Yet there are faults wherewith we ought to bear;
An Instrument may sometimes chance to jar
In the best hand, in spight of all its care:
Nor have I known that skilful Marks-man yet
So fortunate, who never mist the White.
But where I many excellencies find,
I'm not so nicely critical to mind
Each slight mistake an Author may produce,
Which humane frailty justly may excuse.
Yet he, who having oft been taught to mend
A Fault, will still pursue it to the end,
Is like that scraping Fool, who the same Note
Is ever playing, and is ever out,

And silly as that bubble every whit,
Who at the self-same blot is always hit.
When such a lewd incorrigible sot
Lucks by meer chance upon some happy thought;
Among such filthy trash, I vex to see't,
And wonder how (the Devil!) he came by't.
In works of bulk and length we now and then
May grant an Author to be overseen:
Homer himself, how sacred e're he is,
Yet claims not a pretence to Faultlesness.

Poems with Pictures a resemblance bear;
Some (best at distance) shun a view too near:
Others are bolder, and stand off to sight;
These love the shade, those choose the clearest light,
And dare the survey of the skilfull'st eyes:
Some once, and some ten thousand times will please.

Sir, though your self so much of knowledg own
In these affairs, that you can learn of none,
Yet mind this certain truth which I lay down:
Most Callings else do difference allow,
Where ordinary Parts, and Skill may do:

I've known Physicians, who respect might claim,
Tho they ne're rose to Willis his great fame:
And there are Preachers who have great renown.
Yet ne're come up to Sprat, or Tillotson:
And Counsellors, or Pleaders in the Hall
May have esteem, and practice, tho they fall
Far short of smooth-tongu'd Finch in Eloquence,
Tho they want Selden's Learning, Vaughan's sense,
But Verse alone does of no mean admit,
Who e're will please, must please us to the height:
He must a Cowley or a Fleckno be,
For there's no second Rate in Poetry:
A dull insipid Writer none can bear,
In every place he is the publick jeer,
And Lumber of the Shops and Stationer.

No man that understands to make a Feast,
With a coarse Dessert will offend his Guest,
Or bring ill Musick in to grate the ear,
Because 'tis what the entertain might spare:
'Tis the same case with those that deal in Wit,
Whose main design and end should be delight:

They must by this same sentence stand, or fall,
Be highly excellent, or not at all.

In all things else, save only Poetry,
Men shew some signs of common modesty:
You'l hardly find a Fencer so unwise,
Who at Bear-garden e're will fight a Prize,
Not having learnt before: nor at a Wake
One, that wants skill and strength, the Girdle take,
Or be so vain the pond'rous Weight to fling,
For fear they should be hiss'd out of the Ring.
Yet every Coxcomb will pretend to Verse,
And write in spight of nature, and his Stars:
All sorts of Subjects challenge at this time
The Liberty, and Property of Rhime.
The Sot of honour, fond of being great
By something else than Title, and Estate,
As if a Patent gave him claim to sense,
Or 'twere entail'd with an Inheritance,
Believes a cast of Foot-boys, and a set
Of Flanders must advance him to a Wit.

But you who have the judgment to descry
Where you excel, which way your Talents lie,
I'm sure, will never be induc'd to strain
Your Genius, or attempt against your vein.
Yet (this let me advise) if e're you write,
Let none of your composures see the light,
Till they've been throughly weigh'd, and past the Test
Of all those Judges who are thought the best:
While in your Desk they're lock'd up from the Press,
You've power to correct them as you please:
But when they once come forth to view of all,
Your Faults are Chronicled, and past recall.

Orpheus the first of the inspired Train,
By force of powerful numbers did restrain
Mankind from rage, and bloudy cruelty,
And taught the barbarous world civility,
Hence rose the Fiction, which the Poets fram'd,
That Lions were by's tuneful Magick tam'd,

And Tygers, charm'd by his harmonious lays,
Grew gentle, and laid by their savageness:
Hence that, which of Amphion too they tell,
The pow'r of whose miraculous Lute could call
The well-plac'd stones into the Theban Wall.
Wondrous were the effects of primitive Verse,
Which setled and reform'd the Universe:
This did all things to their due ends reduce,
To publick, private, sacred, civil use:
Marriage for weighty causes was ordain'd,
That bridled lust, and lawless Love restrain'd:
Cities with Walls, and Rampiers were inclos'd,
And property with wholsom Laws dispos'd:
And bounds were fix'd of Equity and Right,
To guard weak Innocence from wrongful might.
Hence Poets have been held a sacred name,
And plac'd with first Rates in the Lists of Fame.
Next these, great Homer to the world appear'd,
Around the Globe his loud alarms were heard,
Which all the brave to war-like action fir'd:

And Hesiod after him with useful skill
Gave Lessons to instruct the Plough-mans toil.
Verse was the language of the gods of old,
In which their sacred Oracles were told:
In Verse were the first rules of vertue taught,
And Doctrine thence, as now from Pulpits sought:
By Verse some have the love of Princes gain'd,
Who oft vouchsafe so to be entertain'd,
And with a Muse their weighty cares unbend.
Then think it no disparagement, dear Sir,
To own your self a Member of that Quire,
Whom Kings esteem, and Heaven does inspire.

Concerning Poets there has been contest,
Whether they're made by Art, or Nature best:
But if I may presume in this Affair,
Amongst the rest my judgment to declare,
No Art without a Genius will avail,
And Parts without the help of Art will fail:
But both Ingredients joyntly must unite
To make the happy Character complete.

None at New-market ever won the Prize,
But us'd his Airings, and his Exercise,
His Courses and his Diets long before,
And Wine, and Women for a time forbore:
Nor is there any Singing-man, we know,
Of good Repute in either Chappel now,
But was a Learner once (he'l freely own)
And by long Practice to that Skill has grown:
But each conceited Dunce, without pretence
To the least grain of Learning, Parts, or sense,
Or any thing but harden'd impudence,
Sets up for Poetry, and dares engage
With all the topping Writers of the Age:
“Why should not he put in amongst the rest?
“Damn him! he scorns to come behind the best:
“Declares himself a Wit, and vows to draw
“On the next man, who e're disowns him so.

Scriblers of Quality who have Estate,
To gain applauding Fools at any rate,
Practise as many tricks as Shop-keepers
To force a Trade, and put off naughty wares:

Some hire the House their Follies to expose,
And are at charge to be ridiculous:
Others with Wine, and Ordinaries treat
A needy Rabble to cry up their Wit:
'Tis strange, that such should the true diff'rence find
Betwixt a spunging Knave and faithful Friend.
Take heed how you e're prostitute your sense
To such a fawning crew of Sycophants:
All signs of being pleas'd the Rogues will feign,
Wonder, and bless themselves at every line.
Swearing, “'Tis soft! 'tis charming! 'tis Divine!
Here they'l look pale, as if surpriz'd, and there
In a disguise of grief squeeze out a tear:
Oft seem transported with a sudden joy,
Stamp and lift up their hands in extasie:
But, if by chance your back once turn'd appear,
You'l have 'em strait put out their tongues in jeer,
Or point, or gibe you with a scornful sneer.
As they who truly grieve at Funerals, shew
Less outward sorrow than hir'd mourners do;

So true Admirers less concernment wear
Before your face than the sham Flatterer.

They tell of Kings, who never would admit
A Confident, or bosom-Favourite,
Till store of Wine had made his secrets float,
And by that means they'd found his temper out:
'Twere well if Poets knew some way like this,
How to discern their friends from enemies.

Had you consulted learned Ben of old,
He would your faults impartially have told:
“This Verse correction wants (he would have said)
“And so does this: If you replied, you had
To little purpose several trials made;
He presently would bid you strike a dash
On all, and put in better in the place:
But if he found you once a stubborn sot,
That would not be corrected in a fault;
He would no more his pains and counsel spend
On an abandon'd Fool that scorn'd to mend;

But bid you in the Devils name go on,
And hug your dear impertinence alone.

A trusty knowing Friend will boldly dare
To give his sense and judgment, wheresoe're
He sees a Fault: “Here, Sir, good faith, you're low,
“And must some heightning on the place bestow:
“There, if you mind, the Rhime is harsh, and rough,
“And should be soft'ned to go smoothlier off:
“Your strokes are here of Varnish left too bare,
“Your Colours there too thick laid on appear:
“Your Metaphor is coarse, that Phrase not pure,
“This Word improper, and that sense obscure.
In fine, you'l find him a strict Censurer,
That will not your least negligences spare
Through a vain fear of disobliging you:
They are but slight, and trivial things, 'tis true:
Yet these same Trifles (take a Poets word)
Matter of high importance will afford,

When e're by means of them you come to be
Expos'd to Laughter, Scorn, and Infamy.

Not those with Lord have mercy on their doors,
Venom of Adders, or infected Whores,
Are dreaded worse by men of sense, and Wit,
Than a mad Scribler in his raving fit:
Like Dog, whose tail is pegg'd into a bone,
The hooting Rabble all about the Town,
Pursue the Cur, aund pelt him up and down.
Should this poor Frantick, as he pass'd along,
Intent on's Rhiming work amidst the throng,
Into Fleet-Ditch, or some deep Cellar fall,
And till he rent his throat for succour bawl,
No one would lend an helping hand at call:
For who (the Plague!) could guess at his design,
Whether he did not for the nonce drop in?
I'd tell you, Sir, but questionless you've heard
Of the odd end of a Sicilian Bard:
Fond to be deem'd a god, this fool (it seems)
In's fit leapt headlong into Ætna's Flames.

Troth, I could be content an Act might pass,
Such Poets should have leave, when e're they please,
To die, and rid us of our Grievances.
A God's name let'em hang, or drown, or choose
What other way they will themselves dispose,
Why should we life against their wills impose?
Might that same fool I mention'd, now revive,
He would not be reclaim'd, I dare believe,
But soon be playing his old freaks again,
And still the same capricious hopes retain.

'Tis hard to guess, and harder to alledg
Whether for Parricide, or Sacriledg,
Or some more strange, unknown, and horrid crime,
Done in their own, or their Fore-fathers time,
These scribling Wretches have been damn'd to Rhime:
But certain 'tis, for such a crack-braind Race
Bedlam, or Hogsdon is the fittest place:
Without their Keepers you had better choose
To meet the Lions of the Tower broke loose,

Than these wild savage Rhymers in the street,
Who with their Verses worry all they meet:
In vain you would release your self; so close
The Leeches cleave, that there's no getting loose.
Remorsless they to no entreaties yield,
Till you are with inhumane non-sense kill'd.

An Imitation of HORACE. Book I. Satyr IX.

Written in June, 1681.

Ibam fortè viâ sacrâ, &c.

As I was walking in the Mall of late,
Alone, and musing on I know not what;
Comes a familiar Fop, whom hardly I
Knew by his name, and rudely seizes me:
Dear Sir, I'm mighty glad to meet with you:
And pray, how have you done this Age, or two?
“Well I thank God (said I) as times are now:
“I wish the same to you. And so pass'd on,
Hoping with this the Coxcomb would be gone.

But when I saw I could not thus get free;
I ask'd, what business else he had with me?
Sir (answered he) If Learning, Parts, or Sense
Merit your friendship; I have just pretence.
“I honour you (said I) upon that score,
“And shall be glad to serve you to my power.
Mean time, wild to get loose, I try all ways
To shake him off: Sometimes I walk apace,
Sometimes stand still: I frown, I chafe, I fret,
Shrug, turn my back, as in the Baigno, sweat:
And shew all kind of signs to make him guess
At my impatience, and uneasiness.
“Happy the folk in Newgate! (whisper'd I)
“Who, tho in Chains are from this torment free:
“Wou'd I were like rough Manly in the Play,
“To send Impertinents with kicks away.!

He all the while baits me with tedious chat,
Speaks much about the drought, and how the rate
Of Hay is rais'd, and what it now goes at:
Tells me of a new Comet at the Hague,
Portending God knows what, a Dearth, or Plague:

Names every Wench, that passes through the Park,
How much she is allow'd, and who the Spark,
That keeps her: points, who lately got a Clap,
And who at the Groom-Porters had ill hap
Three nights ago in play with such a Lord:
When he observ'd, I minded not a word,
And did no answer to his trash afford;
Sir, I perceive you stand on Thorns (said he)
And fain would part: but, faith, it must not be:
Come, let us take a Bottle. (I cried) “No;
“Sir, I am in a Course, and dare not now.
Then tell me whether you desire to go:
I'll wait upon you. “Oh! Sir, 'tis too far:
“I visit cross the Water: therefore spare
“Your needless trouble. Trouble! Sir, 'tis none:
'Tis more by half to leave you here alone.
I have no present business to attend,
At least which I'll not quit for such a Friend:
Tell me not of the distance: for I vow,
I'll cut the LIne, double the Cape for you,

Good faith, I will not leave you: make no words;
Go you to Lambeth? Is it to my Lords?
His Steward I most intimately know,
Have often drunk with his Comptroller too.
By this I found my Wheadle would not pass,
But rather serv'd my suff'rings to increase:
And seeing 'twas in vain to vex, or fret,
I patiently submitted to my Fate.

Strait he begins again: Sir, if you knew
My worth but half so throughly as I do;
I'm sure, you would not value any Friend
You have, like me: but that I won't commend
My self, and my own Talents; I might tell
How many ways to wonder I excel.
None has a greater gift in Poetry,
Or writes more Verses with more ease than I:
I'm grown the envy of the men of Wit,
I kill'd ev'n Rochester with grief, and spight:
Next for the Dancing part I all surpass,
St. Andrew never mov'd with such a grace:

And 'tis well known, when e're I sing, or set,
Humphreys, nor Blow could ever match me yet.

Here I got room to interrupt: “Have you
“A Mother, Sir, or Kindred living now?
Not one: they are all dead. “Troth, so I guest:
“The happier they (said I) who are at rest.
“Poor I am only left unmurder'd yet:
“Haste, I beseech you, and dispatch me quite:
“For I am well convinc'd, my time is come:
“When I was young, a Gypsie told my doom:
This Lad (said she, and look'd upon my hand)
Shall not by Sword, or Poyson come to's end,
Nor by the Fever, Dropsie, Gout, or Stone,
But he shall die by an eternal Tongue:
Therefore, when he's grown up, if he be wise,
Let him avoid great Talkers, I advise.

By this time we were got to Westminster;
Where he by chance a Trial had to hear,
And, if he were not there, his Cause must fall:
Sir, if you love me, step into the Hall

For one half hour, “The Devil take me now,
“(Said I) if I know any thing of Law:
“Besides I told you whither I'm to go.
Hereat he made a stand, pull'd down his Hat
Over his eyes, and mus'd in deep debate:
“I'm in a straight (said he) what I shall do:
Whether forsake my business, Sir, or you.
“Me by all means (say I) No (says my Sot)
I fear you'l take it ill, If I should do't:
I'm sure, you will. “Not I, by all that's good,
But I've more breeding, than to be so rude.
“Pray, don't neglect your own concerns for me:
“Your Cause, good Sir! My Cause be damn'd (says he)
I value't less than your dear Company.
With this he came up to me, and would lead
The way; I sneaking after hung my head.

Next he begins to plague me with the Plot,
Asks, whether I were known to Oats or not?
“Not I, thank Heaven! I no. Priest have been:
“Have never Doway, nor St. Omers seen,

What think you, Sir; will they Fitz-Harris try?
Will he die, think you? Yes, most certainly.
I mean, be hang'd. “Would thou wert so (wish'd I.)
Religion came in next; tho he'd no more
Than the French King, his Punk, or Confessor.
Oh! the sad times, if once the King should die!
Sir, are you not afraid of Popery?
“No more than my Superiors: why should I?
“I've no Estate in Abby-Lands to lose,
But Fire, and Faggot, Sir, how like you those?
“Come Inquisition, any thing (thought I)
“So Heav'n would bless me to get rid of thee:
“But 'tis some comfort, that my Hell is here:
“I need no punishment hereafter fear.

Scarce had I thought, but he falls on anew
How stands it, Sir, betwixt his Grace, and you?
“Sir, he's a man of sense above the Crowd,
“And shuns the Converse of a Multitude.
Ay, Sir, (Says he) you're happy, who are near
His Grace, and have the favour of his ear:

But let me tell you, if you'l recommend
This person here, your point will soon be gain'd.
Gad, Sir, I'll die, if my own single Wit
Don't Fob his Minions, and displace 'em quite.
And make your self his only Favourite.
“No, you are out abundantly (said I)
“We live not, as you think: no Family
“Throughout the whole three Kingdoms is more free
“From those ill Customs, which are us'd to swarm
“In great mens houses; none e're does me harm,
“Because more Learned, or more Rich, than I:
“But each man keeps his Place, and his Degree.
'Tis mighty strange (says he) what you relate,
“But nothing truer, take my word for that.
You make me long to be admitted too
Amongst his Creatures: Sir, I beg, that you
Will stand my Friend: Your Interest is such,
You may prevail, I'm sure, you can do much.
He's one, that may be won upon, I've heard,
Tho at the first approach access be hard.

I'll spare no trouble of my own, or Friends,
No cost in Fees, and Bribes to gain my ends:
I'll seek all opportunities to meet
With him, accost him in the very street:
Hang on his Coach, and wait upon him home,
Fawn, Scrape and Cringe to him, nay, to his Groom.
Faith, Sir, this must be done, If we'll be great:
Preferment comes not at a cheaper rate.

While at this Savage rate he worried me;
By chance a Doctor, my dear Friend came by,
That knew the Fellow's humour passing well:
Glad of the sight, I joyn him; we stand still:
Whence came you, Sir? and whither go you now?
And such like questions pass'd betwixt us two:
Strait I begin to pull him by the sleeve,
Nod, wink upon him, touch my Nose, and give
A thousand hints, to let him know, that I
Needed his help for my delivery:
He, naughty Wag, with an Arch fleering smile
Seems ignorant of what I mean the while:

I grow stark wild with rage. “Sir, said not you,
“You'd somewhat to discourse, not long ago,
“With me in private? I remember't well:
Some other time, be sure, I will not fail:
Now I am in great haste upon my word:
A Messenger came for me from a Lord,
That's in a bad condition, like to die.
“Oh! Sir, he can't be in a worse, than I:
“Therefore for God's sake do not stir from hence.
Sweet Sir! your pardon: 'tis of consequence:
I hope you're kinder than to press my stay,
Which may be Heav'n knows what out of my way.
This said, he left me to my murderer:
Seeing no hopes of my relief appear;
“Confounded be the Stars (said I) that sway'd
“This fatal day! would I had kept my Bed
“With sickness, rather than been visited
“With this worse Plague! what ill have I e're done
“To pull this curse, this heavy Judgment down?

While I was thus lamenting my ill hap,
Comes aid at length: a brace of Bailiffs clap

The Rascal on the back: “Here take your Fees,
“Kind Gentlemen (said I) for my release.
He would have had me Bail. “Excuse me, Sir,
“I've made a Vow ne're to be Surety more:
“My Father was undone by't heretofore.
Thus I got off, and bless'd the Fates that he
Was Pris'ner made, I set at liberty.

Paraphrase upon HORACE. Book I. Ode XXXI.

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem
Vates? &c.------

1.

What does the Poet's modest Wish require?
What Boon does he of gracious Heav'n desire?
Not the large Corps of Esham's goodly Soil,
Which tire the Mower's, and the Reaper's toil;
Not the soft Flocks, on hilly Cotswold fed,
Nor Lemster Fields with living Fleeces clad:
He does not ask the Grounds, where gentle Thames,
Or Severn spread their fat'ning Streams.

Where they with wanton windings play,
And eat their widen'd Banks insensibly away:
He does not ask the Wealth of Lombard-street,
Which Consciences, and Souls are pawn'd to get.
Nor those exhaustless Mines of Gold,
Which Guinny and Peru in their rich bosoms hold.

2.

Let those that live in the Canary Isles,
On which indulgent Nature ever smiles,
Take pleasure in their plenteous Vintages,
And from the juicy Grape its racy Liquor press:
Let wealthy Merchants, when they Dine,
Run o're their costly names of Wine,
Their Chests of Florence, and their Mont-Alchine.
Their Mants, Champagns, Chablees, Frontiniacks tell,
Their Aums of Hock, of Backrag and Moselle:
He envies not their Luxury
Which they with so much pains, and danger buy:

For which so many Storms, and Wrecks they bear,
For which they pass the Streights so oft each year,
And scape so narrowly the Bondage of Argier.

3.

He wants no Cyprus Birds, nor Ortolans,
Nor Dainties fetch'd from far to please his Sense,
Cheap wholsom Herbs content his frugal Board.
The food of unfaln Innocence,
Which the mean'st Village Garden does afford:
Grant him, kind Heav'n, the sum of his desires,
What Nature, not what Luxury requires:
He only does a Competency claim,
And, when he has it, wit to use the same:
Grant him sound Health, impair'd by no Disease,
Nor by his own Excess:
Let him in strength of Mind, and Body live,
But not his Reason, nor his Sense survive:

His Age (if Age he e're must live to see)
Let it from want, Contempt, and Care be free.
But not from Mirth, and the delights of Poetry,
Grant him but this, he's amply satisfi'd,
And scorns whatever Fate can give beside.

Paraphrase upon HORACE. Book II. Ode XIV.

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

1.

Alas! dear Friend, alas! time hastes away,
Nor is it in our pow'r to bribe its stay:
The rolling years with constant motion run,
Lo! while I speak, the present minute's gone,
And following hours urge the foregoing on.
'Tis not thy Wealth, 'tis not thy Power,
'Tis not thy Piety can thee secure:
They're all too feeble to withstand
Grey Hairs, approaching Age, and thy avoidless end.

When once thy fatal Glass is run,
When once thy utmost Thread is spun,
'Twill then be fruitless to expect Reprieve:
Could'st thou ten thousand Kingdoms give
In purchase for each hour of longer life,
They would not buy one gasp of breath,
Not move one jot inexorable Death.

2.

All the vast stock of humane Progeny,
Which now like swarms of Insects crawl
Upon the Surface of Earth's spacious Ball,
Must quit this Hillock of Mortality,
And in its Bowels buried lie.
The mightiest King, and proudest Potentate,
In spight of all his Pomp, and all his State,
Must pay this necessary Tribute unto Fate.
The busie, restless Monarch of the times, which now
Keeps such a pother, and so much ado
To fill Gazettes alive,
And after in some lying Annal to survive;

Ev'n He, ev'n that great mortal Man must die,
And stink, and rot as well as thou, and I,
As well as the poor tatter'd Wretch, that begs his bread,
And is with scraps out of the common Basket fed.

3.

In vain from dangers of the bloudy Field we keep,
In vain we escape
The sultry Line, and stormy Cape,
And all the treacheries of the faithless Deep:
In vain for health to forein Countries we repair,
And change our English for Mompellier Air,
In hope to leave our fears of dying there:
In vain with costly far fetch'd Drugs we strive
To keep the wasting vital Lamp alive:
In vain on Doctors feeble Art rely;
Against resistless Death there is no remedy:
Both we, and they for all their skill must die,
And fill alike the Bedrols of Mortality.

4.

Thou must, thou must resign to Fate, my Friend,
And leave thy House, thy Wife, and Family behind:
Thou must thy fair, and goodly Mannors leave,
Of these thy Trees thou shalt not with thee take,
Save just as much as will thy Coffin make:
Nor wilt thou be allow'd of all thy Land, to have,
But the small pittance of a six-foot Grave.
Then shall thy prodigal young Heir
Lavish the Wealth, which thou for many a year
Hast hoarded up with so much pains and care:
Then shall he drain thy Cellars of their Stores,
Kept sacred now as vaults of buried Ancestors:
Shall set th' enlarged Butts at liberty,
Which there close Pris'ners under durance lie,
And wash these stately Floors with better Wine
Than that of consecrated Prelates when they dine.

The PRAISE of HOMER.

ODE.

1.

Hail God of Verse! pardon that thus I take in vain
Thy sacred, everlasting Name,
And in unhallow'd Lines blaspheme:
Pardon that with strange Fire thy Altars I profane.
Hail thou! to whom we mortal Bards our Faith submit,
Whom we acknowledg our sole Text, and holy Writ:
None other Judg infallible we own,
But Thee, who art the Canon of authentick Wit alone.

Thou art the unexhausted Ocean, whence
Sprung first, and still do flow th' eternal Rills of sense:
To none but Thee our Art Divine we owe,
From whom it had its Rise, and full Perfection too.
Thou art the mighty Bank, that ever do'st supply
Throughout the world the whole Poetick Company:
With thy vast stock alone they traffick for a name,
And send their glorious Ventures out to all the Coasts of Fame,

2.

How trulier blind was dull Antiquity,
Who fasten'd that unjust Reproach on Thee?
Who can the sensless Tale believe?
Who can to the false Legend credit give?
Or think thou wantedst sight, by whom all others see?
What Land, or Region, how remote soe're,
Does not so well describ'd in thy great Draughts appear,

That each thy native Country seems to be,
And each t'have been survey'd, and measur'd out By thee?
Whatever Earth does in her pregnant Bowels bear,
Or on her fruitful Surface wear;
What e're the spacious Fields of Air contain,
Or far extended Territories of the Main;
Is by thy skilful Pencil so exactly shown,
We scarce discern where thou, or Nature best has drawn,
Nor is thy quick all-piercing Eye
Or check'd, or bounded here:
But farther does surpass, and farther does descry:
Beyond the Travels of the Sun, and Year.
Beyond this glorious Scene of starry Tapestry,
Where the vast Purliews of the Sky,
And boundless waste of Nature lies,
Thy Voyages thou mak'st, and bold Discoveries.
What there the Gods in Parliament debate,
What Votes, or Acts i'th' Heav'nly Houses pass,
By Thee so well communicated was;

As if thou'dst been of that Cabal of State,
As if Thou hadst been sworn the Privy-Counsellor of Fate.

3.

What Chief, who does thy Warrior's great Exploits survey,
Will not aspire to Deeds as great as they?
What generous Readers would he not inspire
With the same gallant Heat, the same ambitious Fire?
Methinks from Ida's top with noble Joy I view
The warlike Squadrons by his daring Conduct led,
I see th' immortal Host engaging on his side,
And him the blushing Gods out-do.
Where e're he does his dreadful Standards bear,
Horror stalks in the Van, and Slaughter in the Rere.
Whole Swarths of Enemies his Sword does mow,
And Limbs of mangled Chiefs his passage strow,
And flouds of reeking Gore the Field o'reflow:

While Heavn's dread Monarch from his Throne of State,
With high concern upon the Fight looks down,
And wrinkles his Majestick Brow into a Frown,
To see bold Man, like him, distribute Fate.

4.

While the great Macedonian Youth in Non-age grew,
Not yet by Charter of his years set free
From Guardians, and their slavish tyranny,
No Tutor, but the Budg Philosophers he knew:
And well enough the grave, and useful Tools
Might serve to read him Lectures, and to please
With unintelligible Jargon of the Schools,
And airy Terms and Notions of the Colleges:
They might the Art of Prating, and of Brawling teach,
And some insipid Homilies of Vertue preach:
But when the mighty Pupil had outgrown
Their musty Discipline, when manlier Thoughts possess'd
His generous Princely Breast,

Now ripe for Empire, and a Crown,
And fill'd with lust of Honour, and Renown;
He then learnt to contemn
The despicable things, the men of Flegm:
Strait he to the dull Pedants gave release,
And a more noble Master strait took place:
Thou, who the Grecian Warriour so could'st praise,
As might in him just envy raise,
Who (one would think) had been himself too high
To envy any thing of all Mortality,
'Twas thou that taught'st him Lessons loftier far,
The Art of Reigning, and the Art of War:
And wondrous was the Progress, which he made,
While he the Acts of thy great Pattern read:
The World too narrow for his boundless Conquests grew,
He Conquer'd one, and wish'd, and wept for new:
From thence he did those Miracles produce,
And Fought, and Vanquish'd by the Conduct of a Muse.

5.

No wonder rival Nations quarrell'd for thy Birth,
A Prize of greater and of higher worth
Than that which led whole Greece, and Asia forth,
Than that, for which thy mighty Hero fought,
And Troy with ten years War, and its Destruction bought.
Well did they think it noble to have bore that Name,
Which the whole world would with ambition claim:
Well did they Temples raise
To Thee, at whom Nature her self stood in amaze,
A work, she never tried to mend, nor cou'd,
In which mistaking Man, by chance she form'd a God.
How gladly would our willing Isle resign
Her fabulous Arthur, and her boasted Constantine,
And half her Worthies of the Norman Line,
And quit the honour of their Births to be ensur'd to Thine?
How justly might it the wise choice approve.
Prouder in this than Crete to have brought forth Almighty Jove?

6.

Unhappy we, thy British Off-spring here,
Who strive by thy great Model Monuments to rear:
In vain for worthless Fame we toil,
That's pent in the strait limits of a narrow Isle:
In vain our Force, and Art we spend
With noble labours to enrich our Land,
Which none beyond our Shores vouchsafe to understand.
Be the fair structure ne'r so well design'd,
The parts with ne'r so much proportion joyn'd;
Yet foreign Bards (such is their Pride, or Prejudice)
All the choice Wormanship for the Materials sake despise.
But happier thou thy Genius didst dispence
In Language universal as thy sense:
All the rich Bullion, which thy Soveraign Stamp does wear
On every Coast of Wit does equal value bear,
Allow'd by all, and currant every where.

No Nation yet has been so barbarous found,
Where thy transcendent Worth was not renown'd.
Throughout the World thou art with Wonder read,
Where ever Learning does its Commerce spread,
Where ever Fame with all her Tongues can speak,
Where ever the bright God of Wit does his vast Journies take,

7.

Happy above Mankind that envied Name,
Which Fate ordain'd to be thy glorious Theme:
What greater Gift could bounteous Heaven bestow
On its chief Favourite below?
What nobler Trophy could his high Deserts befit,
Than these thy vast erected Pyramids of Wit?
Not Statutes cast in solid Brass,
Nor those, which Art in breathing Marble does express,
Can boast an equal Life, or lastingness

With their well-polish'd Images, which claim
A Nich in thy Majestick Monuments of Fame.
Here their embalm'd incorruptible memories
Can proudest Louvres, and Escurials despise,
And all the needless helps of Ægypts costly Vanities.
No Blasts of Heaven, or Ruine of the Spheres,
Not all the washing Tides of rolling years,
Nor the whole Race of batt'ring time shall e're wear out
The great Inscriptions, which thy Hand has wrought,
Here thou, and they shall live, and bear an endless date,
Firm, as enroll'd in the eternal Register of Fate.
For ever curst be that mad Emperour,
(And curs'd enough he is be sure)
May future Poets on his hated Name
Shed all their Gall, and foulest Infamy,
And may it here stand branded with eternal shame,
Who thought thy Works could mortal be,
And sought the glorious Fabrick to destroy:

In this (could Fate permit it to be done)
His damned Successor he had out-gone,
Who Rome and all its Palaces in Ashes laid,
And the great Ruins with a savage Joy survey'd:
He burnt but what might be re-built and richer made.
But had the impious Wish succeeded here,
'T had raiz'd what Age, nor Art could e're repair.
Not that vast universal Flame,
Which at the final Doom
This beauteous Work of Nature must consume,
And Heav'n and all its Glories in one Urn entomb,
Will burn a nobler, or more lasting Frame:
As firm, and strong as that it shall endure,
Through all the Injuries of Time secure,
Nor die, till the whole world its Funeral Pile become.

Two Pastorals out of the Greek.

BION.

A Pastoral, in Imitation of the Greek of Moschus, bewailing the Death of the Earl of Rochester.

Mourn all ye Groves, in darker shades be seen,
Let Groans be heard, where gentle Winds have been:
Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry,
And all ye Plants your moisture spend, and die:
Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men,
Lament, until you be transform'd agen:
Let every Rose pale as the Lilly be,
And Winter Frost seize the Atemone:

But thou, O Hyacinth, more vigorous grow
In mournful Letters thy sad glory show,
Enlarge thy grief, and flourish in thy wo:
For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead,
His voice is gone, his tuneful breath is fled.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Mourn ye sweet Nightingales in the thick Woods,
Tell the sad news to all the British Floods:
See it to Isis, and to Cham convey'd,
To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed:
Annd bid them waft the bitter tidings on,
How Bion's dead, how the lov'd Swain is gone,
And with him all the Art of graceful Song.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Ye gentle Swans, that haunt the Brooks, and Springs,
Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:

In doleful notes the heavy loss bewail,
Such as you sing at your own Funeral,
Such as you sung when your lov'd Orpheus fell.
Tell it it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains,
Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains,
And bid them too the dismal tydings spread
Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead,

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

No more, alas! no more that lovely Swain
Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondring Plain:
Ceast are those Lays, ceast are those sprightly airs,
That woo'd our Souls into our ravish'd Ears:
For which the list'ning streams forgot to run,
And Trees lean'd their attentive branches down:
While the glad Hills, loth the sweet sounds to lose,
Lengthen'd in Echoes every heav'nly close.
Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone,
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:

Nothing is heard upon the Mountains now
But pensive Herds that for their Master low:
Stragling and comfortless about they rove,
Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

For thee, dear Swain, for thee, his much-lov'd Son,
Does Phœbus Clouds of mourning black put on:
For thee the Satyrs and the rustick Fauns
Sigh and lament through all the Woods and Lawns:
For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance
In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains:
The water Nymphs alike thy absence mourn,
And all their Springs to tears and sorrow turn:
Sad Eccho too does in deep silence moan,
Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown:
She finds nought worth her pains to imitate,
Now thy sweet breath's stopt by untimely fate:
Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral,
And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:

Each Flower fades, and hangs its wither'd head,
And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead:
Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill,
The painful Bees neglect their wonted toil:
Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store
With the rich spoils of every plunder'd Flower,
when thou, that wast all sweetness, art no more?

Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Ne'r did the Dolphins on the lonely Shore
In such loud plaints utter their grief before:
Never in such sad Notes did Philomel
To the relenting Rocks her sorrow tell:
Ne'r on the Beech did poor Alcyone
So weep, when she her floating Lover saw:
Nor that dead Lover, to a Sea-fowl turn'd,
Upon those Waves, where he was drown'd, so mourn'd:
Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief
Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him life:

As they did now with vying grief bewail,
As they did all lament dear Bion's fall.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

In every Wood, on every Tree, and Bush
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingale, and Thrush,
And all the feather'd Choir, that us'd to throng
In list'ning Flocks to learn his well-tun'd Song.
Now each in the sad Consort bear a part,
And with kind Notes repay their Teachers Art:
Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist,
Let not your murmurs in the crowd be mist:
To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove,
That taught you how to sing, and how to love.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Whom hast thou left behind thee, skilful Swain,
That dares aspire to reach thy matchless strain

Who is there after thee, that dares pretend
Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand:
Thy Notes remain yet fresh in every ear,
And give us all delight, and all despair:
Pleas'd Eccho still does on them meditate,
And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat.
Pan only e're can equal thee in Song,
That task does only to great Pan belong:
But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try,
Will fear perhaps to be out-done by thee.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Fair Galatea too laments thy death,
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful breath:
Oft she, kind Nymph, resorted heretofore
To hear thy artful measures from the shore:
Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy lays,
Whose grating sounds did her soft ears displease:
Such was the force of thy enchanting tongue,
That she for ever could have heard thy Song,

And chid the hours, that did so swiftly run,
And thought the Sun too hasty to go down,
Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake
The Sea, and all her fellow Nymphs forsake:
Pensive upon the Beach, she sits alone,
And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

With thee, sweet Bion, all the grace of Song,
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:
Mute is thy Voice, which could all hearts command,
Whose pow'r no Shepherdess could e're withstand:
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,
At once their Mothers darling, and their own:
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves,
Than her charm'd Girdle, than her faithful Doves,
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in death
Adonis gave, and with them gave his breath.

This, Thames, ah! this is now the second loss,
For which in tears thy weeping Current flows:
Spencer, the Muses glory, went before,
He pass'd long since to the Elysian shore:
For him (they say) for him, thy dear-lov'd Son,
Thy Waves did long in sobbing murmurs groan,
Long fill'd the Sea with their complaint, and moan:
But now, alas! thou do'st afresh bewail,
Another Son does now thy sorrow call:
To part with either thou alike wast loth,
Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both:
He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham,
And this no less of Isis nobler stream:
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights
Far-fam'd in Battels, and renown'd Exploits:
This meddled not with bloudy Fights, and Wars,
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless jars,
Loves peaceful combats, and its gentle cares.

Love ever was the subject of his Lays,
And his soft Lays did Venus ever please.

Come all ye Muses, come adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Thou, sacred Bion, art lamented more
Than all our tuneful Bards, that dy'd before:
Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse,
No longer has the tribute of our tears:
Milton, whose Muse with such a daring flight
Led out the warring Seraphims to fight:
Blest Cowley too, who on the banks of Cham
So sweetly sigh'd his wrongs, and told his flame:
And He, whose Song rais'd Cooper's Hill so high,
As made its glory with Parnassus vie:
And soft Orinda, whose bright shining name
Stands next great Sappho's in the ranks of fame:
All now unwept, and unrelented pass,
And in our grief no longer share a place:

Bion alone does all our tears engross,
Our tears are all too few for Bion's loss.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Thee all the Herdsmen mourn in gentlest Lays,
And rival one another in thy praise:
In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name
On every Bark, that's worthy of the same:
Thy Name is warbled forth by every tongue,
Thy Name the Burthen of each Shepherds Song;
Waller, the sweet'st of living Bards, prepares
For thee his tender'st, and his mournfull'st airs,
And I, the meanest of the British Swains,
Amongst the rest offer these humble strains:
If I am reckon'd not unblest in Song,
'Tis what I ow to thy all-teaching tongue:
Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful breath
Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:

Others thy Flocks, thy Lands, thy Riches have,
To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouchsafe.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Alas! by what ill Fate, to man unkind,
Were we to so severe a lot design'd?
The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,
Which must e're long lie dead in Winter's Snow,
Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow:
Yon Sun, and this bright glory of the day,
Which night is hasting now to snatch away,
Shall rise anew more shining and more gay:
But wretched we must harder measure find,
The great'st, the brav'st, the witti'st of mankind,
When Death has once put out their light, in vain
Ever expect the dawn of Life again:
In the dark Grave insensible they lie,
And there sleep our endless Eternity

There thou to silence ever art confin'd,
While less deserving Swains are left behind:
So please the Fates to deal with us below,
They cull out thee, and let dull Mœvius go:
Mœvius still lives; still let him live for me,
He, and his Pipe shall ne'r my envy be:
None e're that heard thy sweet, thy Artful Tongue,
Will grate their ears with his rough untun'd Song.

Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

A fierce Disease, sent by ungentle Death,
Snatch'd Bion hence, and stop'd his hallow'd breath:
A fatal damp put out that heav'nly sire,
That sacred heat which did his breast inspire.
Ah! what malignant ill could boast that pow'r,
Which his sweet voice's Magick could not cure?
Ah cruel Fate! how could'st thou chuse but spare?
How could'st thou exercise thy rigour here?
Would thou hadst thrown thy Dart at worthless me,
And let this dear, this valued life go free:

Better ten thousand meaner Swains had dy'd,
Than this best work of Nature been destroy'd.

Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.

Ah! would kind Death alike had sent me hence;
But grief shall do the work, and save its pains:
Grief shall accomplish my desired doom,
And soon dispatch me to Elysium:
There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know,
How with thy voice thou charm'st the shades below.
Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy strains divine,
Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen:
She once her self was pleas'd with tuneful strains,
And sung, and danc'd on the Sicilian Plains:
Fear not, thy Song should unsuccessful prove,
Fear not, but 'twill the pitying Goddess move:
She once was won by Orpheus heav'nly Lays,
And gave his fair Eurydice release.

And thine as pow'rful (question not, dear Swain)
Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again.
Ev'n I my self, did I at all excel,
Would try the utmost of my voice and skill,
Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.

The Lamentation for ADONIS.

Imitated out of the Greek of Bion of Smyrna.

PASTORAL.

I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis dead,
He's dead, and all that's lovely, with him fled:
Come all ye Loves, come hither and bemoan
The charming sweet Adonis dead and gone:
Rise from thy Purple Bed, and rich Alcove,
Throw off thy gay attire, great Queen of Love:
Henceforth in sad and mournful weeds appear,
And all the marks of grief, and sorrow wear,

And tear thy locks, and beat thy panting breast,
And cry, My dear Adonis is deceast.

I mourn Adonis, the soft Loves bemoan
The gentle sweet Adonis dead and gone.
On the cold Mountain lies the wretched Youth,
Kill'd by a Savage Boar's unpitying tooth:
In his white thigh the fatal stroke is found,
Nor whiter was that tooth, that gave the wound:
From the wide wound fast flows the streaming gore
And stains that skin which was all snow before:
His breath with quick short tremblings comes and goes,
And Death his fainting eyes begins to close:
From his pale lips the ruddy colour's fled,
Fled, and has left his kisses cold and dead:
Yet Venus never will his kisses leave,
The Goddess ever to his lips will cleave:
The kiss of her dear Youth does please her still,
But her poor Youth does not the pleasure feel:
Dead he feels not her love, feels not her grief,
Feels not her kiss, which might ev'n life retrieve.

I mourn Adonis the sad Loves bemoan
The comely fair Adonis dead and gone.
Deep in his Thigh, deep went the killing smart,
But deeper far it goes in Venus heart:
His faithful Dogs about the Mountain yell,
And the hard Fate of their dead Master tell:
The troubled Nymphs alike in doleful strains
Proclaim his death through all the Fields & Plains:
But the sad Goddess, most of all forlorn,
With love distracted, and with sorrow torn,
Wild in her look, and ruful in her air,
With Garments rent, and with dishevel'd hair,
Through Brakes, through Thickets, and through pathless ways,
Through Woods, through Haunts, and Dens of Savages,
Undrest, unshod, careless of Honour, Fame,
And Danger, flies, and calls on his lov'd name.
Rude Brambles, as she goes, her body tear,
And her cut feet with bloud the stones besmear.

She thoughtless of the unfelt smart flies on,
And fills the Woods, and Vallies with her moan,
Loudly does on the Stars and Fates complain,
And prays them give Adonis back again:
But he, alass! the wretched Youth, alas!
Lies cold, and stiff, extended on the grass:
There lies he steep'd in gore, there lies he drown'd,
In purple streams, that gush from his own wound.

All the soft band of Loves their Mother mourn,
At once of beauty, and of love forlorn.
Venus has lost her Lover, and each grace,
That sate before in triumph in her face,
By grief chas'd thence, has now forsook the place.
That day which snatch'd Adonis from her arms,
That day bereft the Goddess of her charms.

The Woods and Trees in murmuring sighs bemoan
The fate of her Adonis dead and gone.
The Rivers too, as if they would deplore
His death, with grief swell higher than before:

The Flowers weep in tears of dreary dew,
And by their drooping heads their sorrow shew:
But most the Cyprian Queen with shrieks, and groans,
Fills all the neighb'ring Hills, and Vales, and Towns:
The poor Adonis dead! is all her cry,
Adonis dead! sad Eccho does reply.

What cruel heart would not the Queen of Love
To melting tears, and soft compassion move,
When she saw how her wretched Lover fell,
Saw his deep wound, saw it incurable?
Soon as her eyes his bleeding wounds survey'd,
With eager clips she did his Limbs invade,
And these soft, tender, mournful things she said:

“Whither, O whither fli'st thou, wretched Boy,
“Stay my Adonis, stay my only joy,
“O stay, unhappy Youth, at least till I
“With one kind word bespeak thee, e're thou die,
“Till I once more embrace thee, till I seal
“Upon thy dying lips my last farewel.

“Look up one minute, give one parting kiss,
“One kiss, dear Youth, to dry these flowing eyes:
“One kiss as thy last Legacy I'd fain
“Preserve, no God shall take it off again.
“Kiss, while I watch thy swimming eye-balls roul,
“Watch thy last gasp, and catch thy springing soul.
“I'll suck it in, I'll hoard it in my heart,
“I with that sacred pledg will never part,
“But thou wilt part, but thou art gone, far gone
“To the dark shades, and leav'st me here alone.
“Thou dy'st, but hopeless I must suffer life,
“Must pine away with easless endless grief.
“Why was I born a Goddess? why was I
“Made such a wretch to want the pow'r to die?
“If I by death my sorrows might redress,
“If the cold Grave could to my pains give ease,
“I'd gladly die, I'd rather nothing be
“Than thus condemn'd to immortality:
“In that vast empty void, and boundless wast,
“We mind not what's to come, nor what is past.

“Of life, or death we know no difference,
“Nor hopes, nor fears at all affect our sense:
“But those who are of pleasure once bereft,
“And must survive, are most unhappy left:
“To ravenous sorrow they are left a prey,
“Nor can they ever drive despair away.

“Take, cruel Proserpine, take my lov'd Boy,
“Rich with my spoils, do thou my loss enjoy.
“Take him relentless Goddess, for thy own,
“Never till now wast thou my envy grown.
“Hard Fate! that thus the best of things must be
“Always the plunder of the Grave, and thee:
“The Grave, and thou now all my hopes engross,
“And I for ever must Adonis lose.
“Thou'rt dead, alas! alas! my Youth, thou'rt dead,
“And with thee all my pleasures too are fled:
“They're all like fleeting vanish'd dreams pass'd o're,
“And nought but the remembrance left in store
“Of tasted joys ne're to be tasted more:

“With thee my Cestos, all my charms are gone,
“Thy Venus must thy absence ever moan,
“And spend the tedious live-long nights alone.
“Ah! heedless Boy, why would'st thou rashly choose
“Thy self to dang'rous pleasures to expose?
“Why would'st thou hunt? why would'st thou any more
“Venture with Dogs to chase the foaming Boar?
“Thou wast all fair to mine, to humane eyes,
“But not (alas!) to those wild Savages.
“One would have thought thy sweetness might have charm'd
“The roughest kind, the fiercest rage disarm'd:
“Mine (I am sure) it could; but wo is thee!
“All wear not eyes, all wear not breasts like me.

In such sad words the Dame her grief did vent,
While the Wing'd Loves kept time with her complaint:
As many drops of Bloud as from the wound
Of slain Adonis fell upon the ground,

So many tears, and more you might have told,
That down the cheeks of weeping Venus roul'd:
Both tears, and bloud to new-born flow'rs give rise,
Hence Roses spring, and thence Anemonies.

Cease, Venus, in the Woods to mourn thy Love,
Thou'st vented sighs, thou'st lavish'd tears enough:
See! Goddess, where a glorious bed of State
Does ready for thy dear Adonis wait:
This bed was once the Scene of Love, and Joy,
But now must bear the wretched, murder'd Boy:
There lies he, like a pale, and wither'd Flower,
Which some rude hand had cropt before its hour:
Yet smiles, and beauties still live in his face,
Which death can never frighten from their place.
There let him lie upon that conscious bed,
Where you loves mysteries so oft have tried:
When you've enjoy'd so many an happy night,
Each lengthen'd into ages of delight.
There let him lie, there heaps of Flowers strow,
Roses and Lillies store upon him throw,
And myrtle Garlands lavishly bestow:

Pour Myrrh, and Balm, and costliest Ointments on,
Flowers are faded, Ointments worthless grown,
Now thy Adonis, now thy Youth is gone,
Who was all sweetnesses compriz'd in one.

In Purple wrapt, Adonis lies in state,
A Troop of mourning Loves about him wait:
Each does some mark of their kind sorrow show,
One breaks his Shafts, t'other unstrings his Bow,
A third upon his Quiver wreaks his hate,
As the sad causes of his hasty fate:
This plucks his bloudy garments off, that brings
Water in Vessels from the neighb'ring Springs,
Some wash his Wound, some fan him with their Wings:

All equally their Mothers loss bemoan,
All moan for poor Adonis dead and gone.
Sad Hymen too the fatal loss does mourn,
His Tapers all to Funeral Tapers turn,
And all his wither'd Nuptial Garlands burn:

His gay, and airy Songs are heard no more,
But mournful Strains, that hopeless love deplore.
Nor do the Graces fail to bear a part
With wretched Venus in her pain and smart:
The poor Adonis dead! by turns they cry,
And strive in grief the Goddess to out-vie.
The Muses too in softest Lays bewail
The hapless Youth, and his fled Soul recal:
But all in vain;—ah! numbers are too weak
To call the lost, the dead Adonis back:
Not all the pow'rs of Verse, or charms of Love
The deaf remorsless Proserpine can move.
Cease then, sad Queen of Love, thy plaints give o're,
Till the next year reserve thy grief in store:
Reserve thy Sighs, and tears in store till then,
Then thou must sigh, then thou must weep agen.

Paraphrase upon the 137. Psalm.

1.

Ver. 1.

Far from our pleasant native Palestine,
Where great Euphrates with a mighty current flows,
And does in watry limits Babylon confine,
Curss'd Babylon! the cause, and author of our woes;
There on the Rivers side
Sate wretched, Captive we.
And in sad Tears bewail'd our misery.
Tears, whose vast store increas'd the neighb'ring Tide:
We wept, and strait our grief before us brought
A thousand distant Objects to our thought.
As oft as we survey'd the gliding Stream,
Lov'd Jordan did our sad remembrance claim:
As oft as we th' adjoyning City view'd,
Dear Sions razed Walls our Grief renew'd:

100

We thought on all the Pleasures of our happy Land,
Late ravish'd by a cruel Conqu'rour's hand:
We thought on every piteous, every mournful thing,
That might access to our enlarged sorrows bring;

Deep silence told the greatness of our Grief,
Of grief too great by Vent to find relief:
Our Harps as mute and dumb, as we,
Hung useless, and neglected by,
And now and then a broken String would lend a sigh,
As if with us they felt a sympathy,
And mourn'd their own, and our Captivity:
The gentle River too, as if compassionate grown,
As 'twould its Natives cruelty attone,
As it pass'd by, in murmurs gave a pitying Groan.

2.

3.

There the proud Conquerors, who gave us Chains,
Who all our suff'rings and misfortunes gave,
Did with rude Insolence our Sorrows brave,
And with insulting Raillery thus mock'd our Pains;

101

Play us (said they) some brisk, and airy strain,
Such as your Ancestors were wont to hear
On Shilo's pleasant Plain,
Where all the Virgins met in Dances once a year:
Or one of those,
Which your illustrious David did compose,
While he fill'd Israel's happy Throne,
Great Soldier, Poet, and Musician all in one:
Oft (have we heard) he went with Harp in hand,
Captain of all th' harmonious Band,
And vanquish'd all the Quire with's single skill alone:

Forbid it Heav'n! forbid thou great thrice-hallow'd Name,
We should thy Sacred Hymns defame,
Or them with impious ears profane.
No, no, inhumane slaves, is this a time
(Oh cruel, and preposterous demand!)
When every Joy, and every Smile's a crime,
A Treason to our poor unhappy native Land?
Is this a time for sprightly Airs,
When every look the Badg of sorrow wears,

102

And Livery of our Miseries,
Sad miseries that call for all our Breath in sighs,
And all the Tribute of our eyes,
And moisture of our Veins our very bloud in tears?
When nought can claim our Thoughts, Jerusalem, but thou,
Nought, but thy sad Destruction, Fall, and Overthrow?

3.

5.

Oh dearest City! late our Nations justest Pride!
Envy of all the wond'ring world beside!
Oh sacred Temple, once th' Almighty's bless'd abode,
Now quite forsaken by our angry God!
Shall ever distant time, or Place
Your firm Ideas from my Soul deface?
Shall they not still take up my Breast
As long as that, and Life, and I shall last?

103

Grant Heav'n (nor shall my Pray'rs the Curse withstand)
That this my learned, skilful hand
(Which now o're all the tuneful strings can boast command,
Which does as quick, as ready, and unerring prove,
As nature, when it would its joynts or fingers move)
Grant it forget its Art and feeling too,
When I forget to think, to wish, to pray for you:

For ever tied with Dumbness be my tongue,
When it speaks ought that shall not to your Praise belong,
If that be not the constant subject of my Muse, and Song.

4.

7.

Remember, Heav'n, remember Edom on that day,
And with like sufferings their spight repay,
Who made our Miseries their cruel Mirth and Scorn,
Who laugh'd to see our flaming City burn,
And wish'd it might to Ashes turn:

104

Raze, raze it (was their cursed cry)
Raze all its stately Structures down,
And lay its Palaces, and Temple level with the ground,
Till Sion buried in his dismal Ruines lie,
Forgot alike its Place, its Name, and Memory.

And thou proud Babylon! just Object of our Hate,
Thou too shalt feel the sad reverse of Fate,
Tho thou art now exalted high,
And with thy lofty head o'retop'st the Sky,
As if thou would'st the Pow'rs above defie;
Thou (if those Pow'rs (and sure they will) prove just,
If my Prophetick Grief can ought foresee)
Ere long shalt lay that lofty head in dust,
And blush in Bloud for all thy present Cruelty:
How loudly then shall we retort these bitter Taunts!
How gladly to the Musick of thy Fetters dance!

105

5.

A day will come (oh might I see't!) e're long
That shall revenge our mighty wrong:
Then bless'd, for ever bless'd be he
Whoever shall return't on thee,
And grave it deep, and pay't with bloudy Usury:
May neither aged Groans, nor Infant Cries,
Nor pitious Mothers Tears, nor ravish'd Virgins Sighs,
Soften thy unrelenting Enemies,
Let them as thou to us inexorable prove,
Nor Age nor Sex their deaf Compassion move;
Rapes, Murders, Slaughters, Funerals,
And all thou durst attempt within our Sions Wall,
May'st thou endure, and more, till joyful we
Confess thy self out-done in artful cruelty.
Bless'd, yea, thrice blessed be that barbarous Hand
(Oh grief, that I such dire Revenge commend!)
Who tears out Infants from their Mothers Womb,
And hurls them yet unborn unto their Tomb:

106

Bless'd he who plucks them from their Parents Arms,
That Sanctuary from all common harms,
Who with their Skulls, and Bones shall pave thy Streets all o're,
And fill thy glutted Channels with their scatter'd Brains and Gore.

107

Paraphrase upon the HYMN of St. Ambrose.

ODE.

1.

To Thee, O God, we thy just Praises sing,
To Thee we Thy great Name rehearse:
We are Thy Vassals, and this humble Tribute bring
To Thee, acknowledg'd only Lord and King,
Acknowledg'd sole and Sovereign Monarch of the Universe.
All parts of this wide Universe adore,
Eternal Father, thy Almighty power:
The Skies, and Stars, Fire, Air, and Earth, and Sea,
With all their numerous nameless Progeny

108

Confess, and their due Homage pay to thee;
For why? thou spak'st the Word, and mad'st them all from Nothing be.
To thee all Angels, all thy glorious Court on high,
Seraph and Cherub, the Nobility,
And whatsoever Spirits be
Of lesser Honour, less Degree;
To Thee in heav'nly Lays
They sing loud Anthems of immortal Praise:
Still Holy, Holy, Holy Lord of Hosts they cry,
This is their bus'ness, this their sole employ,
And thus they spend their long and blest Eternity.

2.

Farther than Natures utmost shores and limits stretch
The streams of thy unbounded Glory reach;
Beyond the straits of scanty Time, and Place,
Beyond the ebbs and flows of matter's narrow Seas
They reach, and fill the Ocean of Eternity and Space.

109

Infus'd like some vast mighty soul,
Thou do'st inform and actuate this spacious whole:
Thy unseen hand does the well-joynted Frame sustain,
Which else would to its primitive Nothing shrink again.
But most thou do'st thy Majesty display
In the bright Realms of everlasting Day:
There is Thy residence, there do'st Thou reign,
There on a State of dazling Lustre sit,
There shine in Robes of pure refined Light;
Where Sun's coarse Rays are but a Foil and Stain,
And refuse Stars the sweepings of thy glorious Train.

3.

There all Thy Family of menial Saints,
Huge Colonies of bless'd Inhabitants,
Which Death through countless Ages has transplanted hence,
Now on Thy Throne for ever wait,
And fill the large Retinue of thy heav'nly State.

110

There reverend Prophets stand, a pompous goodly show,
Of old thy Envoys extraordinary here,
Who brought thy sacred Embassies of Peace and War,
That to th' obedient, this the rebel world below.
By them the mighty Twelve have their abode,
Companions once of the Incarnate suff'ring God,
Partakers now of all his Triumphs there,
As they on earth did in his Miseries share.
Of Martyrs next a crown'd and glorious Quire,
Illustrious Heroes, who have gain'd
Through dangers, and Red Seas of Bloud the Promis'd Land,
And pass'd through Ordeal Flames to the Eternity in Fire.
There all make up the Consort of thy Praise,
To Thee they sing (and never cease)
Loud Hymns, and Hallelujah's of Applause:
An Angel-Laureat does the Sense and Strains compose,

111

Sense far above the reach of mortal Verse,
Strains far above the reach of mortal ears,
And all, a Muse unglorified can fancy, or rehearse.

4.

Nor is this Consort only kept above,
Nor is it to the Bless'd alone confin'd;
But Earth, and all thy Faithful here are joyn'd,
And strive to vie with them in Duty and in Love:
And, tho they cannot equal Notes and Measures raise,
Strive to return th' imperfect Ecchoes of thy Praise.
They through all Nations own thy glorious Name,
And every where the great Three One proclaim,
Thee, Father of the World, and Us, and Him,
Who must Mankind, whom Thou didst make, Redeem,
Thee, blessed Saviour, the ador'd, true, only Son
To man debas'd, to rescue Man undone:

112

And Thee, Eternal, Holy Power,
Who do'st by Grace exalted Man restore
To all, he lost by the old Fall, and Sin before:
You bless'd and glorious Trinity,
Riddle to baffled Knowledg and Philosophy,
Which cannot conprehend the mighty Mystery
Of numerous One, and the unnumber'd Three
Vast topless Pile of Wonders! at whose sight
Reason it self turns giddy with the height,
Above the flutt'ring pitch of humane Wit,
And all, but the strong wings of Faith, that Eagle's towring flight.

5.

Bless'd Jesu! how shall we enough adore,
Or thy unbounded Love, or thy unbounded Pow'r?
Thou art the Prince of Heav'n, thou are the Almighty's Heir,
Thou art th' Eternal Off-spring of th' Eternal Sire:
Hail thou the Worlds Redeemer! whom to free
From bonds of Death and endless misery,

113

Thou thought'st it no disdain to be
Inhabiter in low mortality:
Th' Almighty thought it no disdain
To dwell in the pure Virgins spotless Womb,
There did the boundless Godhead, and whole Heav'n find room,
And a small point the Circle of Infinity contain.
Hail Ransom of Mankind, all-great, all-good!
Who didst attone us with thy Bloud,
Thy self the Offering, Altar, Priest, and God:
Thy self didst die to be our glorious Bail
From Death's Arrests, and the eternal Flaming Jail:
Thy self thou gav'st th' inestimable Price,
To Purchase and Redeem our morgag'd Heav'n and Happiness.
Thither, when thy great Work on Earth had end,
When Death it self was slain and dead,
And Hell with all its Powers captive led,
Thou didst again triumphantly Ascend:

114

There do'st Thou now by Thy great Father sit on high,
With equal Glory, equal Majesty,
Joynt-Ruler of the everlasting Monarchy.

6.

Again from thence thou shalt with greater triumph come,
When the last Trumpet sounds the general Doom:
And (lo!) thou com'st, and (lo!) the direful sound does make
Through Deaths wide Realm Mortality awake:
And (lo) they all appear
At Thy Dread Bar,
And all receive th' unalterable Sentence there.
Affrighted Nature trembles at the dismal Day,
And shrinks for fear, and vanishes away:
Both that, and Time breath out their last, and now they die,
And now are swallow'd up and lost in vast Eternity.

115

Mercy, O mercy, angry God!
Stop, stop thy flaming Wrath, too fierce to be withstood,
And quench it with the Deluge of thy Bloud;
Thy precious Bloud which was so freely spilt
To wash us from the stains of Sin and Guilt:
O write us with it in the Book of Fate
Amongst thy Chosen, and Predestinate,
Free Denizens of Heav'n, of the Immortal State.

7.

Guide us, O Saviour! guide thy Church below,
Both Way, and Star, Compass, and Pilot Thou:
Do thou this frail and tott'ring Vessel steer
Through Life's tempestuous Ocean here,
Through all the tossing Waves of Fear,
And dang'rous Rocks of black Despair.
Safe under Thee we shall to the wish'd Haven move,
And reach the undiscover'd Lands of Bliss above,
Thus low (behold!) to thy great Name we bow,
And thus we ever wish to grow:

116

Constant, as Time does thy fix'd Laws obey,
To Thee our Worship and our Thanks we pay:
With these we wake the chearful Light,
With these we Sleep, and Rest invite;
And thus we spend our Breath, and thus we spend our Days,
And never cease to Sing, and never cease to Praise.

8.

While thus each Breast, and Mouth, and Ear
Are filled with thy Praise, and Love, and Fear,
Let never Sin get room, or entrance there:
Vouchsafe, O Lord, through this and all our days
To guard us with Thy pow'rful Grace:
Within our hearts let no usurping Lust be found,
No rebel Passion tumult raise,
To break thy Laws, or break our Peace,
But set thy Watch of Angels on the Place,
And keep the Tempter still from that forbidden ground.

117

Ever, O Lord, to us thy mercies grant,
Never, O Lord, let us thy mercies want,
Ne're want Thy Favour, Bounty, Liberality,
But let them ever on us be,
Constant as our own Hope and Trust on Thee:
On Thee we all our Hope and Trust repose;
O never leave us to our Foes,
Never, O Lord, desert our Cause:
Thus aided and upheld by Thee,
We'll fear no Danger, Death, nor Misery;
Fearless we thus will stand a falling world
With crushing Ruins all about us hurl'd,
And face wide gaping Hell, & all its slighted Pow'rs defie.

118

A Letter from the Country to a Friend in Town, giving an Account of the Author's Inclinations to Poetry.

Written in July, 1678.

As to that Poet (if so great a one, as he,
May suffer in comparison with me)
When heretofore in Scythian exile pent,
To which he to ungrateful Rome was sent.
If a kind Paper from his Country came,
And wore subscrib'd some known, and faithful Name;
That like a pow'rful Cordial, did infuse
New life into his speechless gasping Muse,
And strait his Genius, which before did seem
Bound up in Ice, and frozen as the Clime,
By its warm force, and friendly influence thaw'd,
Dissolv'd apace, and in soft numbers flow'd:

119

Such welcome here, dear Sir, your Letter had
With me shut up in close constraint as bad:
Not eager Lovers, held in long suspence,
With warmer Joy, and a more tender sense
Meet those kind Lines, which all their wishes bless,
And Sign, and Seal deliver'd Happiness:
My grateful Thoughts so throng to get abroad,
They over-run each other in the crowd:
To you with hasty flight they take their way,
And hardly for the dress of words will stay.

Yet pardon, if this only fault I find,
That while you praise too much, you are less kind:
Consider, Sir, 'tis ill and dang'rous thus
To over-lay a young and tender Muse:
Praise, the fine Diet, which we're apt to love,
If given to excess, does hurtful prove:
Where it does weak, distemper'd Stomachs meet
That surfeits, which should nourishment create.
Your rich Perfumes such fragrancy dispense,
Their sweetness overcomes, and palls my sense;

120

On my weak head you heap so many Bays,
I sink beneath 'em, quite oppress'd with Praise,
And a resembling fate with him receive,
Who in too kind a triumph found his Grave,
Smother'd with Garlands, which Applauders gave.

To you these Praises justlier all belong,
By alienating which, your self you wrong:
Whom better can such commendations fit
Than you, who so well teach and practise Wit?
Verse, the great boast of drudging Fools, from some,
May most of Scriblers with much straining come:
They void 'em dribling, and in pain they write,
As if they had a Strangury of Wit:
Your Pen uncall'd they readily obey,
And scorn your Ink should flow so fast as they:
Each strain of yours so easie does appear,
Each such a graceful negligence does wear,
As shews you have none, and yet want no care.
None of your serious pains or time they cost,
But what thrown by, you can afford for lost:

121

If such the fruits of your loose leisure be,
Your careless minutes yield such Poetry;
We guess what proofs your Genius would impart,
Did it employ you, as it does divert:
But happy you, more prudent, and more wise,
With better aims have fix'd your noble choice.
While silly I all thriving Arts refuse,
And all my hopes, and all my vigour lose,
In service on that worst of Jilts, a Muse,
For gainful business court ignoble ease,
And in gay Trifles wast my ill-spent days.

Little I thought, my dearest Friend, that you
Would thus contribute to my Ruine too:
O're-run with filthy Poetry, and Rhyme,
The present reigning evil of the time,
I lack'd, and (well I did my self assure)
From your kind hand I should receive a cure:
When (lo!) instead of healing Remedies,
You cherish, and encourage the Disease:
Inhumane you help the Distemper on,
Which was before but too inveterate grown.

122

As a kind looker on, who int'rest shares,
Tho not in's stake, yet in his hopes and fears,
Would to his Friend a pushing Gamester do,
Recall his Elbow when he hastes to throw;
Such a wise course you should have took with me.
A rash and vent'ring fool in Poetry.
Poets are Cullies, whom Rook Fame draws in,
And wheadles with deluding hopes to win:
But, when they hit, and most successful are,
They scarce come off with a bare saving share.

Oft (I remember) did wise Friends dissuade,
And bid me quit the trifling barren Trade.
Oft have I tried (Heav'n knows) to mortifie
This vile, and wicked lust of Poetry:
But still unconquer'd it remains within,
Fix'd as an Habit, or some darling Sin.
In vain I better studies there would sow,
Often I've tried, but none will thrive, or grow:
All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be,
Are never from its foul infection free:

123

Nay (God forgive me) when I say my Prayers,
I scarce can help polluting them with Verse:
That fabulous Wretch of old revers'd I seem,
Who turn whate're I touch to Dross and Rhyme.

Oft to divert the wild Caprice, I try
If Sovereign Wisdom and Philosophy
Rightly applied, will give a remedy:
Strait the great Stagyrite I take in hand,
Seek Nature, and my Self to understand:
Much I reflect on his vast Worth and Fame,
And much my low, and groveling aims condemn,
And quarrel, that my ill-pack'd Fate should be
This vain, this worthless thing call'd Poetry:
But when I find this unregarded Toy
Could his important Thoughts, and Pains employ,
By reading there I am but more undone,
And meet that danger, which I went to shun.
Oft when ill Humour, Shagrin, Discontent
Give leisure my wild Follies to resent,
I thus against my self my Passion vent.

124

“Enough, mad rhiming Sot, enough for shame,
“Give o're, and all thy Quills to Tooth-picks Damn;
“Didst ever thou the Altar rob, or worse,
“Kill the Priest there, and Maids receiving force?
“What else could merit this so heavy Curse?
“The greatest Curse, I can, I wish on him,
“If there be any greater than to rhime)
“Who first did of the lewd invention think,
“First made two lines with sounds resembling clink,
“And, swerving from the easie paths of Prose,
“Fetters, and Chains did on free Sense impose:
“Curs'd too be all the fools, who since have went
“Misled in steps of that ill President:
“Want be entail'd their lot:—and on I go,
Wreaking my spight on all the jingling Crew:
Scarce the beloved Cowley scapes, tho I
Might sooner my own curses fear, than he:
And thus resolv'd against the scribling vein,
I deeply swear never to write again.

125

But when bad Company and Wine conspire
To kindle, and renew the foolish Fire,
Straitways relaps'd, I feel the raving fit
Return, and strait I all my Oaths forget:
The Spirit, which I thought cast out before,
Enters again with stronger force, and power,
Worse than at first, and tyrannizes more.
No sober good advice will then prevail,
Nor from the raging Frenzy me recal:
Cool Reason's dictates me no more can move
Than men in Drink, in Bedlam, or in Love:
Deaf to all means which might most proper seem
Towards my cure, I run stark mad in Rhime:
A sad poor haunted wretch, whom nothing less
Than Prayers of the Church can dispossess.

Sometimes, after a tedious day half spent,
When Fancy long has hunted on cold Scent,
Tir'd in the dull, and fruitless chase of Thought,
Despairing I grow weary, and give out:
As a dry Lecher pump'd of all my store,
I loath the thing, 'cause I can do't no more:

126

But, when I once begin to find again,
Recruits of matter in my pregnant Brain,
Again more eager I the haunt pursue,
And with fresh vigour the lov'd sport renew:
Tickled with some strange pleasure, which I find,
And think a secresie to all mankind,
I please my self with the vain, false delight,
And count none happy, but the Fops that write.

'Tis endless, Sir, to tell the many ways,
Wherein my poor deluded self I please:
How, when the Fancy lab'ring for a Birth,
With unfelt Throws brings its rude issue forth:
How after, when imperfect shapeless Thought
Is by the Judgment into Fashion wrought.
When at first search I traverse o're my mind,
Nought but a dark, and empty Void I find:
Some little hints at length, like sparks, break thence,
And glimm'ring Thoughts just dawning into sense:
Cōfus'd a while the mixt Idea's lie,
With nought of mark to be discover'd by,

127

Like colours undistinguish'd in the night,
Till the dusk Images, mov'd to the light,
Teach the discerning Faculty to chuse,
Which it had best adopt, and which refuse.
Here rougher strokes, touch'd with a careless dash,
Resemble the first sitting of a face:
There finish'd draughts in form more full appear,
And to their justness ask no further care.
Mean while with inward joy I proud am grown,
To see the work successfully go on:
And prize my self in a creating power,
That could make something, what was nought before.

Sometimes a stiff, unwieldy thought I meet,
Which to my Laws will scarce be made submit:
But, when, after expence of pains and time,
'Tis manag'd well, and taught to yoke in Rhime,
I triumph more, than joyful Warriours wou'd,
Had they some stout, and hardy Foe subdu'd:
And idly think, less goes to their Command,
That makes arm'd Troops in well-plac'd order stand,

128

Than to the conduct of my words, when they
March in due ranks, are set in just array.

Sometimes on wings of Thought I seem on high,
As men in sleep, though motionless they lie,
Fledg'd by a Dream, believe they mount and fly:
So Witches some enchanted Wand bestride,
And think they through the airy Regions ride,
Where Fancy is both Traveller, Way, and Guide:
Then strait I grow a strange exalted thing,
And equal in conceit, at least a King:
As the poor Drunkard, when Wine stums his brains,
Anointed with that Liquor, thinks he reigns.
Bewitch'd by these Delusions 'tis I write,
(The tricks some pleasant Devil plays in spight)
And when I'm in the freakish Trance, which I
Fond silly Wretch, mistake for Extasie,
I find all former Resolutions vain,
And thus recant them, and make new again.

“What was't, I rashly vow'd? shall ever I
“Quit my beloved Mistris, Poetry?

129

“Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours,
“Which thus glide unperceiv'd with silent course:
“Thou gentle Spell, which undisturb'd do'st keep
“My Breast, and charm intruding care asleep:
“They say, thou'rt poor, and unendow'd, what tho?
“For thee I this vain, worthless world forgo:
“Let Wealth, and Honour be for Fortunes Slaves,
“The Alms of Fools, and Prize of crafty Knaves:
“To me thou art, whate're th' ambitious crave,
“And all that greedy Misers want, or have:
“In Youth, or Age, in Travel, or at Home,
“Here, or in Town, at London, or at Rome,
“Rich, or a Beggar, free, or in the Fleet,
“Whate're my Fate is, 'tis my Fate to write.

Thus I have made my shrifted Muse confess,
Her secret Feebless, and her Weaknesses:
All her hid Faults she sets expos'd to view,
And hopes a gentle Confessor in you:

130

She hopes an easie pardon for her sin,
Since 'tis but what she is not wilful in,
Nor yet has scandalous nor open been.
Try if your ghostly counsel can reclaim
The heedless wanton from her guilt and shame:
At least be not ungenerous to reproach
That wretched frailty, which you've help'd debauch.

'Tis now high time to end, for fear I grow
More tedious than old Doaters, when they woo,
Than travel'd Fops, when far-fetch'd lies they prate.
Or flatt'ring Poets, when they dedicate
No dull forgiveness I presume to crave,
Nor vainly for my tiresom length ask leave:
Lest I, as often formal Coxcombs use.
Prolong that very fault, I would excuse
May this the same kind welcome find with you
As yours did here, and ever shall; Adieu.

131

Upon a Printer that exposed him by Printing a Piece of his grosly mangled, and faulty.

Dull, and unthinking! hadst thou none but me
To plague, and urge to thine own Infamy?
Had I some tame and sneaking Author been,
Whose Muse to Love, and softness did incline,
Some small Adventurer in Song, that whines
Chloris and Phyllis out in charming lines,
Fit to divert mine Hostess, and mislead
The heart of some poor tawdry Waiting Maid;
Perhaps I might have then forgiven thee,
And thou hadst scap'd from my resentments free.

But I whom spleen, and manly rage inspire,
Brook no affront, at each offence take fire:
Born to chastise the Vices of the Age,
Which Pulpits dare not, nor the very Stage:
Sworn to lash Knaves of all degrees, and spare
None of the kind, however great they are:
Satyr's my only Province, and delight,
For whose dear sake alone I've vow'd to write:
For this I seek occasions, court Abuse,
To shew my Parts, and signalize my Muse:
Fond of a Quarrel, as young Bullies are
To make their Mettle, and their Skill appear:
And didst thou think I would a wrong acquit,
That touch'd my tender'st part of Honour, Wit?

132

No, Villain, may my Sins ne're pardon'd be
By Heav'n it self, if e're I pardon thee.

Members from breach of Privilege deter
By threatning Topham and a Messenger:
Scroggs, and the Brothers of the Coif oppose,
By force and dint of Statutes, and the Laws:
Strumpets of Billingsgate redress their wrongs
By the sole noise, and foulness of their Tongues:
And I go always arm'd for my defence,
To punish, and revenge an insolence.
I wear my Pen, as others do their Sword,
To each affronting Sot, I meet, the word
Is Satisfaction: strait to Thrusts I go,
And pointed Satyr runs him through and through.

Perhaps thou hop'dst that thy obscurity
Should be thy safeguard, and secure thee free.
No, wretch, I mean from thence to fetch thee out,
Like sentenc'd Felons, to be drag'd about:
Torn, mangled, and expos'd to scorn, and shame,
I mean to hang, and Gibbet up thy Name.
If thou to live in Satyr so much thirst,
Enjoy thy wish, and Fame, till envy burst,
Renown'd, as he, whom banish'd Ovid curst:
Or he, whom old Archilochus so stung
In Verse, that he for shame, and madness hung:
Deathless in infamy, do thou so live,
And let my Rage, like his, to Halters drive.

Thou thoughtst perhaps my Gall was spent and gone,
My Venom drain'd, and I a stingless Drone:
Thou thoughtst I had no Curses lest in store;
But to thy sorrow know, and find I've more,

133

More, and more dreadful yet, able to scare,
Like Hell, and urge to Daggers, and Despair:
Such thou shalt feel, are still reserv'd by me,
To vex and force thee to thy Destiny:
Since thou hast brav'd my vengeance thus; prepare,
And tremble from my Pen thy Doom to hear.

Thou, who with spurious Nonsense durst profane
The genuine issue of a Poets Brain,
May'st thou hereafter never deal in Verse,
But what hoarse Bell-men in their Walks rehearse,
Or Smithfield Audience sung on Crickets hears:
May'st thou print H---, or some duller Ass,
Jordan, or Him, that wrote Dutch Hudibrass:
Or next vile Scribler of the House, whose Play
Will scarce for Candles, and their snuffing pay:
May you each other Curse; thy self undone,
And he the laughing-stock of all the Town.

May'st thou ne're rise to History, but what
Poor Grubstreet Peny Chroniclers relate,
Memoirs of Tyburn, and the mournful State
Of Cut-purses in Holborn Cavalcade,
Till thou thy self be the same subject made.
Compell'd by want, may'st thou Print Popery,
For which be the Carts Arse, and Pillory,
Turnips, and rotten Eggs thy destiny.
Maul'd worse than Reading, Christian, or Cellier,
Till thou daub'd o're with loathsom filth, appear
Like Brat of some vile Drab in Privy found,
Which there has lain three months in Ordure drown'd.

134

The Plague of Poets, Rags, and Poverty,
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Serjeants light on thee:
For others bound, may'st thou to Durance go,
Condemn'd to Scraps, and begging with a Shoo:
And may'st thou never from the Jail get free,
Till thou swear out thy self by Perjury:
Forlorn, abandon'd, pitiless, and poor,
As a pawn'd Cully, or a mortgag'd Whore,
May'st thou an Halter want for thy Redress,
Forc'd to steal Hemp to end thy miseries,
And damn thy self to balk the Hangmans Fees.
And may no saucy Fool have better Fate
That dares pull down the Vengeance of my Hate.

FINIS.