Poems and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, &c. In humble acknowledgment of His Princely Favours The POEMS are with all Dutiful Respect DEDICATED

By his GRACE's Ever Oblig'd, and most Obedient Servant, Thomas Flatman.

On the Excellent POEMS Of my most Worthy Friend, Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN.

You happy Issue of a happy Wit,
As ever yet in charming numbers writ,
Welcom into the Light, and may we be
Worthy so happy a Posterity.
We long have wish'd for something Excellent;
But ne'r till now knew rightly what it meant:
For though we have been gratifi'd 'tis true,
From several hands with things both fine and new,
The Wits must pardon me, if I profess,
That till this time the over-teeming Press
Ne'r set out Poesie in so true a dress:
Nor is it all, to have a share of Wit,
There must be Judgment too to manage it;
For Fancy's like a rough, but ready Horse,
Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force;

Wherein (my Friend) you do a Maistry own,
If not particular to you alone;
Yet such at least as to all eyes declares
Your Pegasus the best performs his Ayres.
Your Muse can humour all her Subjects so,
That as we read we do both feel and know;
And the most firm impenetrable breast
With the same passion that you write's possest.
Your Lines are Rules, which who shall well observe
Shall even in their Errors praise deserve:
The boyling Youth, whose bloud is all on fire,
Push'd on by Vanity, and hot desire,
May learn such Conduct here, men may approve
And not excuse, but even applaud his Love.
Ovid, who made an ART of what to all
Is in it self but too too natural,
Had he but read your Verse, might then have seen
The Stile of which his Precepts should have been;
And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence
To reconcile Frailty with Innocence.

The Love you write, Virgins and Boys may read,
And never be debaucht but better bred;
For without Love, Beauty would bear no price,
And Dulness, than Desire's a greater vice:
Your greater Subjects with such force are writ
So full of sinewy Strength, as well as Wit,
That when you are Religious, our Divines
May emulate, but not reprove your Lines:
And when you reason, there the learned Crew
May learn to speculate, and speak from you.
You no prophane, no obscene language use
To smat your Paper, or defile your Muse.
Your gayest things, as well exprest, as meant
Are equally both Queint, and Innocent.
But your Pindarique Odes indeed are such
That Pindar's Lyre from his own skilful touch,
Ne're yielded such an Harmony, nor yet
Verse keep such time on so unequal feet.
So by his own generous confession
Great Tasso by Guarini was out-done:

And (which in Copying seldom does befal)
The Ectype's better than th' Original.

But whilst your Fame I labour to send forth,
By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth,
In something all mankind unhappy are,
And you as mortal too must have your share;
'Tis your misfortune to have found a Friend,
Who hurts and injures where he would commend.
But let this be your comfort, that your Bayes
Shall flourish green, maugre an ill couch'd Praise.

CHARLES COTTON Esq;

To my Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN Upon the Publication of his POEMS.

I.

As when a Prince his Standard do's erect,
And calls his Subjects to the Field,
From such as early take his side,
And readily obedience yield,
He is instructed where he may suspect,
And where he safely may confide;
So mighty Friend;
That you may see
A perfect evidence of Loyalty,
No business I pretend;
From all th' Incumbrances of humane life,
From nourishing the sinful peoples strife,
And the increasing weaknesses of Age.

II.

Domestick Care, the Minds incurable Disease
I am resolv'd I will forget,
Ah! could I hope the restless pain
Would now intirely cease,
And never more return again,
My thoughts I would in other order set;
By more than protestations I would show,
Not the Sum total only of the Debt,
But the particulars of all I owe.

III.

This I would do: But what will our desire avail
When active heat and vigour fail?
'Tis well thou hast more youthful Combatants than I,
Right able to protect thy Immortality:
If Envy should attaque thy spotless name,
(And that attaques the best of things
And into rigid Censure brings
The most undoubted Registers of Fame)

Their fond Artillery let them dispence,
Piercing Wit and Murd'ring Eloquence,
Noble Conceit and manly Sence,
Charming Numbers let 'em shine
And dazle dead in ev'ry line
The most malicious of thy Foes,
Though Hell it self should offer to oppose;
I (thy decrepit Subject) only can resign
The little life of Art is left, to ransom thine:
Fumbling's as bad in Poetry,
And as Ridiculous, as 'tis in Gallantry:
But if a Dart I may prevent,
Which at my Friend's repute was meant
Let them then direct at Me;
By dying in so just a War,
I possibly may share
In thy Infallible Eternity.

IV.

But dearest Friend
(Before it be too late)
Let us a while expostulate,
What heat of Glory call'd you on,
Your learned Empire to extend
Beyond the Limits of your own Dominion?
At home, you were already crown'd with Bayes:
Why Foreign Trophies do you seek to raise?
Poets Arcana's have of Government,
And tho' the Homagers of your own Continent
Out of a Sense of duty do submit,
Yet Publick Print, a jealousie creates
And intimates a lay'd design
Unto the Neighb'ring Potentates.
Now into all your secret Arts they pry,
And weigh each hint by rules of policy,
Offensive Leagues they twine,
In Councils, Rota's, and Cabals they sit,
Each Petty Burgess thinks it fit
The Corporation should combine,

Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit,
And streight declare for quite abjuring it.

V.

Hence then must you prepare for an Invasion:
Tho not from such as are reclaim'd by Education;
In the main points all European Wits agree,
All allow Order, Art, and Rules of Decency,
And to be absolutely perfect, ne're was yet
A Beauty such, or such a Wit.
I fear the Pagan and the Barbarous,
A Nation quite Antipodes to us;
The Infidel unletter'd Crew (I mean)
Who call that only Wit,
Which is indeed but the Reverse of it;
Creatures in whom Civility ne're shone,
But (unto Nature's contradiction)
It is their Glory to be so obscene,
You'ld think the Legion of th' unclean
Were from the Swine, (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd.
And had these verier Swine, (than them) possest.

VI.

If these should an advantage take
And on thy Fame a Depredation make,
You must submit to the unhappiness;
These are the common Enemies of our Belief and Art,
And by hostility possest
The World's much greater part:
All things with them are measur'd by success:
If the Battel be not won;
If the Author do not sell;
Into their dull capacities it will not sink,
They cannot with deliberation think
How bravely the Commander led them on,
No nor wherein the Book was written well:
When, ('tis a thing impossible to do,)
He cannot find his Army courage, (Sir) nor you
Your Readers, Learning, Wit, and Judgment too.

Robert Thompson

To my Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, On the Publishing of these his POEMS.

Let not (my Friend) th' incredulous Sceptick Man
Dispute what Potent Art and Nature can!
Let him believe, the Birds that did bemoan
The loss of Zeuxis Grapes in Queru'lous Tone,
Were Silenc'd by a Painted Dragon, found
A Telesme to restrain their chatt'ring sound,
And that one made a Mistress could inforce
A Neighing sigh, ev'n from a Stallion Horse!
Let old Timanthes now unveil the Face
Of his Atrides, thou't give Sorrow grace!
Now may Parrhasius let his Curtain stand!
And great Protogenes take off his Hand!
For all that Lying Greece and Latium too
Have told us of, Thou (only thou) mak'st true.

And all the Miracles which they could show,
Remain no longer Faith; but Science now.
Thou do'st those things that no man else durst do,
Thou Paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too!
The Soul and Voice!

Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent,
To break the Second great Commandement:
And them persuade an Adoration giv'd
In Picture, will as grateful be to Heav'n
As one in Metre. Th' Art is in Excess;
But yet thy Ingenuity makes it less.
With Pen and Pencil thou dost all out-shine,
In Speaking Picture, Poesie Divine.
Poets, Creators are! You made us Know
Those are Above, and Dread those are Below;
But 'tis no Wonder you such things can Dare,
That Painter, Poet, and a Prophet are.
The Stars themselves, think it no scorn to be
Plac'd, and Directed in their Way by Thee.

Thou Know'st their Virtue, and their Situation,
The Fate of Years, and every great Mutation,
With the same Kindness let them look on Earth;
As when they gave thee first thy happy Birth!
To sober Saturn Aspects, Cynthia bright,
Resigning Hers, to give us thy New Light.
The Gentle Venus rose with Mercury,
(Presage of Softness in thy Poesie)
And Jove, and Mars in Amicable Trine
Do still give Spirit to thy Polish'd Line.
Thou mayst do what thou wilt without controul:
Only thy self and Heav'n can Paint thy Soul.

FRAN. BARNARD M. D.

To his esteemed Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publishing of his POEMS.

Your Poems (Friend) come on the publick Stage
In a Debauch'd, an a Censorious Age;
Where nothing now is counted Standard Wit,
Bu what's Prophane, Obscene, or 's bad as it.
For our great Wits, like Gallants of the times,
(And such they are) court only those loose Rhimes,
Which, like their Misses, Patch'd and Painted are;
But scorn what Vertuous is and truly Fair;
Such as your Muse is, who with Careful Art
For all but such, hath wisely fram'd a Part.

One while (methinks) under some Gloomy Shade.
I see the Melancholy Lover laid,
Pleasing himself in that his Pensive Fit
With what you have on such Occasion writ.

Another while (methinks) I seem to hear
'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their Care,
And steal themselves out from the busie Throng,
Your pleasant Songs in solemn Consort Sung.

Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine
Lay by his other Books, to look on thine,
And from thy serious and Divine Review
See what our Duty is, and his own too.

Yet, worthy Friend, you cann't but guess what doom
Is like to pass on what you 've writ, by some;
But there are others, now your Book comes forth,
Who (I am sure) will prize it as 'tis worth,
Who know it fully fraught with Staple Ware,
Such as the Works of the great Cowly are,
And 'mongst our rarest English Poems, Thine
Next unto His, immortally shall shine.

RICH. NEWCOURT.

To my Worthy Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publishing of his POEMS.

Rude, and unpolish'd as my lines can be,
I must start forth into the world with Thee.
That which, yet Private, did my wonder raise,
Now 'tis made Publiqu' challenges my praise:
Such miracles thy charming Verse can do,
Where e're it goes, It draw's me with it too.

This is a kind of Birthday to thy Muse!
Transported with delight I cannot chuse
But bid Her Welcome to the Light, and tell,
How much I value what is writ so well;
Tho' Thou reap'st no advantage by my Rhine,
More than a Taper helps the Day to shine.

Thus in dull Pomp does th' empty Coach attend
To pay respect to some departed Friend!
The difference of Regard in this does lie,
That Honours Dust, Mine that which cannot Die:
For what can blast the labours of thy Pen,
While Wit and Vertue are allow'd by men?

Thou entertain'st the World with such a Feast,
So cleanly and so elegantly drest,
So stor'd with laudable varieties
As may a modest Appetite suffice;
Whoever is thy Guest is sure to find
Something or other that may please his mind.

Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires
Her bosom warm'd with supernat'ral fires;
In noble flights with Pindar, soars above;
Dallies sometimes with not-indecent Love,
Thence down into the Grave does humbly creep,
And renders Death desirable as Sleep.
The Debonair, the Melancholy here
Find matter for their Mirth, ease for their Care.

Since such Provision's made for all that come,
He must be squeamish that goes Empty home;
If these Refections cannot do him good,
'Tis 'cause his Stomach's vicious, not the Food.

FRANCIS KNOLLYS Esq;

TO THE AUTHOR On his excellent POEMS.

I.

Strange Magick of thy wit, and style,
Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile!
Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear
Condoling our disastrous state,
Touch't with a sense of our hard fate,
We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear,
But he the mournful Song so sweetly sings,
That more of Pleasure than Regret it brings.
With such becoming grief
The Trojan Chief
Troy's Conflagration did relate,

Whilst ev'n the suff'rers in the Firedrew near
And with a greedy ear
Devour'd the story of their own subverted state.

II.

Kind Heav'n (as to her darling Son) to Thee
A double Portion did impart,
A gift of Painting and of Poesie:
But for thy Rivals in the Painters Art,
If well they Represent, they can effect
No more, nor can we more expect.
But more than this Thy happy Pencils give;
Thy draughts are more than Representative,
For, if we'l credit our own eyes, they Live!
Ah! worthy Friend cou'dst thou maintain the State
Of what with so much ease thou dost Create,
We might reflect on Death with Scorn!
But Pictures like th' Originals decay!
Of Colours those consist, and these of Clay;
A like compos'd of Dust, to Dust alike return!

III.

Yet 'tis our Happiness to see
Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny
Encountred, Vanquish'd, and Disarm'd by thee.
For if thy Pencils fail,
Change thy Artillery
And Thou'rt secure of Victory,
Employ thy Quill and thou shalt still prevail.
The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres
Thy Fancy's Imag'ry, and spares
The meanest thing that bears
Th' Impression of thy Pen;
Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were,
Stampt with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then,
He knows them by that Character to be
Predestinate and set apart for Immortality.

IV.

If native Lustre in thy Theams appear,
Improv'd by thee it shines more clear:

Or if thy Subject's void of native Light,
Thy Fancy need but dart a beam
To guild thy Theam,
And make the rude mass beautiful and bright.
Thou vary'st oft thy Strains, but still
Success attends each strain:
Thy verse is always lofty as the Hill,
Or pleasant as the Plain.
How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves!
Whose Nymphs and Swains are in their Loves
As innocent, and yet as kind as Doves.
But most She moves our Wonder and Delight,
When She performs her loose Pindariqu' flight,
Oft to their outmost reach She will extend
Her towring Wings to soar on high,
And then by just degrees descend:
Oft in a swift strait Course She glides,
Obliquely oft the air divides,
And oft with wanton play hangs hov'ring in the Sky

V.

Whilst Sense of duty into my artless Muse
Th' ambition would infuse
To mingle with those Nymphs that Homage pay,
And wait on Thine in her Triumphant way,
Defect of merit checks her forward pride,
And makes her dread t'approach thy Chariot side;
For 'twere at least a rude Indecency
(If not Profane) t'appear
At this Solemnity,
Crown'd with no Lawrel wreath (as others are)
But this we will presume to do,
At distance, to attend the show,
Officious to gather up
The Scatter'd Bayes, if any drop
From others Temples, and with those
A plain Plebeian Coronet compose.
This, as your Livery, she'd wear, to hide
Her Nakedness, not gratifie her Pride!

Such was the Verdant dress
Which the Offending Pair did frame
Of platted Leaves, not to express
Their Pride i'th' Novel-Garb, but to conceal their shame.

N. TATE

To my dear Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publication of his POEMS.

Pindariq' Ode.

I.

Within the haunted thicket, where
The feather'd Choristers are met to play;
And celebrate with voices clear,
And Accents sweet, the praise of May:
The Ouzel, Thrush, and speckled Lark,
And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark:
These (the inspired throng)
In numbers smooth, and strong
Adorn their noble Theme with an immortal Song,

While Woods, and Vaults, the Brook and neighbouring Hill,
Repeat the varied close, and the melodious Trill.

II.

Here feast your Ears, but let their Eye
Wander, and see one of the lesser fry
Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig,
Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big,
Pirk up his tail, and hop between
The boughs; by moving, only to be seen,
Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes,
As he doth meditate his tunes:
At last (compos'd) his little head he rears,
Towards (what he strives to imitate (the Spheres;
And chirping then begins his best,
Falls on to Pipe among the rest;
Deeming that all's not worth a rush,
Without his Whistle from the bush.

III.

Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,
That eccho'd Thy clear Name,
Which all must know, who e're did hear,
Of Cowley or Orinda's fame;
I heard the Genius, with surprizing Grace,
Would visit us with his fair off-spring, gay
As is the morning spring in May;
But fairer much, and of immortal race.

IV.

Delighted greatly, as I listning stood,
The sound came from each corner of the wood;
It both the Shrubs, and Cedars shak'd,
And my drowsie Muse awak'd;
Strange that the sound should be so shrill,
That had its passage through a Quill.
Then I resolv'd Thy praises to rehearse,
The wonders of Thy Pen, among the Croud
Of thy learn'd Friends that sing so loud:
But 'twas not to be sung, or reach'd in verse.

By my weak notes, scarce to be heard,
Or if they could, not worth regard;
Desisting therefore I must only send
My very kind well wishes to my Friend.

Octav. Pulleyn.

On the Death of the RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS EARL of OSSORY.

Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

No more!—Alas that bitter word, No more!
The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind,
The universal Darling of Mankind,
The Noble Ossory is now No more!

The Mighty Man is fall'n—
From Glory's lofty Pinacle,
Meanly like one of Us, He fell,
Not in the hot pursuit of Victory,
As Gallant Men would chuse to die;
But tamely, like a poor Plebeian, from his Bed
To the dark Grave a Captive led;
Emasculating Sighs, and Groans around,
His Friends in Flouds of Sorrow drown'd;
His awful Truncheon, and bright Arms laid by,
He bow'd his glorious Head to Destiny.

II.

Celestial Powers! how unconcern'd you are!
No black Eclipse, or Blazing-Star
Presag'd the Death of this Illustrious Man,
No Deluge, no, nor Hurricane;
In her old wonted course Nature went on,
As if some common thing were done,

One single Victim to Deaths Altar's come,
And not in Ossory an whole Hecatombe.
Yet, when the Founder of Old Rome expir'd,
When the Pellëan Youth resign'd his Breath,
And when the great Dictator stoop'd to Death,
Nature and all her Faculties retir'd:
Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw
The breaches of her ancient Fundamental Law,
Which kept the World in aw:
For men less brave than Him, her very heart did ake,
The labouring Earth did quake,
And Trees their fixt Foundations did forsake;
Nature in some prodigious way
Gave notice of their fatal Day:
Those lesser Griefs with pain she thus exprest,
This did confound, and overwhelm her Breast.

III.

Shrink ye Crown'd Heads, that think your selves secure,
And from your mouldring Thrones look down,
Your greatness cannot long endure,
The King of Terrors claims you for his own;
You are but Tributaries to his dreadful Crown:
Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August,
Are only high and mighty Epithets for Dust.
In vain, in vain so high
Our tow'ring expectations flie,
While th' Blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,
Appear, and promise Fruit, then fade away.
From valiant Ossory's ever Loyal Hands,
What did we not believe!
We dream'd of yet unconquer'd Lands
He to his Prince could give,
And neighbouring Crowns retrieve:

Expected that he would in Triumph come
Laden with Spoils, and Affrick Banners home,
As if an Hero's years
Were as unbounded as our fond Desires.

IV.

Lament, Lament, you that dare Honour love,
And court her at a Noble rate
(Your Prowess to approve,)
That dare religiously upon Her wait,
And blush not to grow Good, when you grow Great,
Such Mourners suit His Vertue, such His State.
And you, brave Souls, who for your Countrie's good
Did wond'rous things in Fields, and Seas of Bloud,
Lament th' undaunted Chief that led you on;
Whose exemplary Courage could inspire
The most degenerate Heart, with Martial-English Fire.

Your bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress
With an indulgent tenderness;
Touch'd with a melting Sympathy,
Who shall your Wants supply?
Since He, your good Samaritan is gone.
O Charity! thou richest Boon of Heaven,
To Man, in pity given!
(For when well-meaning Mortals give,
The Poor's, and their own Bowels they relieve;)
Thou mak'st us with alacrity to die,
Miss'd and bewail'd like Thee, large-hearted OSSORY.

V.

Arise, ye blest Inhabitants above,
From your Immortal Seats arise,
And on our Wonder, on our Love
Gaze with astonish'd Eyes.
Arise! Arise! make room,
Th' exalted Shade is come.

See where He comes! what Princely Port He bears!
How God-like He appears!
His shining Temples round
With Wreaths of everlasting Laurels bound!
As from the bloudy Field of Mons He came,
Where He out-fought th' Hyperboles of Fame.
See how the Guardian-Angel of our Isle
Receives the Deifi'd Champion with a Smile!
Welcome, the Guardian-Angel says,
Full of Songs of Joy, and Praise,
Welcome Thou art to me,
And to these Regions of Serenity!
Welcome, the Winged Choir resounds,
While with loud Euge's all the Sacred place abounds.

To the Memory of the Incomparable ORINDA.

Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

A long Adieu to all that's bright,
Noble or brave in Woman-kind;
To all the Wonders of their Wit,
And Trophies of their Mind:
The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone:
To th' Altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown;
There's nought on earth, but Ashes left behind;
E'r since th' amazing sound was spread,
Orinda's dead;
Every soft and fragrant word,
All that Language could afford;

Every high and lofty thing
That's wont to set the Soul on wing,
No longer with this worthless world would stay.
Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told,
Along the shore the dismal tidings roll'd;
The lesser Gods their Fanes forsook,
Confounded with the mighty stroke,
They could not overlive that fatal day,
But sigh'd and groan'd their gasping Oracles away.

II.

How rigid are the Laws of Fate!
And how severe that black Decree!
No sublunary thing is free,
But all must enter th' Adamantine Gate:
Sooner, or later must we come
To Nature's dark retiring Room:
And yet 'tis pity, Is it not?

The Learned, as the Fool should die,
One, full as low, as t'other lie,
Together blended in the general lot!
Distinguish'd only from the common Croud
By an hindg'd Coffin or an Holland Shroud,
Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'r so loud
Alas Orinda! even Thou,
Whose happy Verse made others live,
And certain Immortality could give;
Blasted are all thy blooming Glories now,
The Laurel withers o're thy brow:
Methinks it should disturb Thee to conceive
That when poor I, this artless breath resign,
My dust should have as much of Poetry as Thine!

III.

Too soon we languish with desire
Of what we never could enough admire.
On th' billows of this World sometimes we rise

So dangerously high,
We are to Heaven too nigh:
When all in rage,
(Grown hoary with one minute's age,)
The very self-same fickle wave,
Which the entrancing Prospect gave,
Swoln to a Mountain, sinks into a Grave.
Too happy Mortals, if the Powers above
As merciful would be,
And easie to preserve the thing we love,
As in the giving they are free!
But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,
They fix a flaming Sword 'twixt us and Paradise!
A weeping evening blur's a smiling day,
Yet why should heads of Gold have feet of clay?
Why should the man that wav'd th' Almighty wand,
That led the murmuring Croud
By Pillar and by Cloud,
Shivering a-top of Aery Pisgah stand
Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis'd Land.

IV.

Throw your Swords and Gauntlets by,
You daring Sons of War!
You cannot purchase e'r you die
One honourable Scar,
Since that fair hand that guilded all your Bayes;
That in Heroick numbers wrote your praise,
That you might safely sleep in Honours Bed,
It self, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead:
Cold and dead are all those charms
That burnish'd your victorious arms;
Those useless things hereafter must
Blush first in Bloud, and then in Rust:
No oil, but that of her smooth words can serve
Weapon and Warriour to preserve.
Expect no more from this dull Age
But folly, or Poetick rage,
Short-liv'd nothings of the Stage,

Vented to day, and cry'd to morrow down;
With her the Soul of Poesie is gone,
Gone, while our expectations flew
As high a pitch, as she has done,
Exhal'd to Heaven like early dew,
Betimes the little shining drops are flown,
E're th' drowsie world perceiv'd that Manna was come down.

V.

You of the Sex that would be fair,
Exceeding lovely, hither come,
Would you be pure as Angels are,
Come dress you by Orinda's Tomb,
And leave your flattering Glass at home.
Within that Marble Mirror see,
How one day such as she
You must, and yet alas! can never be!
Think on the heights of that vast Soul,
And then admire, and then condole.

Think on the wonders of her generous Pen,
'Twas she made Pompey truly Great;
Neither the purchase of his sweat
Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again:
With envy think, when to the grave you go,
How very little must be said of you,
Since all that can be said of vertuous Woman was her due.

The Review.

Pindarique Ode to the Reverend Dr. WILLIAM SANCROFT, now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Stanza I.

When first I stept into th' alluring Maze
To tread this world's mysterious ways,
Alas! I had nor guide, nor clue,
No Ariadne lent her hand,
Not one of Vertue's Guards did bid me stand,

Or ask'd me what I meant to do,
Or whither I would go:
This Labyrinth so pleasant did appear,
I lost my self with much content,
Infinite hazards underwent,
Out-straggled Homer's crafty Wanderer,
And ten years more than he, in fruitless Travels spent;
The one half of my life is gone,
The shadow the Meridian past;
Death's dismal Evening drawing on,
Which must with damps and mists be over-cast,
An Evening, that will surely come,
'Tis time, high time to give my self the welcome home.

II.

Had I but heartily believ'd,
That all the Royal Preacher said, was true,

When first I entred on the Stage,
And Vanity so hotly did pursue;
Convinc'd by his experience, not my age,
I had my self long since retriev'd,
I should have let the Curtain down,
Before the Fool's part had begun:
But I throughout the tedious Play have been
Concern'd in every busie Scene;
Too too inquisitive I try'd
Now this, anon another Face,
And then a third, more odd, took place,
Was every thing, but what I was.
Such was my Protean folly, such my pride,
Befool'd through all the Trage-Comedy,
Where others met with hissing, to expect a Plaudite.

III.

I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,
Searching for happiness in Love,
And finding Venus painted with a Dove;
A little naked Boy hard by,
The Dove, which had no gall,
The Boy no dangerous Arms at all;
They do thee wrong (great Love) said I,
Much wrong, great Love!—scarce had I spoke
'Ere into my unwary bosom came
An inextinguishable flame:
From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke,
That left me more than Thunder strook;
She carries tempest in that lovely name:
Love's mighty and tumultuous pain
Disorder's Nature like an Hurricane.
Yet couldn't I believe such storms could be,
When I launch'd forth to Sea;

Promis'd my self a calm, and easie way,
Though I had seen before,
Piteous ruines on the shore,
And on the naked Beach Leander breathless lay.

IV.

To extricate my self from Love
Which I could ill obey, but worse command,
I took my Pencils in my hand,
With that Artillery for Conquest strove,
Like wise Pygmalion then did I
My self design my Deity;
Made my own Saint, made my own Shrine:
If she did frown, one dash could make her smile,
All bickerings one easie stroak could reconcile,
Plato feign'd no Idea so divine:
Thus did I quiet many a froward day,
While in my eyes my Soul did play,
Thus did the time, and thus my self beguile;

Till on a day, but then I knew not why,
A tear faln from my eye,
Wash'd out my Saint, my Shrine, my Deity:
Prophetique chance; the lines are gone,
And I must mourn o're what I doted on:
I find even Giotto's Circle has not all perfection.

V.

To Poetry I then inclin'd;
Verse that emancipates the mind;
Verse that unbends the Soul;
That Amulet of sickly fame,
Verse that from wind articulates a Name;
Verse for both Fortunes fit, to smile and to condole.
'Ere I had long the Trial made,
A serious thought made me afraid:
For I had heard Parnassus sacred Hill,
Was so prodigiously high,
It's barren Top so near the skie;

Thd Æther there
So very pure, so subtil, and so rare,
'Twould a Chamæleon kill,
The Beast that is all Lungs, and feeds on Air:
Poëts the higher up that Hill they go,
Like Pilgrims, share the less of what's below:
Hence 'tis they ever go repining on,
And murmure more than their own Helicon.
I heard them curse their Stars in ponderous Rhimes
And in grave numbers grumble at the times;
Yet where th' Illustrious Cowley led the way,
I thought it great discretion there to go astray.

VI.

From liberal Arts to the litigious Law,
Obedience, not Ambition, did me draw;
I look'd at awful Quoif, and Scarlet Gown
Through others Opticks, not my own:

Unty the Gordian Knot that will,
I see no Rhetorick at all
In them that learnedly can brawl,
And fill with mercenary breath the spacious Hall;
Let me be peaceable, let me be still.
The solitary Tisbite heard the wind,
With strength and violence combin'd,
That rent the Mountains, and did make
The solid Earth's Foundations shake,
He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise,
But found what he expected in the small still voice.

VII.

Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest,
But I must try
A pitch more high,
To read the starry Language of the East;
And with Chaldean Curiosity
Presum'd to solve the Riddles of the Skie;

Impatient till I knew my doom,
Dejected till the good direction come,
I rip'd up Fate's forbidden Womb,
Nor would I stay till it brought forth
An easie and a natural birth,
But was solicitous to know
The yet mishapen Embrio,
(Preposterous crime!)
Without the formal Midwifry of time:
Fond man! as if too little grief were given
On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven!
Permits himself with fear to be unmann'd,
Belshazzar-like, grows wan and pale,
His very heart begins to fail,
Is frighted at that Writing of the hand,
Which yet nor he, not all his learn'd Magicians understand.

VIII.

And now at last what's the result of all?
Should the strict Audit come,
And for th' Account too early call;
A num'rous heap of Ciphers, would be found the total Sum.
When incompassionate Age shall plow
The delicate Amira's brow,
And draw his furrows deep and long,
What hardy Youth is he
Will after that a Reaper be,
Or sing the Harvest Song?
And what is Verse, but an effeminate vent
Either of Lust or Discontent?
Colours will starve, and all their Glories die,
Invented only to deceive the eye;
And he that wily Law does love,
Much more of Serpent has than Dove,

There's nothing in Astrology,
But Delphick ambiguity;
We are misguided in the Dark, and thus
Each Star becomes an Ignis fatuus:
Yet pardon me ye glorious Lamps of light,
'Twas one of you that led the way,
Dispell'd the gloomy night,
Became a Phosphor to th' Eternal day,
And shew'd the Magi where the Almighty Infant lay.

IX.

At length the doubtful Victo y's won,
It was a cunning Ambuscade
The World for my felicities had laid;
Yet now at length the day's our own,
Now Conquerour-like let us new Laws set down.
Henceforth let all our Love Seraphick turn,
The sprightly and the vigorous flame
On th' Altar let it ever burn,
And sacrifice its ancient name:

A Tablet on my heart, next I'le prepare
Where I would draw the Holy Sepulchre,
Behind it a soft Landskip I would lay
Of melancholy Golgotha!
On th' Altar let me all my spoils lay down,
And if I had one, there I'de hang my Laurel Crown.
Give me the Pandects of the Law Divine,
Such was the Law made Moses face to shine.
Thus beyond Saturn's heavy Orb I'le towre,
And laugh at his malicious power:
Raptur'd in Contemplation thus I'le go
Above unactive Earth, and leave the Stars below.

X.

Tost on the wings of every wind,
After these hoverings to and fro;
(And still the waters higher grow)
Not knowing where a resting place to find,

Whither for Sanctuary should I go
But (Reverend Sir) to you?
You that have triumph'd o're th' impetuous flood,
That Noah-like, in bad times durst be good,
And the stiff Torrent manfully withstood,
Can save me too;
One that have long in fear of drowing bin,
Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin;
Do you but reach out a propitious hand
And charitably take me in,
I will not yet despair to see dry land.
'Tis done;—and I no longer fluctuate,
I've made the Church my Ark, and Sions Hill my Ararat.

To my Reverend Friend, Dr. SAM. WOODFORD, On his Excellent Version of the PSALMS.

Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

See (worthy Friend) what I would do;
(Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire)
That have no Friend in all the sacred Quire,
To shew my kindness for your Book, and you,
Forc'd to disparage, what I would admire;
Bold man, that dares attempt Pindarique now,
Since the great Pindar's greatest Son
From the ingrateful Age is gone,
Cowley has bid th' ingrateful Age adieu;

Apollo's rare Columbus, he
Found out new worlds of Poesie:
He, like an Eagle, soar'd aloft,
To seize his noble Prey;
Yet as a Dove's, his Soul was soft,
Quiet as Night, but bright as Day:
To Heaven in a fiery Chariot he
Ascended by Seraphique Poëtry;
Yet which of us dull Mortals since can find
Any inspiring Mantle, that He left behind?

II.

His powerful numbers might have done you right;
He could have spar'd you immortality,
Under that Chieftain's Banners you might fight
Assur'd of Laurels, and of Victory
Over devouring Time, and Sword, and Fire,
And Jove's important Ire:

My humble Verse would better sing
David the Shepherd, than the King:
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one
(Though of the meaner sort,)
Of them that may approach a Princes Throne,
If 'twere but to be seen at Court.
Such (Sir) is my ambition for a Name,
Which I shall rather take from you, than give,
For in your Book I cannot miss of Fame,
But by contact shall live.
Thus on your Chariot Wheel shall I
Ride safe, and look as big as Æsop's Fly,
Who from th' Olympian Race new come,
And now triumphantly flown home,
To's neighbours of the swarm, thus, proudly said,
Don't you remember what a dust I made!

III.

Where e're the Son of Jesse's Harp shall sound,
Or Israel's sweetest Songs be sung,
(Like Sampson's Lion sweet and strong)
You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd,
To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes
His last deliverance from all his Foes.
Bloud thirsty Saul less barbarous than they,
His person only sought to kill;
These would his deathless Poëms slay,
And sought immortal bloud to spill,
To sing whose Songs in Babylon would be
A new Captivity:
Deposed by these Rebels, you alone
Restor'd the Glorious David to his Throne.
Long in disguise the Royal Prophet lay,
Long from his own thoughts banished,

Ne're since his death 'till this illustrious day
Was Scepter in his hand, or Crown plac'd on his Head:
He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin
As once before proud Achish he appear'd,
His Face besmear'd,
With spittle on his sacred Beard,
A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine.
Drest in their Rhimes, he look'd as he were mad,
In Tissue you, and Tyrian Purple have him clad.

On the Death of the truly valiant GEORGE Duke of ALBEMARLE.

Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

Now blush thy self into confusion,
Ridiculous Mortality!
With indignation to be trampled on
By them that court Eternity;
Whose Generous Deeds, and Prosperous State
Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate,
Whose every Trophy, and each Laurel wreath
Depends upon a little Breath;

Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time,
And of uncertain Age,
With doubtful hazards they engage,
Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;
Their Glories are eclips'd by Death.
Hard circumstances of Illustrious Men
Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains
Within the Bodies chains.
(Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain.)
Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage
Of that insulting Conquerour,
Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power,
By dashing out his Brains against his Iron Cage.

II.

But 'tis indecent to complain,
And wretched Mortals curse their Stars in vain,
In vain they waste their tears for them that die,
Themselves involv'd in the same destiny,

No more with sorrow let it then be said
The glorious Albemarle is dead.
Let what is said of Him triumphant be,
Words as gay, as is His Fame,
And as manly as his Name,
Words as ample as his Praise,
And as verdant as his Bays,
An Epinicion, not an Elegy.
Yet why should'st thou, ambitious Muse, believe
Thy gloomy Verse can any splendors give,
Or make him one small Moment longer live?
Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;
Or misbecoming numbers sing;
What Tribute to his memory canst thou pay,
Whose Vertue sav'd a Crown, and could oblige a King?

III.

Many a year distressed Albion lay
By her unnatural Off-spring torn,
Once the Worlds terrour, then its scorn,
At home a Prison, and abroad a Prey:
Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill,
And mutual bloud did spill;
Usurpers then, and many a Mushroom Peer
Within her Palaces did domineer;
There did the Vulture build his Nest,
There the Owls, and Satyrs rest,
By Zim and Ohim all possest;
'Till England's Angel Guardian, Thou,
With pity, and with anger mov'd
For Albion thy belov'd,
(Olive-Chaplets on thy brow)
With bloudless hands upheld'st her drooping head,
And with thy Trumpets call'st her from the dead.

Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun!
That Royal Lamp, by Thee did first appear
Usher'd into our happy Hemisphere;
O may it still shine bright and clear!
No Cloud, nor Night approach it, but a constant Noon!

IV.

Nor thus did thy undaunted Valour cease,
Or wither with unactive peace:
Scarce were our Civil broils allay'd,
While yet the wound of an intestine War
Had left a tender Scar,
When of our new Prosperities afraid,
Our jealous Neighbours fatal Arms prepare;
In floating Groves the Enemy drew near.
Loud did the Belgian Lion roar,
Upon our Coasts th' Armada did appear,
And boldly durst attempt our Native Shore,

Till his victorious Squadrons check'd their pride,
And did in Triumph o're the Ocean ride.
With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke
He did their Insolence restrain,
And gave his dreadful Law to all the Main,
Whose surly Billows trembled when he spoke,
And put their willing necks under his Yoke.
This the stupendious Vanquisher has done,
Whose high Prerogative it was alone
To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envy'd Throne.

V.

Then angry Heav'n began to frown,
From Heav'n a dreadful Pestilence came down,
On every side did Lamentations rise;
Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,
All was plaint, and all was moan!
The pious Friend with trembling love,
Scarce had his latest kindness done,

In sealing up his dead Friends eyes,
E're with his own surprizing Fate he strove,
And wanted one to close his own.
Death's Iron Scepter bore the sway
O're our Imperial Golgotha;
Yet he with kind, though unconcerned eyes,
Durst stay and see those numerous Tragedies.
He in the field had seen Death's griefly shape,
Heard him in Volleys talk aloud,
Beheld his Grandeur in a glittering Croud,
And unamaz'd seen him in Cannons gape:
Ever unterrified his Valour stood
Like some tall Rock amidst a Sea of Bloud:
'Twas Loyalty from Sword and Pest kept him alive,
The safest Armour, and the best Preservative.

VI.

The flaming City next implor'd his Aid,
And seasonably pray'd
His force against the Fire, whose Arms the Seas obey'd;
Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread,
Then those goodly Fabricks fell,
Temples themselves promiscuously there
Drop'd down, and in the common ruine buried were,
The City turned into one Mongibel:
The haughty Tyrant shook his curled head,
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.
Then every cheek grew wan and pale
Every heart did yield and fail:
Nought but thy Presence could its Power suppress,
Whose stronger light put out the less.
As London's noble Structures rise,
Together shall His Memory grow,
To whom that beautious Town so much does owe.

London! joynt Favourite with Him Thou wer't;
As both possess'd a room within one heart,
So now with thine indulgent Sovereign joyn,
Respect his great Friends ashes, for He wept o're Thine.

VII.

Thus did the Duke perform his mighty Stage,
Thus did that Atlas of our State,
With his Prodigious Acts amaze the Age,
While Worlds of wonders on his shoulders fate;
Full of Glories, and of Years,
He trod his shining, and immortal way,
Whilst Albion compass'd with new flouds of tears
Besought his longer stay.
Prophane that Pen, that dares describe thy bliss,
Or write thine Apotheosis!
Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove,
Entrusted with their Armies and their Love.

In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve,
Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve,
Who, to express his Gatitude to Thee,
Scorn'd those ill-natur'd arts of Policy.
Happy had Bellisarius bin
(Whose forward fortune was his sin)
By many Victories undone,
He had not liv'd neglected, dy'd obscure,
If for thy Prince those Battels he had won,
Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperour.

VIII.

Among the Gods, those Gods that dy'd like Thee,
As great as theirs, and full of Majesty
Thy sacred Dust shall sleep secure,
Thy Monument as long as theirs endure:
There, free from Envy, Thou with them,
Shalt have thy share of Diadem;

Among their Badges shall be set
Thy Garter and thy Coronet;
Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have
A Mausolæum in thy Prince's breast,
There thine embalmed name shall rest,
That Sanctuary shall thee save,
From the dishonours of a Regal Grave:
And every wondrous History,
Read by incredulous Posterity,
That writes of him, shall honourably mention thee
Who by an humble Loyalty hast shown,
How much sublimer gallantry, and renown
'Tis to restore, than to usurp a Monarch's Crown.

The Retirement.

Pindarique Ode made in the time of the Great Sickness, 1665.

Stanza I.

In the mild close of an hot Summers day,
When a cool Breeze had fann'd the Air,
And Heaven's face look'd smooth and fair;
Lovely as sleeping Infants be,
That in their slumber smiling lie
Dandled on their Mothers Knee,
You hear no cry,
No harsh, nor inharmonious voice,
But all is innocence without a noise:
When every sweet, which the Sun's greedy Ray
So lately from us drew,
Began to trickle down again in dew;

Weary, and faint, and full of thought,
Though for what cause I knew not well,
What I ail'd, I could not tell,
I sate me down at an ag'd Poplar's root,
Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast,
All the impertinently-busi'd-wolrd inclin'd to rest.

II.

I list'ned heedfully around,
But not a whisper there was found.
The murmuring Brook hard by,
As heavy, and as dull as I,
Seem'd drowsily along to creep;
It ran with undiscovered pace,
And if a Pebble stop'd the lazy race,
'Twas but as if it started in its sleep.
Echo her self, that ever lent an ear
To any piteous moan,
Wont to groan with them that groan,
Echo her self was speechless here.

Thrice did I sigh, Thrice miserably cry,
Ai me! the Nymph ai me! would not reply,
Or churlish, or she was asleep for company.

III.

There did I sit and sadly call to mind
Far and near, all I could find,
All the Pleasures, all the Cares,
The Jealousies, the Fears,
All the incertainties of thirty years,
From that most inauspicious hour
Which gave me breath;
To that in which the fair Amira's power
First made me wish for Death:
And yet Amira's not unkind;
She never gave me angry word,
Never my mean address abhorr'd;
Beauteous her face, beauteous her mind:

Yet something dreadful in her eyes I saw
Which ever kept my faultring tongue in aw,
And gave my panting Soul a Law.
So have I seen a modest Beggar stand,
Worn out with age, and being oft deny'd,
On his heart he lay'd his hand;
And though he look'd as if he would have dy'd
The needy Wretch no Alms did crave:
He durst not ask for what he fear'd he should not have

IV.

I thought on every pensive thing,
That might my passion strongly move,
That might the sweetest sadness bring;
Oft did I think on Death, and oft of Love,
The triumphs of the little God, and that same gastly King
The gastly King, what has he done?
How his pale Territories spread!

Strait scantlings now of consecrated ground
His swelling Empire cannot bound,
But every day new Colonies of dead
Enhance his Conquests, and advance his Throne.
The mighty City sav'd from storms of War,
Exempted from the Crimson Floud,
When all the Land o're-flow'd with bloud,
Stoop's yet once more to a new Conquerour:
The City which so many Rival bred,
Sackcloath is on her loyns, and ashes on her head.

V.

When will the frowning Heav'n begin to smile?
Those pitchy clouds be overblown,
That hide the mighty Town,
That I may see the mighty Pyle!
When will the angry Angel cease to slay;
And turn his brandish'd Sword away

From that illustrious Golgotha,
London, the great Aceldama!
When will that stately Landscape open lie,
The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye!
That heap of Pyramids appear,
Which now, too much like those of Egypt are:
Eternal Monuments of Pride and Sin,
Magnificent and tall without, but dead mens bones within.

Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon.

I

After a blustring tedious night,
The winds now hush'd and the black tempest o're,
Which th' crazy vessel miserably tore,
Behold a lamentable sight!

Rolling far off, upon a briny wave,
Compassionate Philander spy'd
A floating Carcass ride,
That seem'd to beg the kindness of a Grave.

II

Sad, and concern'd Philander then
Weigh'd with himself the frail, uncertain state
Of silly, strangely disappointed men,
Whose projects are the sport of Fate.
Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate Wife
In a strange Country far away,
Expects some happy day,
This gastly thing, the comfort of her life;

III

His Son it may be dreads no harm,
But kindly waits his Fathers coming home,

Himself secure, he apprehends no storm,
But fancies that he sees him come.
Perhaps the good old man, that kist this Son,
And left a blessing on his head,
His arms about him spread,
Hopes yet to see him e're his Glass be run.

IV

These are the Grand Intrigues of Man,
These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires
Restless, and swelling like the Ocean
From his birth till he expires.
See where the naked, breathless body lies
To every puff of wind a slave,
At the beck of every Wave,
That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!

V

While thus Philander pensive said,
Touch'd only with a pity for Mankind,
At nearer view, he thought he knew the Dead,
And call'd the wretched Man to mind:
Alas, said he, art thou that angry Thing,
That with thy looks did'st threaten Death,
Plagues and Destruction breath,
But two days since, little beneath a King!

VI

Ai me! where is thy fury now,
Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power,
O most ridiculously dreadful thou!
Expos'd for Beasts and Fishes to devour.
Go sottish Mortals, let your Breasts swell high,
All your Designs laid deep as Hell,
A small mischance can quell,
Out-witted by the deeper Plots of Destiny.

VII

This haughty Lump a while before
Sooth'd up it self, perhaps with hopes of Life,
What it would do, when it came safe on shore,
What for It's Son, what for It's Wife;
See where the Man, and all his Politicks lie.
Ye Gods! what Gulphs are set between,
What we have, and what we ween,
Whilst lull'd in dreams of years to come, we die!

VIII

Nor are we liable alone,
To misadventures on the merciless Sea,
A thousand other things our Fate bring on,
And Shipwrack'd every where we be.
One in the tumult of a Battel dies
Big with conceit of Victory,
And routing th' Enemy,
With Garlands deck'd, himself the Sacrifice.

IX

Another, while he pays his vows
On bended knees, and Heaven with tears invokes,
With adorations as he humbly bows,
While with Gums the Altar smoaks,
In th' presence of his God, the Temple falls:
And thus religious in vain
The flatter'd Bigot slain,
Breaths out his last within the sacred Walls.

X

Another with Gay Trophies proud,
From his triumphant Chariot overthrown,
Makes pastime for the Gazers of the Croud,
That envi'd him his purchas'd Crown.
Some with full meals, and sparkling Bowls of Wine,
(As if it made too long delay)
Spur on their fatal Day,
Whilst others, (needy Souls) at theirs repine.

XI

Consider well, and every place
Offers a ready Road to thy long home,
Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face
Th' Embassadours of Death do come.
By open force or secret Ambuscade,
By unintelligible ways,
We end our anxious days,
And stock the large Plantations of the Dead.

XII

But (some may say) 'tis very hard
With them, whom heavy chance has cast away,
With no solemnities at all interr'd,
To roam unburi'd on the Sea:
No—'tis all one where we receive our doom,
Since, somewhere, 'tis our certain lot,
Our Carcases must rot,
And they whom heaven covers need no Tomb.

A Thought of DEATH.

When on my sick Bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
My Soul just now about to take her flight
Into the Regions of eternal night;
Oh tell me you,
That have been long below,
What shall I do!
What shall I think, when cruel Death appears,
That may extenuate my fears!
Methinks I hear some Gentle Spirit say,
Be not fearful, come away!
Think with thy self that now thou shalt be free,
And find thy long expected liberty;

Better thou mayst, but worse thou can'st not be
Than in this Vale of Tears, and Misery.
Like Cæsar, with assurance then come on,
And unamaz'd attempt the Laurel Crown,
That lies on th' other side Death's Rubicon.

Psalm xxxix. Vers. 4, 5.

VERSE IV.

Lord let me know the Period of my Age,
The length of this my weary Pilgrimage,
How long this miserable Life shall last,
This Life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!

VERSE V.

Thou by a Span measur'st these days of mine,
Eternity's the spacious bound of Thine:

Who shall compare his little Span with thee,
With Thine Incomprehensibility.
Man born to trouble leaves this World with pain,
His best Estate is altogether vain.

Hymn for the Morning.

Awake my Soul! Awake mine eyes!
Awake my drowsie faculties;
Awake and see the new born Light
Spring from the darksom womb of Night!
Look up and see th' unwearied Sun,
Already has his Race begun:
The pretty Lark is mounted high,
And sings her Matins in the Sky.
Arise my Soul! and thou my voice
In Songs of Praise, early rejoyce!
O Great Creator! Heavenly King!
Thy Praises let me ever sing!

Thy Power has made, thy Goodness kept
This fenceless Body while I slept,
Yet one day more hast given me
From all the Powers of darkness free:
O keep my heart from Sin secure,
My life unblameable and pure,
That when the last of all my Days is come,
Chearful and fearless I may wait my Doom.

Anthem for the Evening.

Sleep! downy sleep! come close my eyes,
Tyr'd with beholding Vanities!
Sweet slumbers come and chase away
The toils and follies of the day:
On your soft bosom will I lie,
Forget the World, and learn to die.
O Israel's watchful Shepherd spread
Tents of Angels round my Bed;

Let not the Spirits of the Air,
While I slumber, me ensnare;
But save thy Suppliant free from harms,
Clasp'd in thine everlasting Arms.
Clouds and thick darkness is thy Throne,
Thy wonderful Pavilion:
Oh dart from thence a shining Ray,
And then my midnight shall be Day!
Thus when the morn in Crimson drest,
Breaks through the Windows of the East,
My hymns of thankful Praises shall rise
Like Incense or the morning Sacrifice.

DEATH.

SONG.

Oh the sad day,
When Friends shall shake their heads and say
Of miserable me,

Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath,
See how he struggles with the pangs of Death!
When they shall say of these poor eyes,
How hollow, and how dim they be!
Mark how his Breast does swell and rise,
Against his potent Enemy!
When some old Friend shall step to my Bed-side,
Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide,
And when his next Companions say,
How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away,
Answering only with a lift up hand,
Who can his Fate withstand?
Then shall a gasp or two do more
Than e're my Rhetorick could before,
Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!

The Happy Man.

Peaceful is he, and most secure,
Whose heart, and actions all are pure;
How smooth and pleasant is his way.
Whilst Life's Meander slides away
If a fierce Thunderbolt do flie,
This Man can unconcerned lie;
Knows 'tis not levell'd at his head,
So neither noise, nor flash can dread:
Though a swift Whirlwind tear in sunder
Heav'n above him, or Earth under;
Though the Rocks on Heaps do tumble,
Or the World to Ashes crumble,
Though the stupendious Mountains from on high
Drop down, and in their humble Vallies lie;
Should the unruly Ocean roar,
And dash its Foam against the Shore;

He finds no Tempest in his Mind,
Fears no Billow, feels no Wind:
All is serene, and quiet there,
There's not one blast of troubled Air,
Old Stars may fall, or new ones blaze,
Yet none of these his Soul amaze;
Such is the man can smile at irksome death,
And with an easie sigh give up his breath.

ON Mr. JOHNSON'S

Several Shipwracks.

He that has never yet acquainted been
With cruel Chance, nor Vertue naked seen,
Strip'd from th' advantages (which Vices wear)
Of happy, plausible, successful, fair;
Nor learnt how long the lowring cloud may last,
Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast,

Till she her native glories does recover,
And shines more bright, after the Storm is over;
To be inform'd, he need no further go,
Than this Divine Epitome of woe.
In Johnson's Life, and Writings he may find,
What Homer in his Odysses design'd,
A vertuous Man, by miserable fate,
Rendred ten thousand ways unfortunate;
Sometimes within a leaking Vessel tost,
All hopes of life, and the lov'd Shore quite lost,
While hidden Sands, and every greedy Wave,
With horror gap'd themselves into a Grave:
Sometimes upon a Rock with fury thrown,
Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan;
Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand,
Expos'd to th' mercy of a Barbarous Land:
Such was the Pious Johnson, till kind Heaven
A blessed End to all his toils had given:
To shew that vertuous men, though they appear
But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.

An Explanation of an EMBLEM

[_]

Engraven by V. H.

Seest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them?
And that gay thing the Diadem?
The Wheel and Balance, which are ty'd
To th' Gold, black Clouds on either side?
Seest thou the winged Trumpetters withal,
That kick the World's blew tottering Ball?
The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,
Those fragments of a Skeleton?
The Bays, the Palms, the Fighting men,
And written Scroul?—Come tell me then,
Did thy o're-curious eye e're see
An apter Scheme of Misery?

What's all that Gold, and what those sparkling Stones
To that bald Scull, to those Cross Bones?
What mean those Braves (whom we adore)
To stain the Earth with purple gore?
Sack stately Towns, silk Banners spread,
Gallop their Coursers o're the Dead?
Far more than this? and all to sway
But till those sands shall glide away.
For when the Bubble World shall fly
With stretch'd-out Plumes, when the brisk eye
Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,
And th' Angels Trumpets pierce our ears,
What's haughty Man, or those fine things,
Which Heaven calls Men, though Men stile Kings?
Vain World adieu! and farewel fond renown!
Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown!

For THOUGHTS.

I.

Thoughts! What are they?
They are my constant Friends,
Who, when harsh Fate its dull brow bends,
Uncloud me with a smiling Ray,
And in the depth of midnight force a day.

II.

When I retire, and flee
The busie throngs of Company!
To hug my self in privacy;
O the discourse! the pleasant talk,
'Twixt us (my thoughts) along a lonely walk!

III.

You, like the stupifying Wine
The dying Malefactors sip
With shivering lip,
T'abate the rigour of their Doom,
By a less troublous cut to their long home;
Make me slight Crosses, though they pil'd up lie,
All by th' enchantments of an extasie.

IV.

Do I desire to see
The Throne and Majesty
Of that proud one,
Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun?
Those can conduct me where such Toys reside,
And waft me cross the Main, sans Wind and Tide.

V.

Would I descrie
Those radiant Mansions 'bove the Skie,
Invisible by Mortal eye?
My Thoughts, my Thoughts can lay
A shining Track thereto,
And nimbly fleeting go:
Through all the eleven Orbs can shove away,
These two, like Jacob's Ladder, are
A most Angelick thorough-fare.

IV.

The Wealth that shines
In th' Oriental Mines;
Those sparkling Gems which Nature keeps
Within her Cabinets, the Deeps,

The Verdant Fields,
The Rarities the rich World yields;
Rare structures, whose each gilded spire
Glimmers like Lightning; which, while men admire,
They deem the neighbouring Skie on fire,
These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes
With Myriads of varieties.
As on the front of Pisgah, I
Can th' Holy Land through these my Opticks spie.

VII.

Contemn we then
The peevish rage of men,
Whose violence ne'r can divorce
Our mutual amity;
Or lay so damn'd a Curse
As Non-addresses, 'twixt my thoughts and me:
For though I sigh in Irons, They
Use their old freedom, readily obey;
And when my bosome-friends desert me, stay.

VIII.

Come then, my darlings, I'le embrace
My Priviledge; make known
The high prerogative I own,
By making all allurements give you place;
Whose sweet society to me,
A Sanctuary and a Shield shall be
'Gainst the full Quivers of my Destiny.

Against THOUGHTS.

I.

Intolerable Racks!
Distend my Soul no more,
Loud as the Billows when they roar,
More dreadful than the hideous thunder cracks.

Foes inappeasable! that slay
My best contents, around me stand,
Each like a Fury, with a Torch in hand;
And fright me from the hopes of one good Day.

II.

When I seclude my self, and say
How frolick will I be,
Unfetter'd from my Company
I'le bath me in felicity!
In come these Guests,
Which Harpy like defile my Feasts:
Oh the damn'd Dialogues, the cursed talk
'Twixt us (my Thoughts) along a sullen walk.

III.

You, like the poysonous Wine
The Gallants quaff
To make 'em laugh,

And yet at last endure
From thence the tortures of a Calenture,
Fool me with feign'd refections, till I lie
Stark raving in a Bedlam extasie.

IV.

Do I dread
The Starry Throne and Majesty
Of that High God,
Who batters Kingdoms with an Iron Rod,
And makes the Mountains stagger with a Nod?
That sits upon the glorious Bow,
Smiling at changes here below.
These goad me to his grand Tribunal, where
They tell me I with horror must appear,
And antedate amazements by grim fear.

V.

Would I descry
Those happy Souls blest Mansions 'bove the Sky,
Invisible by mortal eye,
And in a noble speculation trace
A journey to that shinning place?
Can I afford a sigh or two,
Or breath a Wish that I might thither go:
These clip my Plumes, and chill my blazing Love
That, O, I cannot, cannot soar above.

VI.

The Fire that shines
In Subterranean Mines,
The Crystall'd streams,
The Sulphur Rocks that glow upon
The torrid banks of Phlegeton;

Those sooty Fiends which Nature keeps,
Bolted and barr'd up in the deeps;
Black Caves wide Chasms which who see confess
Types of the Pit so deep, so bottomless!
These mysteries, though I fain would not behold,
You to my view unfold:
Like an Old Roman Criminal, to the high
Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I
May so be hurried headlong down, and Die.

VII.

Mention not then
The strength, and faculties of men;
Whose Arts cannot expell
These anguishes, this bosome-Hell
When down my aking head I lay,
In hopes to slumber them away;
Perchance I do beguile
The Tyranny a while,

One or two minutes, then they throng again,
And reassault me with a trebled pain:
Nay though I sob in Fetters, they
Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day,
And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.

VIII.

Hence, hence, (my Jaylors) Thoughts be gone,
Let my Tranquillities alone.
Shall I imbrace
A Crocodile, or place
My choice affections on the fatal Dart,
That stabs me to the heart?
I hate your curst proximity,
Worse than the venom'd arrows heads that be
Cramm'd in the quivers of my Destiny.

A Dooms-Day Thought.

Anno 1659.

Jvdgment! two Syllables can make
The haughtiest Son of Adam shake.
Tis coming, and 'twill surely come,
The dawning to that Day of Doom;
O, th' morning blush of that dread day,
When Heav'n and Earth shall steal away,
Shall in their pristine Chaos hide,
Rather than th' angry Judge abide.
'Tis not far off; methinks I see
Among the Stars some dimmer be;
Some tremble, as their Lamps did fear
A neighbouring Extinguisher.
The greater Luminaries fail,
Their Glories by Eclipses vail,

Knowing e're long their borrow'd Light
Must sink in th' Universal Night,
When I behold a Mist arise,
Strait to the same astonish'd Eyes,
Th' ascending Clouds do represent,
A Scene of th' smoaking Firmament.
Oft when I hear a blustering Wind
With a tempestuous murmur joyn'd,
I phancy, Nature in this blast,
Practises how to breath her Last,
Or sighs for poor Man's misery,
Or pants for fair Eternity.

Go to the dull Church-yard and see
Those Hillocks of Mortality.
Where proudest Man is only found
By a small swelling in the Ground?
What Crouds of Carcasses are made
Slaves to the Pickax and the Spade!
Dig but a foot, or two, to make
A Cold Bed, for thy dead Friends sake,

'Tis odds but in that scantling room,
Thou robb'st another of his Tomb,
Or in thy delving smit'st upon
A Shinbone, or a Cranion.

When th' Prison's full, what next can be
But the Grand Goal-Delivery?
The Great Assize, when the pale Clay
Shall gape, and render up its Prey;
When from the Dungeon of the Grave
The meager Throng themselves shall heave,
Shake off their Linnen Chains, and gaze
With wonder, when the world shall blaze,
Then climb the Mountains, scale the Rocks,
Force op'n the Deep's Eternal Locks,
Beseech the Clifts to lend an Ear,
Obdurate they, and will not hear.
What? ne're a Cavern ne're a Grot
To cover from the common Lot?
No quite forgotten Hold, to ly
Obscur'd, and pass the reck'ning by?

No—There's a quick all-piercing Eye
Can through the Earth's dark Center pry,
Search into th' bowels of the Sea,
And comprehend Eternity.

What shall we do then, when the voice
Of the shrill Trump with strong fierce noise
Shall pierce our Ears, and summon all
To th' Universe wide Judgment-Hall?
What shall we do, we cannot hide,
Nor yet that Scrutiny abide:
When enlarg'd Conscience loudly speaks,
And all our bosom-secrets breaks;
When flames surround, and greedy Hell
Gapes for a Booty, (who can dwell
With everlasting Burnings!) when
Irrevocable words shall pass on Men;
Poor naked Men, who sometimes, thought
These frights perhaps would come to nought!
What shall we do! we cannot run
For Refuge, or the strict Judge shun.

'Tis too late Then to think what Course to take;
While we live Here, we must Provision make.

Virtus sola manet, cætera mortis erunt.
82

Translated.

I

I never thirsted for the Golden Flood,
Which o're Pactolus wealthy sands do's roul,
From whence the covetous mind receives no good,
But rather swells the dropsie of his Soul.

II

On Palaces why should I set my Mind,
Imprison'd in this Bodie's mouldring clay?
Ere long to poor six foot of Earth confin'd,
Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.

III

Titles and Pedigrees, what are they to me,
Or honour gain'd by our Fore-Fathers toil,
The sport of Fate, whose gaudiest Pageantry
Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soyl?

IV

Why then (my Soul) who fain wouldst be at ease,
Should the Worlds glory dazle thy bright Eye?
Thy self with vain applause why shouldst thou please,
Or dote on Fame, which Fools may take from Thee?

V

Praise after death is but a pleasant dream,
The Dead fare ne'r the worse for ill report;
The Ghosts below know nothing of a Name,
Nor ever Popular caresses court.

VI

Give me the lasting Good, Vertue, that flies
Above the Clouds, that tramples on dull Earth,
Exempt from Fates tumultuous Mutinies,
Vertue, that cannot need a second Birth.

VII

All other things must bend their heads to Time,
By Ages mighty Torrent born away,
Hereafter no more thought on than my Rhime,
Or Faëry Kingdoms in Utopia.

Psalm XV. Paraphrased.

VERSE I.

Who shall approach the dread Jehovah's Throne
Or dwell within thy Courts, O Holy One!
That happy man whose feet shall tread the Road
Up Sion's Hill, that holy Hill of God!

VERSE II.

He that's devout and strict in all he does,
That through the sinful world uprightly goes,
The desp'rate heights from whence the great ones fall
(Giddy with Fame) turn not his head at all:
Stands firm on Honours Pinacle, and so
Fears not the dreadful Precipice below.
Of Conscience, not of Man, he stands in aw,
Just to observe each tittle of the Law!

His words and thoughts bear not a double part,
His breast is open, and he speaks his heart.

VERSE III.

He that reviles not, or with cruel words
(Deadly as venome, sharp as two-edg'd swords)
Murthers his Friends repute, nor dares believe
That Rumor which his neighbor's soul may grieve:

But with kind words embalms his bleeding Name,
Wipes off the rust, and polishes his fame.

VERSE IV.

He in whose eyes the bravest sinners be
Extremely vile, though rob'd in Majesty;
But if he spies a righteous man (though poor)
Him he can honour, love, admire, adore:
In Israel's humble Plains had rather stay,
Than in the Tents of Kedar bear the sway:

He that severely keeps his sacred Vow,
No mental reservation dares allow,
But what he swears, intends; will rather die,
Lose all he has, than tell a solemn Lie.

VERSE V.

He that extorts not from the needy Soul,
When Laws his Tyranny cannot controul;
He whom a thousand Empires cannot hire,
Against a guiltless person to conspire.

He that has these perfections, needs no more;
What Treasures can be added to his store?
The Pyramids shall turn to dust, to hide
Their own vast bulk, and haughty Founders pride.
Leviathan shall die within his Deep;
The eyes of Heaven close in eternal sleep;
Confusion may o're whelm both Sea, and Land;
Mountains may tumble down, but he shall stand.

JOB.

Few be the days that feeble man must breath,
Yet frequent Troubles antedate his death:
Gay like a flow'r he comes, which newly grown,
Fades of it self, or is untimely mown:
Like a thin Aëry shadow does he flie,
Lengthning and shortning still until he die.
And does Jehovah think on such a one,
Does he behold him from his mighty Throne?
Will he contend with such a worthless thing,
Or Dust and Ashes into Judgment bring?

Unclean, unclean is man ev'n from the Womb,
Unclean he falls into his drowzy Tomb.
Surely, he cannot answer God, nor be
Accounted pure, before such purity.

Nudus Redibo.

Naked I came, when I began to be
A man among the Sons of Misery,
Tender, unarm'd, helpless, and quite forlorn,
E're since 'twas my hard fortune to be born;
And when the space of a few weary days
Shall be expir'd, then must I go my ways.
Naked I shall return, and nothing have,
Nothing wherewith to bribe my hungry Grave.

Than what's the proudest Monarch's glittering Robe,
Or what's he, more than I, that rul'd the Globe?
Since we must all without distinction die,
And slumber both stark naked, He and I.

AN ELEGY On the EARL of SANDWICH.

If there were ought in Verse, at once could raise,
Or tender pity, or immortal praise,
Thine Obsequies, brave Sandwich would require
What ever would our nobler thoughts inspire;
But since thou find'st by thy unhappy fate,
What 'tis to be unfortunately Great,
And purchase Honour at too dear a rate:
The Muses best attempt, how e're design'd,
Cannot but prove impertinently kind,
Thy glorious Valour is a Theam too high
For all the humble Arts of Poësie,

To side with chance, and Kingdoms over-run
Are little things Ambitious Men have done;
But on a flaming Ship thus to despise
That life, which others did so highly prize;
To fight with Fire, and struggle with a Wave,
And Neptune with unwearied Arms out-brave,
Are deeds surpassing fab'lous Chronicle.
And which no future Age shall parallel;
Leviathan himself's outdon by Thee,
Thou greater wonder of the Deep, than he:
Nor could the Deep thy mighty Ashes hold,
The Deep that swallows Diamonds and Gold,
Fame ev'n thy sacred Relicks, does pursue,
Richer than all the Treasures of Peru:
While the kind Sea thy breathless body brings
Safe to the bed of Honour and of Kings.

AN EPITAPH On the EARL of SANDWICH.

Here lies the Dust of that illustrious Man,
That triumph'd o're the Ocean;
Who for his Country nobly courted Death,
And dearly sold his glorious Breath,
Or in a word, in this cold narrow Grave
Sandwich the Good, the Great, the Brave,
(Oh frail Estate of Sublunary things!)
Lies equal here with Englands greatest Kings.

PASTORAL.

I

At break of day poor Celadon
Hard by his Sheepfolds walk'd alone,
His Arms a-cross, his Head bow'd down,
His Oaten Pipe beside him thrown,
When Thirsis hidden in a Thicket by,
Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.

II

What is it Celadon has done,
That all his Happiness is gone!
The Curtains of the dark are drawn,
And chearful morn begins to dawn,
Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night,
That can admit no beam of pleasant light.

III

You pretty Lambs may leap and play
To welcom the new kindled day,
Your Shepherd harmless, as are you,
Why is he not as frolick too?
If such disturbance th' Innocent attend,
How differs he from them that dare offend!

IV

Ye Gods! or let me die, or live,
If I must die, why this reprieve?
If you would have me live, O why
Is it with me as those that die!
I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set,
My Cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.

V

Ye Gods! I never did withhold
The fattest Lamb of all my Fold,
But on your Altars laid it down,
And with a Garland did it crown.
Is it in vain to make your Altar smoke?
Is it all one, to please, and to provoke?

VI

Time was that I could sit and smile,
Or with a dance the Time beguile:
My soul like that smooth Lake was still,
Bright as the Sun behind yon Hill,
Like yonder stately Mountain clear, and high,
Swift, soft, and gay as the same Butterfly.

VII

But now Within there's Civil War,
In Arms my rebel Passions are,
Their old Allegiance laid aside,
The Traitors now in Triumph ride;
That many-headed Monster has thrown down
Its lawful Monarch Reason from its Throne.

VIII

See unrelenting Sylvia, see,
All this, and more is long of Thee:
For e're I saw that charming face,
Uninterrupted was my peace,
Thy glorious beamy eyes have struck me blind,
To my own Soul the way I cannot find.

IX

Yet is it not thy fault nor mine
Heav'n is to blame, that did not shine
Upon us both with equal Rays,
It made thine bright, mine gloomy days;
To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store,
All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.

X

Unlucky Stars poor Shepherds have,
Whose Love is fickle Fortune's Slave:
Those golden days are out of date,
When every Turtle chose his Mate:
Cupid that mighty Prince then uncontroul'd,
Now like a little Negro's bought and sold.

On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries.

Pastoral Song.

Did you not hear the hideous Grone,
The Shrieks, and heavy Mone
That spread themselves o're all the pensive Plain;
And rent the breast of many a tender Swain?
'Twas for Amintas, Dead and gone.
Sing ye forsaken Shepherds, sing His Praise
In careless Melancholy Lays,
Lend Him a little doleful Breath:
Poor Amintas! cruel death!
'Twas Thou could'st make Dead words to live,
Thou that dull Numbers could'st inspire
With charming Voice, and tuneful Lyre,
That Life to all, but to Thy self could'st give;

Why could'st Thou not thy wondrous Art bequeath?
Poor Amintas! Cruel Death!
Sing pious Shepherds, while you may,
Before th' approaches of the Fatal Day:
For you your selves that sing this mournful Song,
Alas! e're it be long,
Shall, like Amintas, Breathless be,
Though more forgotten in the Grave, that He.

The Mistake.

SONG.

I heard a young Lover in terrible pain,
From whence if he pleas'd, he might soon be releas'd,
He swore, and he vow'd again and again,
He could not out-live the turmoils of his breast;
But, alas, the young Lover I found
Knew little how cold Love would prove under ground;

100

Why should I believe, prithee Love tell me why,
Where my own Flesh and Bloud must give me the Lye!
Let 'em rant while they will, and their Destinies brave,
They'l find their flames vanish on this side the grave;
For though all addresses on purpose are made
To be huddled to bed,—'tis 'nt meant, with a spade!

The Incredulous.

SONG.

I'le ne're believe for Strephon's sake
That Love, (what e'r its fond pretences be)
Is not a slave to mutability.
The Moon and that alike of change partake:
Tears are weak, and cannot bind,
Vows, alas! but empty wind:
The greatest Art that Nature gave
To th' Amorous Hypocrite to make him kind,
Long e're he dies will take its leave.

101

Had you but seen, as I have done,
Strephon's tears, and heard his mone,
How pale his Cheek, how dim his Eye,
As if with Chloris he resolv'd to dye;
And when her spotless Soul was fled
Heard his amazing praises of the Dead;
Yet in a very little time address
His flame t' another Shepherdess,
In a few days giving his Love the Lye,
You'd be as great an Infidel as I.

Weeping at Parting.

SONG.

I

Go, gentle Oriana, go,
Thou seest the Gods will have it so;
Alas! Alas! 'tis much in vain
Of their ill usage to complain,

102

To curse them when we want relief,
Lessens our courage, not our grief:
Dear Oriana, wipe thine Eye,
The Time may come, that thou, and I
Shall meet again, long, long to prove
What Vigour absence adds to love,
Smile Oriana then, and let me see,
That look again, which stole my liberty.

II

But say that Oriana die,
And that sad moment may be nigh;
The Gods that for a year can sever,
If it please them can part us ever;
They that refresh, can make us weep,
And into Death can lengthen sleep.
Kind Oriana should I hear
The thing I so extremely fear,

103

'Twill not be strange, if it be said,
After a while, I too, am dead.
Weep Oriana, weep, for who does know,
Whether we e'r shall meet again below.

The Desperate Lover.

I

O Mighty King of Terrors, come!
Command thy Slave to his long home:
Great Sanctuary, Grave! to thee
In throngs the miserable flie;
Encircled in thy frozen arms,
They bid defiance to their harms,
Regardless of those pond'rous little things,
That discompose th' uneasie heads of Kings.

104

II

In the cold Earth the Pris'ner lies
Ransom'd from all his miseries,
Himself forgotten, he forgets
His cruel Creditors, and Debts;
And there in everlasting peace
Contentions with their Authors cease.
A Turf of Grass or Monument of Stone
Umpires the petty Competition.

III

The disappointed Lover there,
Breaths not a sigh, nor sheds a tear;
With us (fond fools) he never shares
In sad perplexities and cares;
The Willow near his Tomb that grows
Revives his Memory, not his Woes;

105

Or rain, or shine, he is advanc'd above
Th' affronts of Heaven, and stratagems of Love.

IV

Then, mighty King of Terrors, come,
Command thy Slave to his long home.
And thou, my Friend, that lov'st me best,
Seal up these eyes that brake my rest;
Put out the Lights, bespeak my Knell,
And then eternally farewel.
'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give,
That none can force a desperate man to Live.

106

The Fatigue.

A SONG.

Adieu fond World, and all thy Wiles,
Thy haughty frowns, and treacherous smiles,
They that behold thee with my eyes,
Thy double dealing will despise:
From thee, false World, my deadly Foe,
Into some Desart let me go;
Some gloomy melancholy Cave,
Dark and silent as the Grave,
Let me withdraw; where I may be
From thine impertinencies free:
There when I hear the Turtle grone,
How sweetly would I make my mone!
Kind Philomel would teach me there
My sorrows pleasantly to bear:

107

There could I correspond with none
But Heaven, and my own breast alone?

The Resolve.

SONG.

I

Had Phyllis neither Charms, nor Graces
More than the rest of women wear,
Levell'd by Fate with common faces,
Yet Damon could esteem her fair.

II

Good natur'd Love can soon forgive
Those petty injuries of Time,
And all th' affronts of years impute
To her Misfortune, not her Crime.

108

III

Wedlock puts Love upon the Rack,
Makes it confess 'tis still the same
In Icy Age, as it appear'd,
At first when all was lively flame.

IV

If Hymen's slaves, whose ears are boar'd,
Thus constant by compulsion be,
Why should not Choice indear us more
Than them their hard Necessity?

V

Phyllis! 'tis true, thy Glass does run,
But since mine too keeps equal pace,
My silver hairs may trouble thee,
As much as me thy ruin'd Face.

109

VI

Then let us constant be as Heaven,
Whose Laws inviolable are,
Not like those rambling Meteors there
That foretel ills, and disappear.

VII

So shall a pleasing calm attend
Our long uneasie Destiny,
So shall our Loves, and Lives expire
From Storms and Tempests ever free.

110

LOVE's Bravo.

SONG.

Why should we murmur, why repine,
Phyllis, at thy Fate, or mine?
Like Pris'ners, why do we those Fetters shake;
Which neither thou, nor I can break?
There is a better way to baffle Fate,
If Mortals would but mind it,
And 'tis not hard to find it:
Who would be happy, must be desperate;
He must despise those Stars that fright
Only Fools that dread the night;
Time and chance he must out-brave,
He that crouches is their Slave.
Thus the wise Pagans ill at ease,
Bravely chastiz'd their surly Deities.

111

The Expectation.

SONG.

I

Why did I ever see those glorious eyes
My famish'd Soul to Tantalize?
I hop'd for Heav'n, which I had lately seen,
But ne'r perceiv'd the Gulph between:
In vain for bliss did my presumptions seek,
My love so strong
I could not hold my tongue,
My heart so feeble that I durst not speak.

II

Yet why do I my constitution blame,
Since all my heart is out of frame!
'Twere better (sure) my passions to appease,
With hope to palliate my disease:

112

And 'twill be something like Tranquillity,
To hope for that
I must not compass yet,
And make a Vertue of Necessity.

Coridon Converted.

SONG.

I

When Coridon a Slave did lie,
Entangled in his Phyllis Eye,
How did he sigh! how did he grone!
How melancholy was his tone!
He told his Story to the Woods,
And wept his Passion by the Floods;
Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, too too blame,
Regarded not his sufferings, nor his flame.

113

II

Then Coridon resolv'd no more
His Mistris Mercy to implore;
How did he laugh, how did he sing!
How did he make the Forrest ring!
He told his Conquests to the Woods,
And drown'd his passions in the Floods:
Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, less severe
Would have had him, but he would none of her.

The Humourist.

SONG.

I

Good faith I never was but once so mad
To dote upon an idle woman's Face.
And then alass! my fortune was so bad
To see another chosen in my place;

114

And yet I courted her, I'm very sure,
With Love as true as his was, and as pure.

II

But if I ever be so fond again
To undertake the second part of Love,
To reassume that most unmanlike pain,
Or after shipwrack do the Ocean prove;
My Mistris must be gentle, kind, and free,
Or I'le be as indifferent as she.

Fading Beauty.

SONG.

I

As poor Aurelia sate alone,
Hard by a Rivulets flowry side,
Envious at Nature's new-born pride,
Her slighted self, she thus reflected on.

115

II

Alas! that Nature should revive
These flowers, which after Winter's snow
Spring fresh again, and brighter shew,
But for our fairer Sex so ill contrive!

III

Beauty like theirs a short-liv'd thing,
On us in vain she did bestow,
Beauty that only once can grow,
An Autumn has, but knows no second Spring.

116

A DIALOGUE.

Chloris and Parthenissa.

C.
Why dost thou all address deny?
Hard hearted Parthenissa, why?
See how the trembling Lovers come,
That from thy lips expect their doom,

P.
Cloris! I hate them all, they know,
Nay I have often told them so;
Their silly Politicks abhorr'd:
I scorn to make my Slave my Lord:

C.
But Strephon's eyes proclaim his Love
Too brave, tyrannical to prove.

P.
Ah Cloris! when we lose our pow'r
We must obey the Conquerour.

117

C.
Yet where a Gentle Prince bears sway,
It is no bondage to obey.

P.
But if like Nero, for a while,
With arts of kindness he beguile;
How shall the Tyrant be withstood!
When he has writ his Laws in blood!

C.
Love, Parthenissa, all commands,
It fetters Kings in charming bands;
Mars yields his Arms to Cupid's darts,
And Beauty softens savage hearts,

Chorus.

If nothing else can pull the Tyrant down,
Kill him with kindness, and the day's your own.

118

A DIALOGUE.

Orpheus and Eurydice.

Orpheus.
Eurydice , my fair, my fair Eurydice!
My love, my joy, my life, if so thou be
In Pluto's Kingdom answer me; appear
And come to thy poor Orpheus.—

Eur.
Oh I hear,
I hear, dear Orpheus, but I cannot come
Beyond the bounds of dull Elysium.
I cannot—

Or.
And why wilt thou not draw near?
Is there within these Courts a Shade so dear
As he that calls thee?

Eur.
No, there cannot be

119

A thing so lovely in mine eyes as thee.

Orph.
Why comes not then Eurydice?

Eur.
The Fates,
The Fates forbid, and these eternal Gates
Never unbarr'd, to let a Pris'ner go,
Deny me passage; nay, grim Cerberus too
Stands at the door—

Orph.
But cannot then
They that o're Lethe go, return agen?

Eur.
Never, oh never!—

Orph.
Sure they may, let's try
If Art can null the Laws of Destiny.
My Lays compacted Thebes, made every Tree
Loosen its roots to caper; come let's see
What thou and I can do.

Chor.

Perchance the throng
Of Ghosts may be enchanted with a Song,
And mov'd to Pity.—

Eur.
Hark the Hinges move.
The Gate's unbarr'd, I come, I come, my Love.

120

Chorus.

'Twas Musick, only Musick, could un-spel
Helpless, undone Eurydice from Hell.

The Batchelors Song.

Like a Dog with a Bottle, fast ty'd to his tail,
Like Vermin in a Trap, or a Thief in a Jail,
Like a Tory in a Bog,
Or an Ape with a Clog:
Such is the man, who when he might go free,
Does his liberty loose,
For a Matrimony noose,
And sells himself into captivity.
The Dog he do's howl, when the Bottle does jog,
The Vermin, the Thief, and the Tory in vain
Of the Trap, of the Jail, of the Quagmire complain.
But welfare poor Pug! for he plays with his Clog;

121

And though he would be rid on't rather than his life,
Yet he lugs it, and he hugs it, as a man does his Wife.

[The Batchelors Song.] The Second Part.

SONG.

How happy a thing were a Wedding
And a Bedding,
If a Man might purchase a Wife
For a twelve month and a day;
But to live with her all a man's life,
For ever and for ay,
Till she grow as gray as a Cat,
Good faith, Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.

122

An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love.

A SONG.

Ye Cats that at midnight spit love at each other,
Who best feel the pangs of a passionate Lover,
I appeal to your scratches, and your tattered furr,
If the business of Love be no more than to Purr.
Old Lady Grimalkin with her Goosberry eyes,
Knew something when a Kitten, for why she was wise;
You find by experience the Love fit's soon o'r,
Puss! Puss! lasts not long, but turns to Cat-whore.
Men ride many Miles,
Cats tread many Tiles,
Both hazard their necks in the Fray,
Only Cats, when they fall
From a House, or a Wall,
Keep their feet, mount their Tails, and away.

123

Advice to an Old Man of sixty three, about to Marry a Girl of sixteen.

SONG.

I

Now fie upon him! what is Man,
Whose life at best is but a span?
When to an Inch it dwindles down,
Ice in his bones, Snow on his crown,
That he within his crazy brain,
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
That he, when Harvest comes should plow,
And when 'tis time to reap, go sow,
Who in imagination only strong,
Though twice a Child, can never twice grow young.

II

Nature did those design for Fools,
That sue for work, yet have no Tools.

124

What fellow-feeling can there be
In such a strange disparity?
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
Love dwells not there, but Interest:
Alas Good Man! take thy repose,
Get Ribband for thy Thumbs, and Toes.
Provide thee Flannel, and a sheet of Lead,
Think on thy Coffin, not thy Bridal Bed.

The SLIGHT.

SONG.

I

I did but crave that I might kiss,
If not her Lip, at least her Hand,
The coolest Lover's frequent bliss,
And rude is she that will withstand

125

That inoffensive liberty:
She (would you think it?) in a fume
Turn'd her about and left the Room;
Not she, she vow'd, not she.

II

Well Chariessa then said I,
If it must thus for ever be,
I can renounce my slavery,
And since you will not, can be free,
(Many a time she made me die,)
Yet (would you think't?) I lov'd the more,
But I'le not tak't as heretofore,
Not I, I'le vow, not I.

126

The PENITENT.

SONG.

I

Had I but known some years ago
What wretched Lovers undergo,
The tempests and the storms that rise
From their Beloved's dangerous eyes,
With how much torment they endure
That Ague, and that Calenture;
Long since I had my error seen,
Long since repented of my sin:
Too late the Soldier dreads the Trumpets sound
That newly has receiv'd his mortal wound.

II

But so adventurous was I
My Fortunes all alone to try,
Needs must I kiss the burning light,
Because it shin'd, because 'twas bright,

127

My heart with youthful heat on fire,
I thought some God did me inspire;
And that blind zeal emboldned me,
T'attempt Althea's Deity.
Surely those happy Pow'rs that dwell above,
Or never courted, or enjoy'd their love.

The Defiance.

SONG.

I

Be not too proud, imperious Dame,
Your charms are transitory things,
May melt, while you at Heaven aim,
Like Icarus's Waxen Wings;
And you a part in his misfortune bear,
Drown'd in a briny Ocean of despair.

128

II

You think your beauties are above
The Poets Brain, and Painters Hand,
As if upon the Throne of Love
You only should the World command:
Yet know, though you presume your title true,
There are pretenders, that will Rival you.

III

There's an experienc'd Rebel, Time,
And in his Squadrons Poverty;
There's Age that brings along with him
A terrible Artillery:
And if against all these thou keep'st thy Crown,
Th' Usurper Death will make thee lay it down.

129

The Surrender.

SONG.

I yield, I yield! Divine Althæa, see
How prostrate at thy feet I bow,
Fondly in love with my Captivity,
So weak am I, so mighty thou!
Not long ago I could defie,
Arm'd with Wine and Company,
Beauties whole Artillery:
Quite vanquish'd now by thy miraculous Charms,
Here fair, Althæa, take my Arms,
For sure he cannot be of Humane Race,
That can resist so bright, so sweet a Face.

130

The WHIM.

SONG.

I

Why so serious, why so grave?
Man of business, why so muddy?
Thy self from Chance thou canst not save
With all thy care and study.
Look merrily then, and take thy repose;
For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn,
Since the World was as bad before thou wert born,
And when it will mend who knows?
And a thousand year hence 'tis all one,
If thou lay'st on a Dunghill, or sat'st on a Throne.

II

To be troubled, to be sad,
Carking Mortal 'tis a folly,
For a pound of Pleasure's not so bad
As an ounce of Melancholy:

131

Since all our lives long we travel towards Death,
Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way,
'Tis but dying at last; in our Race let us stay,
And we shan't be so soon out of breath.
Sit the Comedy out, and that done,
When the Play's at an end, let the Curtain fall down.

The RENEGADO.

SONG.

I

Remov'd from fair Urania's eyes
Into a Village far away:
Fond Astrophil began to say,
Thy Charms Urania I despise;
Go bid some other Shepherd for thee die,
That never understood thy Tyranny.

II

Return'd at length the amorous Swain,
Soon as he saw his Diety,

132

Ador'd again, and bow'd his knee,
Became her Slave, and wore her Chain.
The Needle thus that motionless did lie,
Trembles, and moves, when the lov'd Loadstone's nigh.

PHYLLIS withdrawn.

I

I did but see her, and she's snatch'd away,
I find I did but happy seem;
So small a while did my contentments stay,
As short and pleasant as a dream:
Yet such are all our satisfactions here,
They raise our hopes, and them they disappear.

II

Ill natur'd Stars, that evermore conspire
To quench poor Strephon's flame,
To stop the progress of his swift desire,
And leave him but an Aëry Name;
Why art thou doom'd (of no pretences proud)
Ixion-like thus to embrace a Cloud?

133

III

Yet why should Strephon murmur, why complain,
Or envy Phyllis her delight,
Why should her pleasures be to him a pain,
Easier perhaps out of his sight?
No, Strephon, no! If Phyllis happy be,
Thou should'st rejoyce, what e'r becomes of Thee.

IV

Amidst the charming Glories of the Spring
In pleasant Fields and goodly Bowers
Indulgent Nature seems concern'd to bring
All that may bless her innocent hours,
While thy disastrous Fate has ty'd thee down
To all the noise and tumult of the Town.

134

V

Strephon that for himself expects no good
To Phyllis wishes every where,
A long serenity without a Cloud,
Sweet as these smiles of th' Infant year.
May Halcyons in her bosom build their Nest,
What ever storms shall discompose my Breast.

The Malecontent.

SONG.

Phyllis , O Phyllis! Thou art fondly vain,
My wavering thoughts thus to molest,
Why should my pleasure be the only pain,
That-must torment my easie breast?
If with Prometheus I had stoll'n fire,
Fire from above,
As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love,
I might deserve Jove's ire,

135

A Vultur then might on my Liver feed,
But now eternally I bleed,
And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame,
Who freely gav'st the Fewel and the Flame.

The Indifferent.

SONG.

Prithee confess for my sake, and your own,
Am I the Man or no?
If I am he, thou can'st not do't too soon,
If not, thou can'st not be too slow.
If Woman cannot love, Man's folly's great
Your Sex with so much zeal to treat;
But if we freely proffer to pursue
Our tender thoughts and spotless love,
Which nothing shall remove,
And you despise all this, pray what are you?

136

The HARBOUR.

SONG.

O tedious hopes! when will the storm be o're!
When will the beaten Vessel reach the shore!
Long have I striv'n with blustring winds and tides,
Clouds o're my head, Waves on my sides!
Which in my dark adventures high did swell,
While Heaven was black as Hell,
O Love, tempestuous Love, yet, yet at last,
Let me my Anchor cast,
And for the troubles I have undergone,
O bring me to a Port which I may call my own.

137

The Unconcerned.

SONG.

Now that the World is all in a maze,
Drums, and Trumpets rending Heav'ns,
Wounds a bleeding, Mortals dying,
Widows and Orphans piteously crying;
Armies marching, Towns in a blaze,
Kingdoms and States at sixes and sevens:
What should an honest Fellow do,
Whose courage, and fortunes run equally low!
Let him live, say I, till his glass be run,
As easily as he may;
Let the Wine, and the Sand of his Glass slow together,
For Life's but a Winters day.
Alas from Sun to Sun,
The time's very short, very dirty the weather,
And we silently creep away,
Let him nothing do, he could wish undone;
And keep himself safe from the noise of Gun.

138

The Immovable.

SONG.

I

What though the Skie be clouded o're,
And Heav'ns influence smile no more?
Though Tempests rise, and Earthquakes make
The giddy World's foundation shake?
A gallant breast contemns the feeble blow
Of angry Gods, and scorns what Fate can do.

II

What if Alarms sounded be,
And we must face our Enemy,
If Cannons bellow out a death,
Or Trumpets woo away our breath!
'Tis brave amidst the glittering Throng to die,
Nay, Sampson-like, to fall with Company.

139

III

Then let the Swordman domineer,
I can, nor Pike, nor Musket fear;
Clog me with Chains, your envies tire,
For when I will, I can expire;
And when the puling fit of Life is gone,
The worst that cruel man can do, is done.

The WISH.

SONG.

I

Not to the Hills where Cedars move
Their cloudy head, not to the Grove
Of Myrtles in th' Elysian shade,
Nor Tempe which the Poets made;

140

Not on the spicy Mountains play;
Or travel to Arabia:
I aim not at the careful Throne,
Which Fortune's darlings sit upon;
No, no, the best this fickle world can give,
Has but a little, little time to live,

II

But let me soar, O let me flie
Beyond poor Earths benighted eye,
Beyond the pitch swift Eagles towre,
Above the reach of humane Power;
Above the Stars, above the way,
Whence Phœbus darts his piercing Ray.
O let me tread those Courts that are,
So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,
As neither thou, nor I must ever know
On Earth, 'tis thither, thither would I go.

141

The CORDIAL.

SONG.

In the Year 1657.

I.

Did you hear of the News (O the News) how it thunders!
Do but see, how the block-headed Multitude wonders!
One fumes, and stamps, and stares to think upon
What others wish as fast, Confusion.
One swears w'are gone, another just agoing,
While a third sits and cries,
'Till his half-blinded eyes,
Call him pitiful Rogue for so doing.
Let the tone be what 'twill that the mighty Ones utter,
Let the cause be what 'twill why the poorer sort mutter;
I care not what your State-confounders do,
Nor what the stout repiners undergo:

142

I cannot whine at any alterations.
Let the Swede beat the Dane,
Or be beaten again,
What am I in the Croud of the Nations?

II.

What care I if the North and South Poles come together;
If the Turk, or the Pope's Antichristian, or neither;
If fine Astræa be (as Naso said)
From Mortals in a peevish fancy fled:
Rome, when 'twas all on fire, her People mourning,
'Twas an Emperour could stand
With his Harp in his hand,
Sing and play, while the City was burning.

143

Celadon on Delia singing.

O Delia! for I know 'tis she,
It must be she, for nothing less could move
My tuneless heart, than something from above.
I hate all earthly Harmony:
Hark, hark ye Nymphs, and Satyrs all around!
Hark how the bafled Eccho faints; see how she dies,
Look how the winged Choir all gasping lies
At the melodious sound;
See, while she sings
How they droop and hang their wings!
Angelick Delia, sing no more,
Thy Song's too great for mortal ear;
Thy charming Notes we can no longer bear:
O then in pity to the World give o're,
And leave us stupid as we were before.

144

Fair Delia take the fatal choice,
Or veil thy beauty, or suppress thy Voice.

His passion thus poor Celadon betray'd,
When first he saw, when first he heard the lovely Maid.

The Advice.

SONG.

I

Poor Celia once was very fair,
A quick bewitching Eye she had,
Most neatly look'd her braided hair,
Her dainty Cheeks would make you mad,
Upon her Lip did all the Graces play,
And on her Breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.

145

II

Then many a doting Lover came
From seventeen till twenty one,
Each told her of his mighty flame,
But she (forsooth) affected none.
One was not handsome, t'other was not fine,
This of Tobacco smelt, and that of Wine.

III

But t'other day it was my Fate,
To walk along that way alone,
I saw no Coach before her Gate,
But at the Door I heard her mone:
She dropt a tear, and sighing, seem'd to say,
Young Ladies marry, marry while you may!

146

TO Mr. SAM. AUSTIN Of Wadham Coll. OXON,

On his most unintelligible Poems.

SIR,

In that small inch of time I stole, to look
On th' obscure depths of your mysterious Book,
(Heav'n bless my eye-sight!) what strains did I see!
What Steropegeretick Poetry!
What Hieroglyphick words, what all,
In Letters more than Cabalistical!
We with our fingers may your Verses scan,
But all our Noddles understand them can
No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand
That in Queen's Colledge Library does stand.
The cutting Hanger of your wit I can't see,
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:

147

Thus a black Velvet Casket hides a Jewel;
And a dark woodhouse, wholesom winter Fuel;
Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,
By boxing up his new-found Rarities;
We dread Actæons Fate, dare not look on,
When you do scowre your skin in Helicon;
We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall
Of your strong-Mortar'd Poems; nor can all
The small shot of our Brains make one hole in
The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win.
Open your meanings door, O do not lock it!
Undo the Buttons of your smaller Pocket,
And charitably spend those Angels there,
Let them enrich and actuate our Sphere.
Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us,
Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.
Had you but stoln your Verses, then we might
Hope in good time they would have come to light;
And felt I not a strange Poetick heat
Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,

148

Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em,
Because they're things Quibus lumen ademptum.

I thought to have commended something there,
But all exceeds my commendations far:
I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,
And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare.
Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus,
You merit more than our praise: as for us
The Beetles of our Rhimes shall drive full fast in,
The wedges of your worth to everlasting,
My Much Apocalyptiqu' friend Sam. Austin.

The Devils hand-writing in Queen's Coll. Library at Oxford.

149

TO MY Ingenious Friend Mr. WILLIAM FAITHORN

On his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving.

Should I attempt an Elogy, or Frame
A Paper-structure to secure thy name,
The lightning of one Censure, one stern frown
Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown,
But this thy Book prevents that fruitless pain.
One line speaks purelier Thee, than my best strain.
Those Mysteries (once like the spiteful mold,
Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his Gold.)
Thou dost unfold in every friendly Page,
Kind to the present, and succeeding age.
That Hand, whose curious Art prolongs the date
Of frail Mortality, and baffles Fate

150

With Brass and Steel, can surely potent be,
To rear a lasting Monument for thee:
For my part I prefer (to guard the Dead)
A Copper-Plate beyond a Sheet of Lead.
So long as Brass, so long as Books endure,
So long as neat-wrought Pieces, Thou 'rt secure.
A [Faithorn sculpsit] is a charm can save
From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave.

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de MONTLUC.

To the Worthy Translator, CHARLES COTTON, Esq;

He that would aptly write of warlike men,
Should make his Ink of Blood, a Sword his Pen;
At least he must their Memories abuse,
Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse:
All (Sir) that I could say of this great Theme
(The brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem;

151

Whose Laurels too much native verdure have
To need the Praises vulgar Chaplets crave:
His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do,
Grappled with Enemies, and Oblivion too;
Hew'd his own Monument, and grav'd thereon,
It's deep and durable inscription.
To you (Sir) whom the valiant Author owes,
His second Life, and Conquest o're his Foes;
Ill natur'd Foes, Time and Detraction,
What is a Stranger's Contribution!
Who has not such a share of vanity,
To dream that one, who with such industry
Obliges all the World, can be oblig'd by me.

152

A Character of a BELLY-GOD

Catius and Horace.
Horace.
Whence Brother Case, and whither bound so fast?

Ca.
O, Sir, you must excuse me, I'm in hast,
I dine with my (Lord Mayor) and can't allow
Time for our eating Directory now:
Though I must needs confess, I think my Rules
Would prove Pythagoras and Plato Fools.

Hor.
Grave Sir, I must acknowledge, 'tis a crime
To interrupt at such a nick of time;
Yet stay a little Sir, it is no Sin;
You're to say Grace ere Dinner can begin;
Since you at food such Virtuoso are,
Some Precepts to an hungry Poet spare.

153

Ca.
I grant you Sir, next pleasure ta'n in eating
Is that (as we do call it) of repeating;
I still have Kitchin Systems in my mind,
And from my Stomach's fumes a Brain well lin'd.

Hor.
Whence, pray Sir, learnt you those ingenuous Arts,
From one at home, or hir'd from foreign parts?

Ca.
No names Sir (I beseech you,) that's foul play,
We ne'r name Authors, only what they say.

1.

‘For Eggs chuse long, the round are out of fashion,
‘Unsavoury and distasteful to the Nation:
‘E're since the brooding Rump, they're addle too,
‘In the long Egg lyes Cock a doodle-doo.

2.

‘Chuse Coleworts planted on a soil that's dry,
‘Even they are worse for th' wetting (verily.)

3.

‘If Friend from far shall come to visit, then
‘Say thou wouldst treat the Wight with mortal Hen,
‘Do n't thou forthwith pluck off the cackling head,
‘And impale Corps on Spit as soon as dead;
‘For so she will be tough beyond all measure,
‘And Friend shall make a trouble of a pleasure.

154

‘Steept in good Wine let her her life surrender,
‘O then she'l eat most admirably tender.

4.

‘Mushromes that grow in meadows are the best;
‘For ought I know, there's Poyson in the rest.

5.

‘He that would many happy Summers see,
‘Let him eat Mulberries fresh off the Tree,
‘Gather'd before the Sun's too high, for these
‘Shall hurt his Stomach less than Cheshire Cheese.

6.

‘Aufidius (had you done so't had undon ye)
‘Sweetned his morning's draughts of Sack with Honey;
‘But he did ill, to empty veins to give
‘Corroding Potion for a Lenitive.

7.

‘If any man to drink do thee inveigle in,
‘First wet thy whistle with some good Metheglin.

8.

‘If thou art bound, and in continual doubt,
‘Thou shalt get in no more till some get out,
‘The Muscle or the Cockle will unlock
‘Thy Bodies trunk, and give a vent to nock.
‘Some say that Sorrel steept in Wine will do
‘But to be sure, put in some Aloes too.

155

9.

‘All shell-fish (with the growing Moon increast)
‘Are ever, when she fills her Orb, the best:
‘But for brave Oysters, Sir, exceeding rare,
‘They are not to be met with every where.
‘Your Wain-fleet Oysters no man will prefer
‘Before the juicy Grass-green Colchester.
‘Hungerford Crawfish, match me, if you can,
‘There's no such Crawlers in the Ocean.

10.

‘Next for your Suppers, you (it may be think)
‘There go's no more to't, but just eat and drink;
‘But let me tell you Sir, and tell you plain,
‘To dress 'em well requires a man of brain:
‘His Palate must be quick, and smart, and strong,
‘For Sauce, a very Critick in the Tongue.

11.

‘He that pays dear for Fish, nay though the best,
‘May please his Fishmonger, more than his Guest,
‘If he be ignorant what sawce is proper,
‘There's Machiavel in th' Menage of a Supper.

12.

‘For Swines-flesh, give me that of the Wild Boar,
‘Pursu'd and hunted all the Forrest o're;

156

‘He to the liberal Oke ne're quits his love,
‘And when he finds no Acorns, grunts at Jove.
‘The Hampshire Hog with Pease & Whey that's fed
‘Sty'd up, is neither good alive nor dead.

13.

‘The tendrels of the Vine are Sallads good,
‘If when they are in season understood.

14.

‘If Servants to thy Board a Rabbet bring,
‘Be wise, and in the first place carve a Wing.

15.

‘When Fish and Fowl are right, and at just age,
‘A Feeders curiosity t' asswage,
‘If any ask, who found the Mystery?
‘Let him enquire no further, I am he.

16.

‘Some fancy Bread out of the Oven hot:
‘Variety's the Glutton's happiest lot.

17.

‘It's not enough the wine you have be pure,
‘But of your Oyl as well you ought be sure.

18.

‘If any fault be in the generous Wine,
‘Set it abroad all night, and 'twill refine,
‘But never strein't, nor let it pass through Linen,
‘Wine will be worse for that, as well as Women.

157

19.

‘The Vintner that of Malaga and Sherry
‘With damn'd ingredients patcheth up Canary,
‘With segregative things, as Pigeons eggs,
‘Strait purifies, and takes away the dregs.

20.

‘An o're-charg'd Stomach roasted shrimps will ease,
‘The Cure by Lettuce is worse than the Disease.

21.

‘To quicken Appetite it will behove ye
‘To feed couragiously on good Anchovie.

22

‘Westphalia Ham, and the Bolognia Sawsage,
‘For second or third course will clear a passage,
‘But Lettuce after Meals! fie on't, the Glutton
‘Had better feed upon Ram-ally-Mutton.

23.

‘Twere worth one's while in Palace or in Cottage,
‘Right well to know the sundry sorts of Pottage;
‘There is your French Pottage, Nativity broth,
‘Yet that of Fetter-lane exceeds them both;
‘About a limb of a departed Tup
‘There may you see the green herbs boyling up,

158

‘And fat abundance o're the furnace float,
‘Resembling Whale-Oyl in a Greenland Boat.

24.

‘The Kentish Pippin's best, I dare be bold,
‘That ever Blew-Cap Costard-monger sold.

25.

‘Of Grapes, I like the Raisins of the Sun.
‘I was the First immortal Glory won,
‘By mincing Pickled Herrings, with these Raisin
‘And Apples; 'Twas I set the world a gazing,
‘When once they tasted of this Hogan Fish,
‘Pepper and Salt enamelling the Dish.

26.

‘'Tis ill to purchase great Fish with great matter,
‘And then to serve it up in scanty Platter;
‘Nor is it less unseemly some believe,
‘From Boy with greasie fist drink to receive,
‘But the Cup foul within's enough to make
‘A squeamish creature puke and turn up stomach.

27.

‘Then Brooms and Napkins and the Flanders Tyle,
‘These must be had too, or the Feast you spoil,

156

‘Things little thought on, and not very dear,
‘And yet how much they cost one in a year!

28.

‘Would'st thou rub Alabaster with hands sable,
‘Or spread a Diaper Cloth on dirty Table?
‘More cost, more worship: Come: be a la mode
‘Embellish Treat, as thou would do an Ode.

Hor.
O learned Sir, how greedily I hear
This elegant Diatriba of good chear!
Now by' all that's good, by all provant you love,
By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove;
I do conjure thy gravity, let me see
The man that made thee this Discovery;
For he that sees th' Original's more happy
Than him that draws by an ill-favour'd Copy,
O bring me to the man, I so admire!
The Flint from whence brake forth these sparks of fire,
What satisfaction would the Vision bring?
If sweet the stream, much sweeter is the spring.

160

The Disappointed.

Pindarique ODE.

Stanza I.

Oft have I ponder'd in my pensive heart,
When even from my self I've stol'n away,
And heavily consider'd many a day,
The cause of all my anguish, and my smart:
Sometimes besides a shady grove,
(As dark as were my thoughts, as close as was my Love,)
Dejected have I walk'd alone,
Acquainting scarce my self with my own moan.
Once I resolv'd undauntedly to hear,
What 'twas my Passions had to say,
To find the reason of that uproar there,
And calmly, if I could, to end the fray:
No sooner was my resolution known
But I was all Confusion.

161

Fierce Anger, flattering Hope, and black Despair,
Bloody Revenge, and most ignoble Fear,
Now altogether clamorous were;
My breast a perfect Chaos grown,
A mass of nameless things together hurl'd,
Like th' formless Embrio of the unborn world,
Just as it's rouzing from eternal night,
Before the great Creator said, Let there be Light.

II.

Thrice happy then are beasts, said I,
That underneath these pleasant Coverts lie,
They only sleep, and eat, and drink,
They never meditate, nor think;
Or if they do, have not th' unhappy art.
To vent the overflowings of their heart;
They without trouble live, without disorder, die
Regardless of Eternity.
I said, I would like them be wise,
And not perplex my self in vain,
Nor bite th' uneasie Chain,

162

No, no, said I, I will Philosophize!
And all th' ill-natur'd World despise:
But when I had reflected long,
And with deliberation thought
How few have practis'd, what they gravely taught
(Tho' 'tis but folly to complain)
I judg'd it worth a generous disdain,
And brave defiance in Pindarique Song.

ON Mrs. E. MONTAGUE's Blushing in the Cross-Bath.

A Translation.

I.

Amidst the Nymphs (the glory of the flood)
Thus once the beauteous Ægle stood,
So sweet a tincture ere the Sun appears,
The bashful ruddy morning wears:

163

Thus through a Crystal wave the Coral glows,
And such a Blush sits on the Virgin Rose.

II.

Ye envied Waters that with safety may
Around her snowy Bosom play,
Cherish with gentle heat that Noble Brest
Which so much Innocence has blest,
Such Innocence, as hitherto ne'r knew
What Mischief Venus, or her Son could do.
Then from this hallow'd place
Let the profane and wanton Eye withdraw,
For Virtue clad in Scarlet strikes an aw
From the Tribunal of a lovely Face.

Il Infido.

I

I breath 'tis true, wretch that I am, 'tis true;
But if to live, be only not to die;
If nothing in that bubble Life be gay,
But all t'a Tear must melt away;

164

Let Fools and Stoicks be cajol'd, say I:
Thou that lik'st Ease and Love, like me
When once the world says, farewel both, to thee,
What hast thou more to do
Than in disdain to say, Thou foolish world, Adieu!

II

There was a time, Fool that I was! when I
Believ'd there might be something here below,
A seeming Cordial to my drooping Heart
That might allay my bitter smart:
I call'd it Friend:—but O th' Inconstancy
Of humane things! I try'd it long,
It's Love was fervent, and I fanci'd strong:
But now I plainly see,
Or 'tis withdrawn, or else 'twas all Hypocrisie.

III

I saw thy much estranged eyes, I saw
False Musidore thy formal alter'd Face,
When thou betray'dst my seeming happiness,

165

And coldly took'st my kind Address:
But know that I will live; for in thy place
Heaven has provided for me now
A constant Friend, that dares not break a vow,
That Friend will I embrace,
And never more my overweening Love misplace.

Il Immaturo.

EPITAPH.

Brave Youth, whose too too hasty Fate
His Glories did anticipate,
Whose active Soul had laid the great design
To emulate those Heroes of his Line!
He shew'd the world how great a Man
Might be contracted to a Span;
How soon our teeming expectations fail,
How little tears and wishes can prevail:
Could life hold out with these supplies
He'd liv'd still in his Parents eyes,
And this cold stone had ne'r said, Here he lies.

166

ON Mrs. Dove, Wife to the Reverend Dr. Henry Dove.

EPITAPH.

Tis thus—and thus farewel to all
Vain Mortals do Perfection call;
To Beauty, Goodness, Modesty,
Sweet temper, and true Piety.
The rest an Angels Pen must tell;
Long, Long, beloved Dust farewel.
Those blessings which we highliest prize
Are soonest ravish't from our Eyes.

Lucretius.
167

Paraphrased.

When thou shalt leave this miserable life,
Farewel thy house, farewel thy charming Wife,
Farewel for ever to thy Souls delight,
Quite blotted out in everlasting night!
No more thy pretty darling Babes shall greet thee
By thy kind Name, nor strive who first shall meet thee.
Their Kisses with a secret pleasure shall not move thee!
For who shall say to thy dead Clay, I love thee!

168

On the Eminent Dr. EDWARD BROWN'S TRAVELS.

Thus from a foreign Clime rich Merchants come,
And thus unlade their Rarities at home:
Thus, undergo an acceptable toil,
With Treasures to enrich their native Soil.
They for themselves, for others you unfold
A Cargo swoln with Diamonds and Gold.
With Indefatigable Travels, they
The trading World; the Learned you survey;
And for renown with great Columbus vie,
In subterranean Cosmography.

169

ON POVERTY.

I

O poverty! thou great & wise-man's School!
Mistris of Arts! and scandal to the Fool!
Heav'ns sacred Badge, which th' Heroes heretofore,
(Bright Caravans of Saints and Martyrs) wore,
To th' Host Triumphant valiant Souls are sent
From those we call the Ragged Regiment:
Sure Guide to everlasting Peace above,
Thou do'st th' impediments remove;
Th' unnecessary Loads of Wealth and State,
Which make men swell too big for the strait Gate.

II

Thou happy Port, where we from storms are free,
And need not fear (false world) thy Pyracy.

170

Hither for ease and shelter did retire
The busie Charles, and wearied Casimire;
Abjur'd their Thrones, and made a solemn Vow,
Their radiant heads to thee should ever bow.
Why should thy Tents so terrible appear
Where Monarchs Reformadoes were?
Why should men call that state of Life forlorn,
Which God approves of, and which Kings have born?

III

Mad Luxury! what do thy Vassals reap
From a Life's long debauch, but late to weep!
What the curs'd Miser, who would fain Ape thee,
And wear thy Livery, Great Poverty!
The prudent Wretch for future Ages cares,
And hoards up sins for his impatient Heirs!
Full little do's he think the time will come
When he is gone to his long Home,
The Prodigal Youth for whom he took such pains
Shall be thy Slave and wear thy loathed Chains.

171

IV

Fair handmaid to Devotion, by whose aid,
Our souls are all disrob'd, all naked laid,
In thy true Mirror men themselves do see
Just what they are, not what they seem to be.
The flattering World misrepresents our face,
And cheats us with a Magnifying-Glass,
Our meanness nothing else does truly show,
But only Death, but only Thou,
Who teach our minds above this Earth to fly,
And pant, and breath for Immortality.

Urania to her Friend Parthenissa.

A DREAM.

In a soft Vision of the night,
My Fancy represented to my sight
A goodly gentle Shade;

172

Methought it mov'd with a Majestick Grace,
But the surprizing sweetness of it's Face
Made me amaz'd, made me afraid:
I found a secret shivering in my heart,
Such as Friends feel that Meet or Part:
Approaching nearer with a timerous eye,
Is then my Parthenissa Dead, said I?
Ah Parthenissa! if thou yet are kind,
As kind as when like me, Thou mortal wert,
When thou, and I had equal share in either's heart,
How canst thou bear that I am left behind!
Dear Parthenissa! O those pleasant hours,
That blest our innocent Amours!
When in the common Treasury of one Breast,
All that was Thine or Mine did rest.
Dear Parthenissa!—Friend! what shall I say?
Ah speak to thy Urania!
O envious Death! nothing but thee I fear'd,
No other Rival could estrange
Her Soul from mine or make a Change.

173

Scarce had I spoke my passionate fears,
And overwhelm'd my self in tears:
But Parthenissa smil'd, and then she disappear'd.

On the Death of the Earl of ROCHESTER.

Pastoral.

I

A Son his death-bed gasping Strephon lay,
Strephon the wonder of the Plains,
The noblest of th' Arcadian Swains;
Strephon the Bold, the Witty, and the Gay:
With many a sigh and many a tear he said,
Remember me, ye Shepherds, when I'm dead.

II

Ye trifling Glories of this world, Adieu,
And vain applauses of the Age;
For when we quit this Earthly Stage,
Believe me, Shepherds, for I tell you true;

174

Those pleasures which from virtuous deeds we have,
Procure the sweetest slumbers in the Grave.

III

Then since your fatal Hour must surely come,
Surely your heads lie low as mine,
Your bright Meridian Sun decline;
Beseech the mighty Pan to guard you home,
If to Elyzium you would happy flie,
Live not like Strephon, but like Strephon die.

176

ON DR. WOODFORD'S PARAPHRASE ON THE CANTICLES.

I

Well! since it must be, so let it be,
For what do Resolutions signifie,
When we are urg'd to write by Destiny?

II

I had resolv'd, nay, and I almost swore,
My bedrid Muse should walk abroad no more:
Alas! 'tis more than time that I give o're.

III

In the Recesses of a private Breast,
I thought to entertain your charming Guest,
And never to have boasted of my Feast.

177

IV

But see (my friend) when through the world you go,
My Laquy-Verse must shadow-like pursue,
Thin, and Obscure to make a Foil for you.

V

'Tis true, you cannot need my feeble Praise,
A lasting Monument to your Name to raise,
Well-known in Heav'n by your Angeliqu' Lays.

VI

There in indelible Characters they are writ,
Where no pretended Heights will easie sit,
But those of serious consecrated Wit.

VII

By immaterial defecated Love,
Your Soul its Heavenly Origin do's prove,
And in least dangerous Raptures soars above.

VIII

How could I wish (dear Friend!) unsaid agen
(For once I rank'd my self with tuneful men)
Whatever dropt from my unhallowed Pen!

178

VIII

The trifling Rage of youthful heat, once past,
Who is not troubled for his wit misplac'd!
All pleasant Follies breed regret at last.

X

While Reverend Donn's, and noble Herbert's Flame
A glorious immortality shall claim,
In the most durable Records of Fame,

XI

Our modish Rhimes, like Culinary Fire,
Unctuous and Earthy, shall in smoak expire;
In odorous Clouds your Incense shall aspire.

VII

Let th' Pagan-world your pious verse defie,
Yet shall they envy when they come to die,
Your wiser Projects on Eternity.

179

LAODAMIA to PROTESILAUS.

ONE OF OVID'S Epistles Translated.

The ARGUMENT.

Protesilaus lying Windbound at Aulis, in the Grecian Fleet, design'd for the Trojan War, his Wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to him.

Health to the gentle Man of War, and may
What Laodamia sends, the Gods convey.
The Wind that still in Aulis holds my Dear,
Why was it not so cross to keep him here?
Let the Wind raise an Hurricane at Sea,
Were he but safe and warm ashore with me.
Ten thousand kisses I had more to give him,
Ten thousand cautions, and soft words to leave him:

180

In hast he left me, summon'd by the Wind,
(The Wind to barbarous Mariners only kind.)
The Seamans pleasure is the Lovers pain,
(Protesilaus from my bosome tane!)
As from my faultering tongue half speeches fell,
Scarce could I speak that wounding word Farewell,
A merry Gale (at Sea they call it so)
Fill'd every Sail with joy, my brest with wo,
There went my dear Protesilaus—
While I could see Thee, full of eager pain,
My greedy eyes epicuriz'd on Thine,
When Thee no more, but thy spread Sails I view,
I lookt, and lookt, till I had lost them too;
But when nor Thee, nor them I could descry,
And all was Sea that came within my eye,
They say (for I have quite forgot) they say
I strait grew pale, and fainted quite away;
Compassionate Iphiclus, and the good old man,
My Mother too to my assistance ran;

181

In hast cold water on my Face they threw,
And brought me to my self with much ado.
They meant it well, to me it seem'd not so,
Much kinder had they been to let me go;
My anguish with my Soul together came,
And in my heart burst out the former flame:
Since which, my uncomb'd locks unheeded flow,
Undrest, forlorn, I care not how I go;
Inspir'd with Wine, thus Bacchus frolick rout
Stagger'd of old, and straggled all about.
Put on, put on, the happy Ladies say,
Thy Royal Robes, fair Laodamia.
Alas! before Troys Walls my Dear does lie,
What pleasure can I take in Tyrian die?
Shall Curls adorn my head, an Helmet thine?
I in bright Tissues, thou in Armour shine?
Rather with studied negligence I'll be
As ill, if not disguised worse than thee.

O Paris! rais'd by ruins! may'st thou prove
As fatal in thy War, as in thy Love!

182

O that the Grecian Dame had been less fair,
Or thou less lovely hadst appear'd to Her!
O Menelaus! timely cease to strive,
With how much blood wilt thou thy loss retrieve?
From me, ye Gods, avert your heavy doom,
And bring my Dear, laden with Laurels home:
But my heart fails me, when I think of War,
The sad reflection costs me many a tear:
I tremble when I hear the very name
Of every place where thou shalt fight for fame;
Besides th' adventurous Ravisher well knew
The safest Arts his Villany to pursue;
In noble dress he did her heart surprize,
With gold he dazled her unguarded Eyes,
He backt his Rape with Ships and armed Men,
Thus storm'd, thus took the beauteous Fortress in.
Against the power of Love and force of Arms
There's no security in the brightest Charms.

Hector I fear, much do I Hector fear,
A Man (they say) experienc'd in War,

183

My Dear, if thou hast any love for me,
Of that same Hector prithee mindful be;
Fly him be sure, and every other Foe,
Lest each of them should prove an Hector too.
Remember, when for fight thou shalt prepare,
Thy Laodamia charg'd thee, Have a care;
For what wounds thou receiv'st, are giv'n to her.
If by thy valour Troy must ruin'd be,
May not the ruin leave one Scar on thee;
Sharer in th' honour, from the danger free!
Let Menelaus fight, and force his way
Through the false Ravishers Troops t' his Helena.
Great be his Victory, as his Cause is good.
May he swim to her in his Enemies Blood.
Thy Case is different.—may'st thou live to see
(Dearest) no other Combatant but me!

Ye generous Trojans, turn your Swords away
From his dear Breast, find out a nobler Prey,
Why should you harmless Laodamia slay?

184

My poor good natur'd Man did never know
What 'tis to fight, or how to face a Foe;
Yet in Loves Field what wonders can he do?
Great is his Prowess and his Fortune too;
Let them go fight, who know not how to woo.

Now I must own, I fear'd to let thee go,
My trembling Lips had almost told thee so.
When from thy Father's house thou didst withdraw,
Thy fatal stumble at the door I saw,
I saw it, sigh'd, and pray'd the sign might be
Of thy return a happy Prophecy!
I cannot but acquaint thee with my fear,
Be not too brave,—Remember,—Have a care,
And all my dreads will vanish into Air.

Among the Grecians some one must be found
That first shall set his foot on Trojan ground;
Unhappy she that shall his loss bewail,
Grant, O ye Gods, thy courage then may fail.

Of all the Ships be thine the very last,
Thou the last Man that lands; there needs no hast

185

To meet a potent, and a treacherous Foe;
Thou'lt land I fear too soon, tho' ne'r so slow.
At thy Return ply every Sail and Oar,
And nimbly leap on thy deserted shore.

All the day long, and all the lonely night,
Black thoughts of thee my anxious Soul affright:
Darkness, to other Womens pleasures kind,
Augments, like Hell, the torments of my mind.
I court e'en Dreams, on my forsaken Bed,
False Joys must serve, since all my true are fled.
What's that same aiery Phantom so like thee!
What wailings do I hear, what paleness see?
I wake, and hug my self, 'tis but a Dream.—
The Grecian Altars know I feed their flame,
The want of hallow'd Wine my tears supply,
Which make the sacred fire burn bright and high.

When shall I clasp thee in these Arms of mine,
These longing Arms, and lie dissolv'd in thine?
When shall I have thee by thy self alone,
To learn the wondrous Actions thou hast done?

186

Which when in rapturous words thou hast begun
With many, and many a kiss, prithee tell on,
Such interruptions grateful pauses are,
A Kiss in Story's but an Halt in War.

But, when I think of Troy, of winds and waves,
I fear the pleasant dream my hope deceives:
Contrary winds in Port detain thee too,
In spight of wind and tide why wouldst thou go?
Thus, to thy Country thou wouldst hardly come,
In spight of wind and tide thou went'st from home.
To his own City Neptune stops the way,
Revere the Omen, and the Gods obey.
Return ye furious Grecians, homeward fly,
Your stay is not of Chance, but Destiny:
How can your Arms expect desir'd success,
That thus contend for an Adulteress?
But, let not me forespeak you, no,—set Sail,
And Heav'n befriend you with a prosperous gale!

Ye Trojans! with regret methinks I see
Your first encounter with your Enemy;

187

I see fair Helen put on all her Charms,
To buckle on her lusty Bridegroom's Arms;
She gives him Arms, and kisses she receives,
(I hate the transports each to other gives.)
She leads him forth, and she commands him come
Safely victorious, and triumphant home;
And he (no doubt) will make no nice delay,
But diligently do what e're she say.
Now he returns!—see with what amorous speed
She takes the pond'rous Helmet from his head,
And courts the weary Champion to her Bed.

We Women, too too credulous alas!
Think what we fear will surely come to pass.
Yet, while before the Leaguer thou dost lie,
Thy Picture is some pleasure to my Eye;
That, I caress in words most kind and free,
And lodge it on my Breast, as I would Thee.
There must be something in it more than Art,
'Twere very Thee, could it thy mind impart;

188

I kiss the pretty Idol, and complain,
As if (like Thee) 't would answer me again.

By thy return, by thy dear Self, I swear,
By our Loves Vows, which most religious are,
By thy beloved Head, and those gray Hairs
Which time may on it Snow in future years,
I come, where e'r thy Fate shall bid Thee go,
Eternal Partner of thy Weal and Woe,
So thou but live, tho all the Gods say No.
Farewel,—but prethee very careful be
Of thy beloved Self (I mean) of me.

189

TO THE Excellent Master of MUSICK SEIGNIOR PIETRO REGGIO,

On His Book of SONGS.

Tho to advance thy Fame, full well I know
How very little my dull Pen can do;
Yet, with all deference, I gladly wait,
Enthrong'd amongst th' attendants on thy State:
Thus when Arion, by his Friends betray'd,
Upon his Understanding-Dolphin play'd,
The Scaly People their Resentments show'd
By pleas'd Levaltoes on the wondring sloud.

Great Artist! Thou deserv'st our loudest Praise
From th' Garland to the meanest branch of Bays;

190

For Poets can but Say, Thou mak'st them Sing,
And th' Embrio-words dost to Perfection bring;
By us the Muse conceives, but when that's done,
Thy Midwifry makes fit to see the Sun;
Our naked Lines, drest, and adorn'd by Thee,
Assume a Beauty, Pomp, and Bravery;
So awful and majestick they appear,
They need not blush to reach a Prince's ear.
Princes tho to poor Poets seldom kind,
Their Numbers turn'd to Air, with pleasure mind.
Studied and labour'd tho our Poems be
Alas! they die unheeded without Thee,
Whose Art can make our breathless Labours live,
Spirit and everlasting Vigour give.
Whether we write of Heroes and of Kings,
In Mighty Numbers, Mighty Things,
Or in an humble Ode express our Sense
Of th' happy state of Ease and Innocence;
A Country Life where the contented Swain
Hugs his Dear Peace, and does a Crown disdain;

191

Thy dextrous Notes with all our Thoughts comply,
Can creep on Earth, can up to Heaven flie;
In Heights and Cadences, so sweet, so strong.
They suit a Shepherds Reed, an Angels Tongue.
—But who can comprehend
The raptures of thy voice, and miracles of thy hand?

193

ON THE DEATH Of my Dear Brother Mr. RICHARD FLATMAN.

Pindariqu' Ode.

Stanza I.

Unhappy Muse! employ'd so oft
On melancholy thoughts of Death,
What hast Thou left so tender, and so soft
As thy poor Master fain would breath
O're this lamented Herse?
No usual flight of fancy can become
My sorrows o're a Brothers Tomb.
O that I could be elegant in Tears,
That with Conceptions, not unworthy Thee,
Great as Thy merit, Vigorous as Thy years,

194

I might convey Thy Elegy
To th' Grief, and Envy of Posterity!
A gentler Youth ne're Crown'd his Parents cares,
Or added ampler Joy to their grey Hairs:
Kind to his Friends, to his Relations Dear,
Easie to all.—Alas what is there Here
For Man to set his heart upon,
Since what we dote on most, is soonest gone!
Ah me! I've lost a sweet Companion
A Friend, A Brother All in One!

II.

How did it chill my Soul to see thee lie
Strugling with pangs in thy last Agony!
When with a manly courage thou didst brave
Approaching Death, and with a steddy mind
(Ever averse to be confin'd)
Didst triumph o're the Grave.
Thou mad'st no womanish moan,
But scorn'dst to give one groan:

195

He that begs pitty is afraid to Die,
Only the Brave despise their Destiny.
But when I call to mind how thy kind Eyes
Were passionately fixt on mine,
How, when thy faultring Tongue gave o're,
And I could hear thy pleasing Voice no more;
How, when I laid my Cheek to thine,
Kist thy pale lips, and prest thy trembling Hand,
Thou, in return, smil'dst gently in my Face,
And hugg'dst me with a close Embrace;
I am amaz'd, I am unmann'd.
Something extreamly kind I fain would say,
But through the tumult of my Breast,
With too officious Love opprest,
I find my feeble words can never force their way.

III

Beloved Youth! What shall I do!
Once my Delight, my Torment now!
How immaturely art thou snatcht away!
But Heaven shines on thee with many a glorious ray

196

Of an unclouded, and immortal day,
Whilst I lie groveling here below
In a dark stormy Night.
The blustring storm of Life with thee is o're,
For thou art landed on that happy Shore,
Where thou canst Hope, or Fear no more;
Thence with compassion thou shalt see
The Plagues, the Wars, the Fires, the Scarcity,
The Devastations of an Enemy,
From which thy early Fate has set thee free;
For when thou went'st to thy Long home,
Thou wert exempt from all the ills to come,
And shalt hereafter be
Spectator only of the Tragedy
Acted on frail Mortality.
So some one lucky Mariner
From shipwrack sav'd by a propitious Star,
Advanc'd upon a neighb'ring Rock looks down,
And sees far off his old Companions drown.

197

IV.

There in a state of perfect ease,
Of never interrupted happiness,
Thy large illuminated mind
Shall matter of eternal Wonder find;
There dost thou clearly see, how, and from whence
The Stars communicate their influence,
The methods of th' Almighty Architect,
How he consulted with himself alone
To lay the wondrous Corner-stone,
When He this goodly Fabrick did erect.
There, Thou dost understand
The motions of the secret hand,
That guides th' invisible Wheel,
Which here, we ne'r shall know, but ever feel;
There Providence, the vain mans laughing stock,
The miserable good-mans stumbling block,
Unfolds the puzling Riddle to thy eyes,
And it's own wise contrivance justifies.
What timorous Man would n't be pleas'd to die,
To make so noble a discovery?

198

V.

And must I take my solemn leave
Till time shall be no more!
Can neither sighs, nor tears, nor prayers retrieve
One chearful hour!
Must one unlucky moment sever
Us, and our hopes, us and our joys for ever!—
Is this cold Clod of Earth that endear'd Thing
I lately did my Brother call?
Are these the Artful Fingers that might vie
With all the Sons of harmony
And overpower them all!
Is this the studious comprehensive head
With curious Arts so richly furnished!
Alas! Thou, and thy glories all are gone,
Buried in darkness, and oblivion.
'Tis so—and I must follow thee,
Yet but a little while, and I shall see thee,
Yet but a little while I shall be with thee,
Then some kind friend perhaps may drop one tear for me.

199

CORIDON On the death of his dear ALEXIS,

Ob. Jan. 28. 1682/3.

Pastoral SONG.

[_]

Set by Dr. BLOWE.

Alexis! dear Alexis! lovely Boy!
O my Damon! O Palæmon! snatcht away,
To some far-distant Region gone,
Has left the miserable Coridon
Bereft of all his comforts, all alone!
Have you not seen my gentle Lad,
Whom every Swain did love,
Cheerful, when every Swain was sad,
Beneath the melancholy Grove?

200

His face was beauteous as the dawn of day,
Broke through the gloomy shades of night:
O my anguish! my delight!
Him (ye kind Shepherds) I bewail,
Till my eyes, and heart shall fail.
Tis He that's landed on that distant shore,
And you and I, shall see him here no more.
Return Alexis! O return!
Return, return, in vain I cry;
Poor Coridon shall never cease to mourn
Thy too untimely, cruel destiny.
Farewel for ever charming Boy!
And, with Thee, all the transports of my Joy!
Ye powers above, why should I longer live,
To waste a few uncomfortable years,
To drown my self in tears,
For what my sighs, and pray'rs can ne'r retrieve?

201

A SONG ON Newyears-day before the King, Car. 2.

[_]

Set by Dr. BLOWE, 1682/3.

My trembling Song! awake! arise!
And early tell thy tuneful Tale,
Tell thy great Master, that the Night is gone;
The feeble Phantoms disappear,
And now the New-Year's welcom Sun
O'respreads the Eastern Skies;
He smiles on every Hill, he smiles on every Vale.
His glories fill our Hemisphere;
Tell him Apollo greets Him well,
And with his fellow Wanderers agrees
To reward all his labours, and lengthen his days.
In spight of the politick follies of Hell,
And vain contrivance of the destinies.

202

Tell Him, a Crown of Thorns no more
Shall His sacred temples gore,
For all the rigours of His life are o're.
Wondrous Prince! design'd to show
What noble minds can bravely undergo,
You are our wonder, you our love;
Earth from beneath, Heaven from above,
Call loud for Songs of Triumph, and of praise,
Their voices, and their souls they raise;
IO PÆAN do we sing
Long Live, Long Live the King!
Rise mighty Monarch, and ascend the Throne,
'Tis yet, once more your own,
For Lucifer, and all his Legions are o'rthrown:
Son of the Morning, first-born Son of Light,
How wert thou tumbled headlong down,
Into the dungeons of Eternal night
While th' Loyal Stars of the Celestial Quire
Surrounded with immortal beams,
Mingle their unpolluted flames,

203

Their just Creator to admire.
With awful reverence they adore Him,
Cover their faces, and fall down before Him;
And night and day for ever sing
Hosannah, Hallelujah to th' Almighty King!

ON The Kings Return to White-hall, after his Summers Progress, 1684.

SONG.

[_]

Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.

From those serene, and rapturous joys
A Country life alone can give,
Exempt from tumult, and from noise,
Where Kings forget the troubles of their reigns,
And are almost as happy as their humble Swains,
By feeling that they live:

204

Behold th' indulgent Prince is come
To view the Conquests of His mercy shown
To the new Proselytes of His mighty Town,
And men, and Angels bid Him welcome Home;
Not with an Helmet, or a glittring Spear
Do's He appear.
He boast no Trophies of a cruel Conqueror,
Brought back in triumph from a bloudy War;
But with an Olive branch adorn'd,
As once the long expected Dove return'd.
Welcom as soft refreshing show'rs:
That raise the sickly heads of drooping flow'rs:
Welcom as early beams of light
To the benighted Traveller,
When he descries bright Phosphorus from afar,
And all his fears are put to flight.
Welcome, more welcome does He come
Than life to Lazarus from his drousie Tomb,
When in his winding sheet, at his new birth,
The strange surprizing word was said—Come forth!

205

Nor does the Sun more comfort bring,
When he turns Winter into Spring,
Than the blest Advent of a peaceful King.

Chorus.
With Trumpets and Shouts we receive the Worlds Wonder,
And let the Clouds eccho His welcome with thunder,
Such a Thunder as applauded what mortals had done,
When they fixt on His Brows His Imperial Crown.

206

TO Mr. ISAAC WALTON.

On his Publication of THEALMA.

Long had the bright Thealma lain obscure,
Her beauteous charms that might the world allure,
Lay like rough Diamonds, in the Mine, unknown
By all the sons of folly trampled on,
Till your kind hand unveil'd her lovely face,
And gave her vigour to exert her rays:
Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows,
Except thy self, who charitably shows
The ready road to Vertue, and to Praise,
The way to many long, and happy days;
The noble art of generous Piety,
And how to compass an Euthanasie!

207

Hence did he learn the skill of living well,
The bright Thealma was his Oracle;
Inspir'd by Her, he knows no anxious cares
In near a Century of happy years;
Easie he lives, and easie shall he lie
On the soft bosom of Eternity.
As as long Spencers noble flames shall burn,
And deep devotion shall attend his urn;
As long as Chalk-hill's venerable name
With humble emulation shall enflame
Posterity, and fill the Rolls of fame,
Your memory shall ever be secure,
And long beyond our short-liv'd praise endure;
As Phydias in Minerva's shield did live,
And shar'd that immortality he alone could give.

208

Pastoral Dialogue.

CASTARA and PARTHENIA.

Parthenia.
My dear Castara, t'other day
I heard an ancient Shepherd say,
Alas for me! my time draws nigh,
And shortly, shortly I must die!
What meant the man? for lo! apace
Torrents of tears ran down his face.

Castara.
Poor harmless Maid! why wouldst thou know,
What known, must needs create thee woe?
'Twill cloud the Sunshine of thy days,
And in thy soul such trouble raise,
Thou'lt grieve, and tremble, and complain,
And say that all thy beauty's vain.

209

Parthenia.
Ah me! sure 'tis some dreadful thing
That can so great disorder bring,
Yet tell me, prithee tell me, do,
For 'tis some ease the worst to know.

Castara.
To die, (Parthenia) is to quit
The World, and the Suns glorious light,
To leave our flocks, and fields for ever,
To part, and never meet again, O never!
After that cruel hideous hour,
Thou, and I shall sing no more;
In the cold Earth they will thee lay,
And what thou dot'st on shall be Clay.

Parthenia.
Alas! why will they use me so,
A Virgin that no evil do?

210

Castara.
Roses wither, Turtles die,
Fair, and kind as Thou and I.

Chorus amb.
Then, since 'tis appointed to the dust we must go;
Let us innocently live, and vertuously do,
Let us love, let us sing, 'tis no matter, 'tis all one,
If our Lamps be extinguisht at midnight or noon.

211

CASTABELLA Going to Sea.

SONG.

[_]

Set by Mr. JAMES HART.

I

Hark hark! methinks I hear the Seamen call,
The boistrous Seamen say,
Bright Castabella, come away!
The Wind sits fair, the Vessels stout and tall,
Bright Castabella come away!
For Time and Tide can never stay.

II

Our mighty Master Neptune calls aloud,
The Zephyrs gently blow,
The Tritons cry you are too slow,
For every Sea-nymph of the glittering Croud,

212

Has Garlands ready to throw down
When you ascend your watry Throne.

III

See, see! she comes, she comes, and now adieu!
Let's bid adieu to shore,
And to all we fear'd before;
O Castabella! we depend on you,
On you our better fortunes lay,
Whose eyes and voice the winds and Seas obey.

On the Death of my worthy friend Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

Pindarique Pastoral Ode.

Stanza I.

Undoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar fate,
Ah miserable Astragon!
Thou art condemn'd alone
To bear the burthen of a wretched life,

213

Still in this howling wilderness to roam,
Whilst all thy bosom friends unkindly go,
And leave thee to lament them here below.
Thy dear Alexis would n't stay,
Joy of thy life, and pleasure of thine eyes,
Dear Alexis went away,
With an invincible surprise;
Th' angelick Youth early dislik'd this state,
And innocently yielded to his fate;
Never did Soul of a Celestial birth,
Inform a purer piece of Earth:
O! that 'twere not in vain,
To wish what's past might be retriev'd again!
Thy dotage, thy Alexis then
Had answer'd all thy vows and prayers,
And crown'd with pregnant joys thy silver hairs,
Lov'd to this day amongst the living sons of men.

214

II.

And thou, my friend, hast left me too,
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even Thou!
Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke
In the Records of her eternal book,
Whose disregarded worth, ages to come,
Shall wail with indignation o're thy Tomb.
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice,
Should need a Satyr, that the frantick Age
Might tremble at the lash of thy Poëtick rage.
Th' untutour'd world in after times
May live uncensur'd for their crimes,
Freed from the dreads of thy reforming Pen,
Turn to old Chaos once agen.
Of all th' instructive Bards, whose more than Theban lyre
Could salvage souls, with manly thoughts inspire,
Menalcas worthy was to live:
Tell me ye mournful Swains,
Say you his fellow-shepherds that survive,

215

Has my ador'd Menalcas left behind
On all these pensive Plains
A gentler shepherd with a braver mind?
Which of you all did more Majestick show,
Or wore the garland on a sweeter Brow?

III.

But wayward Astragon resolves no more
The death of his Menalcas to deplore,
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn
Is altogether blest.
There, no clouds o'rewhelm his brest,
No midnight cares shall break his rest,
For all is everlasting cheerful dawn.
The Poets charming bliss,
Perfect ease and sweet recess,
There shall he long possess.
The treacherous world no more shall him deceive,
Of hope and fortune he has taken leave;
And now in mighty triumph does he reign

216

O're the unthinking Rabbles spite
(His head adorn'd with beams of light)
And the dull wealthy fools disdain.
Thrice happy he, that dies the Muses friend,
He needs no Obelisque, no Pyramid
His sacred dust to hide,
He needs not for his memory to provide,
For well he knows his praise can never end.

201

On the DEATH OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT:

Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

Man surely is not what he seems to be;
Surely our selves we over-rate,
Forgetting that like other Creatures, we
Must bend our heads to Fate.
Lord of the whole Creation, Man,
(How big the Title shews!)
Trifles away a few uncertain Years,
Cheated with Hopes, and rackt with Fears,
Through all Lifes little Span,
Then down to silence, and to darkness goes;

222

And when we Die, the Croud that trembling stood
E're while struck with the terror of a Nod,
Shake off their wonted reverence with their Chains,
And at their pleasure use our poor Remains.
Ah mighty Prince!
Whom lavish Nature, and industrious Art
Had fitted for Immortal Fame,
Their utmost Bounty could no more impart;
How comes it that Thy venerable Name
Should be submitted to my Theme?
Unkindly baulkt by the prime skilful men,
Abandon'd to be sully'd by so mean a Pen!
Tell me, ye skilful men, if you have read
In all the fair Memorials of the Dead,
A Name so formidably Great,
So full of Wonders, and unenvi'd Love,
In which all Vertues, and all Graces strove,
So terrible, and yet so sweet;
Shew me a Star in Honours Firmament,
(Of the first magnitude let it be)

223

That from the darkness of this World made free,
A brighter lustre to this World has lent.
Ye men of reading, shew me one,
That shines with such a beam as His.
Rupert's a Constellation,
Outvies Arcturus, and the Pleïades.
And if the Julian Star of old out-shone
The Jesser Fires, as much as them the Moon,
Posterity perhaps will wonder why
An Heroe more divine than He
Should leave (after his Apotheosis)
No Gleam of light in all the Galaxie
Bright as the Sun in the full blaze of Noon.

III.

How shall my trembling Muse thy Praise reherse!
Thy Praise too lofty e'vn for Pindar's Verse!
Whence shall she take her daring flight,
That she may soar aloft
In numbers masculine and soft,
In numbers adæquate

224

To thy Renowns Cœlestial height!
If from thy Noble Pedigree,
The Royal Bloud that sparkled in thy Veins
A low Plebeian Eulogy disdains,
And he blasphemes that meanly writes of Thee.
If from thy Martial Deeds she boldly rise,
And sing thy valiant Infancy,
Rebellious Britain after felt full well,
Thou from thy Cradle wert a Miracle.
Swadled in Armour, Drums appeas'd thy Cries,
And the shrill Trumpet sung thy Lullabies.
The Babe Alcides thus, gave early proof
In the first dawning of his Youth,
When with his tender hand the Snakes he slew,
What Monsters in his riper Years he would subdue.

IV.

Great Prince, in whom Mars and Minerva join'd
Their last efforts to frame a mighty Mind,
A Pattern for Brave men to come, design'd:
How did the Rebel Troops before thee fly!

225

How of thy Genius stand in aw!
When from the sulphurous Cloud
Thou in Thunder gav'st aloud
Thy dreadful Law
To the presumptuous Enemy.
In vain their traiterous Ensigns they displaid,
In vain they fought, in vain they pray'd,
At thy victorious Arms dismaid.
Till Providence for Causes yet unknown,
Causes mysterious and deep,
Conniv'd a while, as if asleep,
And seem'd its dear Anointed to disown;
The prosperous Villany triumph'd o're the Crown,
And hurl'd the best of Monarchs from his Throne.
O tell it not in Gath, nor Ascalon!
The best of Monarchs fell by impious Power,
Th' unspotted Victim for the guilty bled.
He bow'd, he fell, there where he bow'd he fell down dead;
Baptiz'd Blest Martyr in his sacred gore.

226

V.

Nor could those tempests in the giddy State,
O mighty Prince, thy Loyalty abate.
Though put to flight, thou fought'st the Parthian way,
And still the same appear'dst to be
Among the Beasts, and scaly Fry,
A Behemoth on Land, and a Leviathan at Sea;
Still, wert thou Brave, still wert thou Good,
Still firm to thy Allegiance stood
Amidst the foamings of the popular floud.
(Cato with such a constancy of mind,
Espous'd that Cause which all his Gods declin'd.)
Till gentler Stars amaz'd to see
Thy matchless and undaunted Bravery,
Blusht and brought back the murthered Father's Son,
Lest thou shouldst plant him in th' Imperial Throne,
Thou with thy single hand alone.
He that forgets the Glories of that Day,
When Charles the Merciful return'd,

227

Ne'r felt the transports of glad Sion's Joy,
When she had long in dust and ashes mourn'd:
He never understood with what surprize
She open'd her astonish'd eyes
To see the goodly Fabrick of the second Temple rise.

VI.

When Charles the Merciful his Entrance made
The Day was all around serene,
Not one ill-boding Cloud was seen
To cast a gloomy shade
On the triumphal Cavalcade.
In that, his first, and happy Scene,
The Pow'rs above foretold his Halcyon Reign,
In which, like them, He evermore should prove
The kindest methods of Almighty Love:
And when black Crimes His Justice should constrain,
His pious Brest should share the Criminals pain:
Fierce as the Lion can he be, and gentle as the Dove.
Here stop my Muse,—the rest let Angels sing,
Some of those Angels, who with constant care

228

To His Pavilion, near attendants are,
A Life-guard giv'n him by th' Omnipotent King,
Th' Omnipotent King, whose Character He bears,
Whose Diadem on Earth he wears;
And may he wear it long, for many, many years.

VII.

And now (illustrious Ghost!) what shall we say?
What Tribute to thy precious memory pay?
Thy Death confounds, and strikes all Sorrows dumb.
Kingdoms and Empires make their moan,
Rescu'd by thee from Desolation;
In Pilgrimage hereafter shall they come,
And make their Offerings before thy Tomb,
Great Prince, so fear'd abroad, and so ador'd at home.
Jove's Bird that durst of late confront the Sun,
And in the wanton German Banners plaid,
Now hangs her Wing, and droops her Head,
Now recollects the Battels thou hast won,
And calls too late to thee for aid.
All Christendom deplores the loss,

229

Whilst bloudy Mahomet like a Whirl-wind flies,
And insolently braves the ill-befriended Cross.
Europe in bloud, and in confusion lies,
Thou in an easie good old age,
Remov'd from this tumultuous Stage,
Sleep'st unconcern'd at all its Rage,
Secure of Fame, and from Detraction free:
He that to greater happiness would attain,
Or towards Heav'n would swifter fly,
Must be much more than mortal man,
And never condescend to Die.

Dec. 13. 1682.

239

On the much lamented DEATH OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN LORD King Charles II.

OF BLESSED MEMORY.

A Pindarique Ode.

Stanza I.

Alas! Why are we tempted to complain,
That Heav'n is deaf to all our cries!
Regardless of poor Mortals miseries!
And all our fervent Pray'rs devoutly vain!
'Tis hard to think th' immortal Powers attend
Human affairs, who ravish from our sight

240

The Man, on whom such Blessings did depend,
Heav'ns, and Mankinds Delight!
The Man! O that opprobrious word, The Man!
Whose measure of duration's but a Span,
Some other name at Babel should have been contriv'd
(By all the vulgar World t' have been receiv'd)
A Word as near as could be to Divinity,
Appropriate to Crown'd Heads, who never ought to Die;
Some signal Word that should imply
All but the scandal of Mortality.
'Tis fit, we little lumps of crawling Earth,
Deriv'd from a Plebeian birth,
Such as our frail Forefathers were,
Should to our primitive Dust repair;
But Princes (like the wondrous Enoch) should be free
From Death's unbounded Tyranny,
And when their Godlike Race is run,
And nothing glorious left undone,
Never submit to Fate, but only Disappear.

241

II.

But, since th' eternal Law will have it so,
That Monarchs prove at last but finer Clay,
What can their humble Vassals do?
What Reverence; What Devotion can we pay,
When these, our earthly Gods, are snatch'd away?
Yes, we can mourn, Yes, we can beat our brest,
Yes, we can call to mind those happy days
Of Pleasure, and of Rest,
When CHARLES the Merciful did reign,
That Golden Age, when void of cares,
All the long Summer's day,
We Atoms in His beams might sport, and play:
Yes, we can teach our Children to bewail
His fatal Loss, when we shall fail,
And make Babes learn in after days
The pretty way of stammering out His Praise,
His merited praise, which shall in every Age
With all advantage flame.

242

In spight of Furies, or infernal Rage,
And imp the Wings, and stretch the Lungs of Fame.

III.

Excellent Prince, whom every Mouth did bless,
And every bended knee adore,
On whom we gaz'd with exstasie of Joy
(A Vision which did satisfie, but never cloy)
From whom we dated all our happiness,
And from above could ask no more,
Our gladsome Cup was fill'd till it ran o're.
Our Land (like Eden) flourish'd in His time,
Defended by an Angels Sword,
A terrour 'twas to those abroad,
But all was Paradise to those within:
Nor could th' Old Serpent's Stratagem
Ever supplant His well-watch'd Diadem.
Excellent Prince, of whom we once did say
With a triumphant noise,
In one united voice,
On that stupendious Day,

243

Long live, Long live the King!
And Songs of IOPÆAN sing,
How shall we bear this Tragical Surprize,
Now we must change Long Live, for Here He lies?

IV.

Have you forgot? (but who can Him forget?)
You watchful Spirits that preside
O'r sublunary things,
Who, when you look beneath, do oft deride,
Not without cause, some other petty Kings;
Have you forgot the greatness of His mind,
The bravery of His elevated Soul,
(But He had still a Goshen there)
When darkest Cares around His Royal heart did wind,
As Waves about a steddy Rock do roul:
With what disdain He view'd
The fury of the giddy multitude,
And bare the Cross, with more than manly fortitude,
As He had learn'd in Sacred Lore,
His mighty Master had done long before.

244

And you must ever own
(Or else you very little know
Of what we think below)
That when the Hurricanes of th' State were o'r,
When in His noon-tide blaze He did appear,
His gentle awful brow
Added fresh lustre to th' Imperial Crown,
By Birthright, and by Virtue, more than once His own.

V.

He was!—but what He was, how great, how good,
How just, how He delighted not in blood,
How full of pity, and how strangely kind,
How hazardously constant to His Friend,
In Peace how glorious, and in War how brave,
Above the charms of Life, and terrors of the Grave;
When late Posterity shall tell:
What He has done shall to a Volume swell,
And every Line abound with Miracle
In that prodigious Chronicle.
Forgive (unbody'd Sovereign) forgive,

245

And from your shining Mansion cast an Eye
To pity our officious Blasphemy,
When we have said the Best we can conceive.
Here stop (presumptuous Muse!) thy daring flight,
Here hide thy baffled head in shades of night,
Thou too obscure, thy dazling Theme too bright,
For what thou shouldst have said, (with grief struck dum)
Will more emphatically be supply'd
By the joint Groans of melancholy Christendom.

247

TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY King James II.

Dread Prince! Whom all the world admires and fears,
By Heav'n design'd to wipe away our tears,
To heal our wounds, and drooping spirits raise,
And to revive our former Halcyon days,
Permit us to assure our selves, that You,
Your happy Brothers fortune will pursue,
For what great thing is that You dare not do?
Whose long known, unexampled Gallantry
So oft has shaken th' Earth, and curb'd the haughty Sea.
And may those Stars, that ever o'r You shone,
Double their influence on Your peaceful Throne.
May You in honourable Deeds out-shine
The brightest Heroes of Your Royal Line,

246

That when Your Enemies shall the Scepter see
Grasp'd in a hand enur'd to Victory,
The Rebels may like Lucifer fall down,
Or fly, like Phantoms from the rising Sun.

Extremum Hunc Arethusa mihi concede Laborem.

Virgil.

ODES OF HORACE PARAPHRASED BY THOMAS FLATMAN.

251

BOOK II. ODE XIX.

Being half foxt he praiseth Bacchus.

In a blind corner jolly Bacchus taught
The Nymphs, and Satyrs Poetry,
My self (a thing scarce to be thought)
Was at that time a stander by.
And ever since the whim runs in my head,
With heavenly frenzy I'm on fire;
Dear Bacchus let me not be punished
For raving, when thou did'st inspire.
Extatically drunk, I now dare sing
Thy bigot Thyades, and the source
Whence thy brisk Wine, Hony, and Milk did spring,
Enchanell'd by thy Scepters force.
Bold as I am, I dare yet higher fly,
And sing bright Ariadne's Crown,
Rejoyce to see bold Pentheus destiny,
And grave Lycurgus tumbled down.

252

Rivers, and Seas thine Empire all obey,
When thou thy standard do'st advance,
Wild Mountaineers, thy Vassals, trim, and gay
In tune and time stagger and dance.
Thou when great Jove began to fear his throne;
(In no small danger then he was)
The mighty Rhœcus thou did'st piss upon,
And of that Lion mad'st an Ass.
'Tis true, thy Talent is not War, but mirth;
The Fiddle, not the Trumpet, thine;
Yet did'st thou bravely lay about thee then,
Great Moderator, God of Wine.
And when to Hell in triumph thou did'st ride
'Ore Cerberus thou did'st prevail,
The silly Curr, Thee for his Master own'd,
And like a Puppy wagg'd his tail.

253

Book III. ODE VIII.

To MÆCENAS.

Learned Mæcenas, wonder not that I,
(A Batchelor) invoke that Deity,
Which at this Feast the married rout adore,
And yearly do implore.
They pray the gods to make their burthen light,
And that their yoke-fellows may never fight:
I praise them, not for giving me a Wife,
But saving of my life.
By heav'n redeem'd, I scap'd a falling Tree,
And yearly own that strange delivery,
Yearly rejoyce, and drink the briskest Wine,
Not spill it at their shrine.
Come (my Mæcenas) let us drink, and thus
Cherish that life, those Pow'rs have given us:
A thousand Cups to Midwife this new birth,
With inoffensive mirth,

254

No State-affairs near my Mæcenas come,
Since all are faln that fought victorious Rome.
By Civil broils the Medes, our foes, will fall.
The weakest to the Wall.
Our fierce, and ancient Enemy of Spain
Is now subdu'd, and tamely bears our chain.
The Savage Scythian too begins to yield,
About to quit the field.
Bear they the load of Government that can;
Thou, since a private, and good natur'd man,
Enjoy th' advantage of the present Hour,
For why should'st thou look sour?

255

BOOK III. ODE IX.

Horace and Lydia.

Hor.
While I was lovely in thine eye,
And while no soft embrace but mine
Encircled thy fair Ivory neck,
I did the Persian King out-shine.

Lyd.
While Horace was an honest Lad,
And Chloe less than Lydia lov'd,
Lydia was then a matchless Lass,
And in a sphere 'bove Ilia mov'd.

Hor.
But Chloe now has vanquisht me,
That Lute and Voice who could deny?
Methinks might I but save her life,
I could my self even dare to die.

Lyd.
Young Calais is my Gallant,
He burns me with his flaming Eye,
To save the pretty villians life,
'Twice over I could dare to die.

256

Hor.
But say I Lydia lov'd agen,
And would new-braze Loves broken chain?
Say I should turn my Chloe off,
And take poor Lydia home again?

Lyd.
Why then though He a fixed Star,
Thou lighter than a Cork should'st be,
Mad, and unquiet as the Sea,
Yet would I live, and die with thee.

Book III. ODE XII.

No more Love's subjects, but his slaves they be,
That dare not o're a Glass of Wine be free,
But quit, for fear of friends, their liberty.

Fond Neobule? thou art lazy grown,
Away thy Needle, Web, and Distaff thrown,
Thou hop'st thy work by Hebrus will be done,

A sturdy Youth, and a rank Rider he,
Can run a race, and box most manfully,
Swim like a Duck, and caper like a Flea.

257

He hunts the Stag, and all the Forest o're
With strength and craft pursues the savage Boar:
He minds the sport, and thou desir'st no more.

Book III. ODE XVII.

To Ælius Lamia.

Brave Ælius, sprung from an Heroick line,
Whose Pedigree in long descents do shine,
That add'st new glories to the Lamian Name,
And rear'st fresh Trophies to their fame!
Descended from Prince Lamus, whose command
Reach from the Formian walls, o're Sea and Land;
Well was he known our Ancestors among,
Where gentle Lyris slides along.
Great as thou art, time will not thee obey:
To-morrow's like to be a blustring day,
Some tempest too is threatned from the East,
As by th' unlucky Crow I guest:

258

'Tis dry to day! Now lay thy feuel in,
'Ere the unwelcome Season do begin,
Good Victuals get, and frolick friends together,
Armour of proof against ill weather.

Book III. ODE XIX.

To Telephus.

1.

Thou por'st on Helvicus, and studiest in vain,
How many years past betwixt King, & Kings reign,
To make an old woman ev'n twitter for joy
At an Eighty eight story, or the scuffle at Troy:
But where the good wine, and best fire is
When the cruel North wind does blow,
And the Trees do penance in Snow;
Where the Poets delight and desire is,
Thou pitiful Book-worm ne'r troublest thy brain.

2.

Come Drawer some Claret, we'l drown this new Moon.
More Candles t'improve this dull night into noon:

259

Let the Healths, let the House, and the Glasses turn round,
But no Tears, except those of the Tankard abound.
Come! here's a good health to the Muses,
Three brimmers to the three times three,
And one to each Grace let there be;
The tripple skull'd Dog bite him that refuses.

3.

Let's be mad as March-hares, call the Minstrels and Singers,
Strike up there!—kick that Rogue—he ha's Chilblains on's fingers,
Let that whoreson our neighbour, on his bags that lies thinking,
Bear a part in the storm, but not the calm of our drinking.
Come! bring us a Wench, or two, prithee,
Thou Telephus look'st pretty fair,
And hast a good thick head of hair,
Fetch him Chloe, she's buxom, and loves to trade with thee;
Call Glycera to me, for I am one of her Swingers.

260

Book III. ODE XX.

To Pyrrhus.

Dry Pyrrhus, little dost thou know,
What 'tis to make a Whelp forgo
His Lioness,—faith 'twill not do!
It will be so.

Nearchus understands his game,
If he resolves to quit his fame,
What's that to you? To save his name
You'l purchase shame.

If before Peace, you War prefer,
Shoot at his Butt—you'l find from her
A Rowland for your Oliver,
That I dare swear.

He is a gay, and sanguine Man,
His Periwig the wind do's fan,
And she will hug him, now and than,
Do what you can.

261

Book III. ODE XXI.

To his Wine-Vessels.

Kind Brother Butt! as old, and brisk, as I,
(For we had both the same Nativity,)
Whether to mirth, to brawls, or desperate Love,
Or sleep, thy gentle power do's move;
By what, or name, or title dignifi'd;
Thou need'st not fear the nicest test to 'bide:
Corvinus, health since we may not refuse,
Give down amain thy generous juice.
Corvinus tho' a Stoick, will not balk
Thy charms, for he can drink, as well as talk.
Old Cato, tho he often were morose,
Yet he would sometimes take a Dose.
O Wine! thou mak'st the thick-skull'd fellow soft;
Easest the Statesman, vext with cares full oft;
Unriddlest all intrigues with a free Bowl,
Thou arrant pick-lock of the Soul!

262

Thou dost our gasping, dying hopes revive,
To Pesants, souls as big as Princes, give;
Inspired by thee they scorn their slavish fears,
And bid their Rulers shake their ears.
All this, and more (great Bacchus) thou canst do,
But if kind Venus be assistant too,
Then bring more Candles to expel the night;
Till Phœbus puts the Stars to flight.

Book III. ODE XXII.

Upon Diana.

Gentle Diana, Goddess bright,
Who midwiv'st Infants into light,
The Mountains Deity tripartite,
And Queen of Night,
To thee I consecrate my Pine,
Henceforth it shall be ever thine,
Yearly I'll offer at this shrine
The blood of Swine.

263

Book III. ODE III.

To Venus.

'Tis true, I was a sturdy Souldier once,
And bravely under Cupid's banners fought:
Disbanded now, his service I renounce,
My warlike weapons serve for nought.

Here! take my Helmet, Sword and Shield,
My Bow, my Quiver, my Artillery;
Chloe has beaten me quite out of th' field,
And leads me in captivity.

Great Venus! thou that know'st what I have been,
How able, and how true a friend to Smocks!
Revenge my quarrel on th' imperious Quean,
And pay her with a Pox!

264

Book IV. ODE I.

To Venus.

No more of War:—Dread Cytherea, cease;
Thy feeble Souldier sues for Peace.
Alas I am not now that man of might,
As when fair Cinara bad me fight.
Leave Venus, leave! consider my gray hairs
Snow'd on by fifty tedious years.
My Forts are slighted, and my Bulwarks down:
Go, and beleaguer some strong Town.
Make thy attempts on Maximus; there's game
To entertain thy Sword, and Flame.
There Peace and Plenty dwell: He's of the Court,
Ignorant what 'tis to storm a Fort:
There sound a charge; he's generous and young,
He's unconcern'd, lusty and strong:
He of thy silken Banners will be proud,
And of thy Conquests talk aloud,

265

His bags are full: the Lad thou may'st prefer
To be thy Treasurer in War.
He may erect Gold Statues to thy name:
And be the Trumpet of thy fame:
Thy Deity the zealous youth will then invoke,
And make thy beauteous Altars smoke.
With Voice, and Instruments thy praise shall sound;
Division he, and Love the ground,
There, twice a day the gamesome company
Of Lads and Lasses in debvoir to thee,
Like Mars's Priests their numbers shall advance,
And sweetly sing, and nimbly dance.
But as for me! I'm quite dispirited,
I court nor Maid, nor Boy to bed!
I cannot drink, nor bind a Garland on,
Alas! my dancing days are done!
But hold—Why do these tears steal from my Eyes?
My lovely Ligurinus, why?
Why does my fault'ring tongue disguise my voice
With rude, and inarticulate noise?

266

O Ligurin! 'tis thou that break'st my rest,
Methinks I grasp thee in my brest:
Then I pursue thee in my passionate dreams
O're pleasant fields, and purling streams.

Book IV. ODE X.

To Ligurinus, a beauteous Youth.

'Tis true, thou yet art fair (my Ligurine)
No Down as yet environs cheek, or chin:
But when those hairs which now do flow, shall fall,
And when thy Rosie Cheeks turn wan and pale:
When in thy Glass another Ligurine thou
Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shalt know;
Then thou (despis'd) shalt sing this piteous Song;
Why am I old? or why was ever young?

267

Book IV. ODE XI.

To Philllis.

Come Phillis, gentle Phillis! prithee come,
I have a Glass of rich old Wine at home,
And in my Garden curious Flowers do grow,
That languish to adorn thy brow.
The Ivy, and the yellow Crowfoot there
With verdant Chaplets wait to braid thy hair;
With silver Goblets all my house does shine,
And Vervain round my Altar twine,
On which the best of all my flock shall bleed;
Come, and observe with what officious speed
Each Lad, and Lass of all my house attends
Till to my roof the smoke ascends.
If thou would'st know why thou must be my guest.
I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast,
The Ides of April, which have ever been
Devoted to the Cyprian Queen.

268

A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth
Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth:
For on that day Mecænas first saw light,
Born for our wonder, and delight.
My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace,
Substitute me in Telephus his place,
He's now imploy'd by one more rich, more fair,
And proudly does her shackles wear.
Remember what became of Phaeton;
Remember what befel Bellerophon;
That by Ambition from his Fathers Throne,
And this, by Pegasus thrown down.
Content thy self with what is fit for thee,
Happy that couple that in years agree!
Shun others, and accept my parity,
And I will end my Loves with thee.
Thou art the last whom I intend to court,
Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport)
Learn Prick-song, and my merry Odes reherse,
Many a Care is charm'd by Verse.

269

EPODE III.

To MÆCENAS.

In time to come, if such a crime should be
As Parricide, (foul villany!)
A Clove of Garlick would revenge that evil;
(Rare dish for Plough-men, or the Devil!)
Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!
It works like Rats-bane in my maw.
What Witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath!
Poison'd at once, and stunk to death;
With this vile juice Medæa (sure) did noint
Jason (her Love) in every joint;
When untam'd Bulls in yokes he led along,
This made his manhood smell so strong:
This gave her Dragon venom to his sting,
And set the Hagg upon the wing.
I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am,
Such drought on Puglia never came.

270

Alcides could not bear so much as I,
He oft was wet, but never dry.
Mecænas! do but taste of your own Treat,
And what you gave your Poet, eat;
Then go to Bed, and court your Mistris there,
She'l never kiss you I dare swear.

EPODE VI.

Against Cassius Severus, a revileful and wanton Poet.

Thou Village-Curr! why do'st thou bark at me?
A Wolf might come, and go, for thee.
At me thou open'st wide, and think'st that I
Will bark with thee for company.
I'm of another kind, and bravely dare,
(Like th' Mastiff) watch my flock with care:
Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast
That might my darling folds molest:
Thou (only in the noise thou mak'st) robust
Leav'st off the chase; leap'st at a crust,

271

But have a care! for if I vent my spleen,
I (for a shift) can make thee grin:
I'le make thee (if Iambicks once I sing)
To die, like Bupalus, in a string.
When any man insults o're me, shall I
Put finger in mine eye, and cry?

EPODE X.

Against Mævius a Poet.

And art thou ship'd, friend Dogrel!—get thee gon
Thou pest of Helicon.
Now for an Hurricane to bang thy sides
(Curst Wood) in which he rides!
An East-wind tear thy Cables, crack thy Oars,
While every billow roars.
With such a Wind let all the Ocean swell
As wafted Noll to Hell:
No friendly Star o'er all the Sea appear
While thou be'st there;

272

Nor kinder destiny there may'st thou meet,
Than the proud Grecian Fleet,
When Pallas did their Admiral destroy
Return'd from ruin'd Troy.
Methinks I see the Mariners faint, and thee
Look somewhat scurvily:
Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time
To mind thy Grub street Rhyme,
When the proud waves their heads to Heav'n do rear
Himself scarce free from fear:
Well!—If the Gods should thy wreckt carcase share
To Beasts, or Fowls of th' air,
I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know
I can be civil too.

273

EPODE XI.

To Pettius his Chamber-fellow.

Ah Pettius! I have done with Poetry,
I've parted with my liberty,
For Cupid's slavery.
Cupid that peevish God has singled out
Me, from among the Rhyming rout,
For Boys and Girls to flout:
December now has thrice stript every Tree,
Since bright Inachia's Tyranny
Has laid its chains on me.
Now fie upon me! all about the Town
My Miss I treated up and down,
I for a Squire was known.
Lord what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,
To sigh, to sob, and to repine!
For thy sake (Mistress mine!)
Thou didst my Verse, and thou my Muse despise,
My want debas'd me in thine eyes.
Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize.
Fuddled with Wine, and Love my secrets flew,

274

Stretcht on those racks, I told thee true,
What did my self undo.
Well!—plague me not too much, imperious Dame,
Lest I blaspheme thy charming name,
And quench my former flame.
I can give others place, and see thee die
Damn'd with their prodigality,
If I set on't, so stout am I.
Thou know'st (my Friend) thus have I often said,
When, by her sorceries misled,
Thou bad'st me home to bed:
Ev'n then my practice gave my tongue the lie,
I could not her curst house pass by:
I fear'd, but could not fly.
Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad;
Inachia such a face ne're had,
It is a lovely Lad.
From his embraces I shall ne'r get free,
Nor friends advice, nor infamy
Can disintangle me:

275

Yet if some brighter Object I should spy
That, might perhaps debauch my Eye,
And shake my constancy.

EPODE XV.

To his Sweet-heart Neæra.

It was a lovely melancholy night;
The Moon, and every Star shone bright;
When thou didst swear thou would'st to me be true,
And do as I would have thee do:
False Woman! round my neck thy arms did twine,
Inseparable as the Elm, and Vine:
Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure
To me alone sincere and pure,
Till Sheep and Wolves should quit their enmity,
And not a Wave disturb the Sea.
Treacherous Neæra! I have been too kind,
But Flaccus can draw off thou'lt find;
He can that face (as thou do'st him) forswear,
And find (it may be) one as fair:
And let me tell thee, when my fury's mov'd,
I hate devoutly, as I lov'd.

276

But thou (blest Gamester) whosoe'r thou be
That proudly do'st my drudgery,
Didst thou abound in numerous Flocks, and Land,
Wer't heir to all Pactolus Sand;
Though in thy brain thou bor'st Pythagoras,
And carriedst Nereus in thy face,
She'd pick another up, and shab thee off,
And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.

EPODE XVII.

To Canidia.

I yield Canidia to thy Art,
Take pity on a penitent heart:
By Proserpine Queen of the Night,
And by Diana's glimmering light,
By the mysterious Volumes all,
That can the Stars from Heaven call;
By all that's sacred I implore
Thou to my wits would'st me restore.
The brave Achilles did forgive
King Telephus, and let him live,

277

Though in the field the King appear'd,
And War with Mysian bands prepar'd.
When on the ground dead Hector lay,
Expos'd, to Birds, and Beasts a prey;
The Trojan Dames in pity gave
Hector an honourable grave.
Ulysses Mariners were turn'd to Swine,
Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
And straight the grunting mortals spoke:
Each in his pristine shape appears,
Fearless of Dogs to lug their Ears.
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
Enough in Conscience I have born!
My youth, and fresh complexion's gone,
Dwindled away to skin and bone.
My hair is powd'red by thy care,
And all my minutes busie are.
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
Yet have not I a breathing space!

278

Wretch that I am! I now believe,
No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
Now I confess thy Magick can
Reach head, and heart, and un man Man.
What would'st thou have me say? what more?
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o're!
Hercules himself ne're burnt like me,
Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
Calcin'd into a Pumice-stone!
When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
But name the sum, and I obey:
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
An Hecatomb? or shall I make
A baudy Song t'advance thy Trade,
Or court thee with a Serenade?
Would'st thou to Heav'n, and be a Star?
I'le hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
Castor to Helen a true friend
Struck her defaming Poet blind;

279

Yet he, good-natur'd Gentleman,
Gave the blind Bard his eyes again.
Since this, and much more thou canst do,
O rid me of my madness too!
From noble Ancestors thy race,
No vulgar blood purples thy face:
Thou searchest not the Graves of th' poor,
But Necromancy do'st abhor:
Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands,
And e're thy Childbed-linnen's clean,
Thou shalt be up and to't again.

CANIDIA's Answer.

Go—hang thy self:—I will not hear,
The Rocks assoon shall lend an ear
To naked Mariners that be
Left to the mercy of the Sea.
Marry come up!—Shall thy bold pride
The mysteries of the Gods deride?

280

Presumptuous fool! commit a rape
On my repute, and think to scape?
Make me a Town-talk? Well! e'r thou die
Cupid shall vengeance take; or I.
Go, get some Rats-bane!—'twill not do,
Nay, drink some Aqua-fortis too:
No Witch shall take thy life away;
Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay?
No!—I'le prolong thy loathed breath,
And make thee wish in vain for death.
In vain does Tantalus espy
Fruits, he may taste but with his Eye.
In vain does poor Prometheus grone,
And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone:
Long may they sigh, long may they cry
But not controul their Destiny.
And thou in vain from some high wall,
Or on thy naked Sword may'st fall,
In vain, (to terminate thy woes)
Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:
For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,
And make the Earth shake with my pride.
Think'st thou that I, who when I please
Can kill by waxen Images,
Can force the Moon down from her Sphere,
And make departed Ghosts appear,
And mix Love potions!—thinks thy vanity,
I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?

FINIS.