The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | ||
Carmine curæ.
Hor.
EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES Lord HALIFAX, &c.
Of various Verse, in various rude Essays;
To You, she first Address'd her early Voice,
By Inclination led, and fix'd by Choice;
Her few collected Lays, she now, Commends.
And unresolv'd in Choice, delight in Change;
Her Songs to no distinguish'd Fame aspire,
For, now, she tries the Reed, anon, attempts the Lyre;
In high Parnassus she no Birthright claims,
Nor drinks deep Draughts of Heliconian Streams;
Yet near the sacred Mount she loves to rove,
Visits the Springs, and hovers round the Grove.
She knows what Dangers wait too bold a Flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian Height:
Yet, she admires the Wing that safely soars,
At Distance follows, and its Track adores.
She knows what Room, what Force, the Swan requires,
Whose towring Head above the Clouds aspires,
And knows as well, it is Your Lowest Praise,
Such Heights to reach with equal Strength and Ease.
And not more bound to Aid us, than Adorn!
Albion in Verse with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a Fame, which, there, sev'n States divide.
But such, ev'n such Renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the Patriot in the Poet lost.
A true Poetick State we had deplor'd,
Had not Your Ministry our Coin restor'd.
Stands foremost in the fairest List of Fame,
Tho' Your Ambition ends in Publick Good,
(A Virtue lineal to Your House and Blood:)
Yet think not meanly of Your other Praise,
Nor slight the Trophies which the Muses raise.
How oft, a Patriot's best laid Schemes we find
By Party cross'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he succeed he undergoes this Lot,
The Good receiv'd, the Giver is forgot.
Shall both surmount Detraction, and survive:
And Poets have unquestion'd Right, to claim
If not the Greatest, the most Lasting Name.
THE Mourning Muse OF ALEXIS.
A PASTORAL. Lamenting the Death of QUEEN MARY.
ALEXIS, MENALCAS.
Menalcas.
Which seems alone for Sorrow's Shelter made;
Where, no glad Beams of Light can ever play,
But Night succeeding Night, excludes the Day;
And lightsome Notes, to cheer the Dusky Air,
To welcome Day, or bid the Sun farewel,
By Morning Lark, or Evening Philomel.
No sweetly budding Flower, nor springing Green:
For fragrant Myrtle, and the blushing Rose,
Here, baleful Yew with deadly Cypress grows.
Here then, extended on this wither'd Moss,
We'll lie, and thou shalt sing of Albion's Loss;
Of Albion's Loss, and of Pastora's Death,
Begin thy mournful Song, and raise thy tuneful Breath.
ALEXIS.
The lowly Lays of humble Shepherds Reeds!
With the Sicilian Bard, or Mantuan Swain;
Sweet as the British Colin's mourning Muse;
Could I, like him, in tuneful Grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Astrofel;
Then might I raise my Voice, (secure of Skill,)
And with melodious Woe the Valleys fill;
The list'ning Echo on my Song should wait,
And hollow Rocks Pastora's Name repeat;
Each whistling Wind, and murm'ring Stream should tell
How Lov'd she liv'd, and how Lamented fell.
MENALCAS.
Wert thou with ev'ry Bay and Lawrel crown'd,
And high as Pan himself in Song renown'd,
Yet would not all thy Art, avail to show
Verse worthy of her Name, or of our Woe:
But such true Passion in thy Face appears,
In thy pale Lips, thick Sighs, and gushing Tears,
As shall supply all Skill, if not exceed.
Then leave this common Form of dumb Distress,
Each vulgar Grief can Sighs and Tears express;
In sweet complaining Notes thy Passion vent,
And not in Sighs, but Words explaining Sighs, lament.
ALEXIS.
Artless as Nature's Notes, in Birds untaught;
Boundless my Verse, and roving be my Strains,
Various as Flow'rs on unfrequented Plains.
And thou Thalia, Darling of my Breast,
By whom inspired, I sung at Comus Feast;
While in a Ring, the Jolly Rural Throng
Have sate and smil'd to hear my chearful Song:
Begon, with all thy Mirth and sprightly Lays,
My Pipe, no longer now thy Pow'r obeys;
Thy springing Lawrels, all to Cypress turn;
Wound with thy dismal Cries the tender Air,
And beat thy Snowy Breast, and rend thy yellow Hair;
Far hence, in utmost Wilds, thy Dwelling chuse,
Begon Thalia, Sorrow is my Muse.
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
No more, these Woods shall with her Sight be bless'd,
Nor with her Feet, these Flow'ry Plains be press'd;
No more, the Winds shall with her Tresses play,
And from her Balmy Breath steal Sweets away;
No more, these Rivers chearfully shall pass,
Pleas'd to reflect the Beauties of her Face;
While on their Banks the wondring Flocks have stood,
Greedy of Sight, and Negligent of Food.
Her Ears, no more with Dances please her Sight;
Nor ever more shall Swain make Song of Mirth,
To bless the Joyous Day, that gave her Birth:
Lost is that Day, which had from her its Light,
For ever lost with her, in endless Night;
In endless Night, and Arms of Death she lies,
Death in Eternal Shades has shut Pastora's Eyes.
Stray all ye Flocks, and desart be ye Plains,
Sigh all ye Winds, and weep ye Crystal Floods,
Fade all ye Flowers, and wither all ye Woods.
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
All cold she lies upon th'unwholsom Ground;
Its trickling Tears distil upon her Face.
Falsly ye weep, ye Rocks, and falsly mourn!
For never will you let the Nymph return!
With a feign'd Grief the faithless Tomb relents,
And like the Crocodile its Prey laments.
Never in Nature were such Beauties join'd:
Without, all shining; and within, all white;
Pure to the Sense, and pleasing to the Sight;
Like some rare Flow'r, whose Leaves all Colours yield,
And opening, is with sweetest Odours fill'd.
As lofty Pines o'ertop the lowly Reed,
So did her graceful Height all Nymphs exceed,
To which excelling Height, she bore a Mind
Humble, as Osiers bending to the Wind.
Thus excellent she was—
Help me ye Hills, and Valleys, to deplore.
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
May blooming Flow'rs with fragrant Sweets arise:
Let Myrrha weeping Aromatick Gum,
And ever-living Lawrel, shade her Tomb.
Thither, let all th'industrious Bees repair,
Unlade their Thighs, and leave their Hony there;
Thither, let Fairies with their Train resort,
Neglect their Revels, and their Midnight Sport,
There, in unusual Wailings waste the Night,
And watch her, by the fiery Glow-worms Light.
Nor Holly Bush, nor bitter Elders Bow;
Let each unlucky Bird far build his Nest,
And distant Dens receive each howling Beast;
With hooting Owls, and Batts that hate the Light.
And Nightingales in sweet Complainings Sing;
Let Swans from their forsaken Rivers fly,
And Sick'ning at her Tomb, make haste to dye,
That they may help to sing her Elegy.
Let Echo too, in Mimick Moan, deplore,
And cry with me, Pastora is no more!
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
And heavy Mists obscure the burd'ned Air;
A sudden Damp o'er all the Plain is spread,
Each Lilly folds its Leaves, and hangs its Head.
On ev'ry Tree the Blossoms turn to Tears,
And ev'ry Bow a weeping Moisture bears.
And Flocks beneath their dewy Fleeces stoop.
Furrow the Brows of all th'impending Hills.
The Water-Gods to Floods their Riv'lets turn,
And each, with streaming Eyes, supplies his wanting Urn.
And round the Plain in sad Distractions rove;
In prickly Brakes their tender Limbs they tear,
And leave on Thorns their Locks of Golden Hair.
And tug their shaggy Beards, and bite with Grief the Ground.
Dejected lies, his Pipe in pieces broke.
See Pales weeping too, in wild Despair,
And to the piercing Winds her Bosom bare.
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing Tears,
See how she wrings her Hands, and beats her Breast,
And tears her useless Girdle from her Waste:
Hear the sad Murmurs of her sighing Doves,
For Grief they sigh, forgetful of their Loves.
See, how his Sorrows swell his tender Breast;
His Bow he breaks, and wide his Arrows flings,
And folds his little Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings;
And all with Tears bedews his Beauteous Face,
With Tears, which from his folded Lids arise,
And even Love himself has weeping Eyes.
All Nature mourns; the Floods and Rocks deplore,
And cry with me, Pastora is no more!
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
And Floods can weep, and Winds to Sighs can turn;
The Birds, in Songs, their Sorrows can disclose,
And Nymphs and Swains, in Words, can tell their Woes.
But oh! behold that deep and wild Despair,
Which neither Winds can show, nor Floods, nor Air.
Lord of these Woods, and wide extended Plains,
Scalding with Tears th'already faded Grass;
To the cold Clay he joins his throbbing Breast,
No more within Pastora's Arms to rest!
No more! For those once soft and circling Arms
Themselves are Clay, and cold are all her Charms.
Cold are those Lips, which he no more must kiss,
And cold that Bosome, once all downy Bliss;
On whose soft Pillows, lull'd in sweet Delights,
He us'd, in Balmy Sleep, to lose the Nights.
Ah! where is all that tender Sweetness laid?
To Dust must all that Heav'n of Beauty come!
And must Pastora moulder in the Tomb!
Ah Death! more fierce, and unrelenting far,
Than wildest Wolves or savage Tigers are;
With Lambs and Sheep their Hungers are appeas'd,
But rav'nous Death the Shepherdess has seiz'd.
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
“With Wonder stops my Song, and strikes my Sight!
“And where Pastora lies, it spreads around,
“Shewing all Radiant bright the Sacred Ground.
“While from her Tomb, behold a Flame ascends
“Of whitest Fire, whose Flight to Heav'n extends!
“On flaky Wings it mounts, and quick as Sight
“Cuts thro' the yielding Air, with Rays of Light;
“'Till the blue Firmament at last it gains,
“And fixing there, a glorious Star remains:
Fairest it shines of all that light the Skies,
As once on Earth were seen Pastora's Eyes.
TO THE KING, On the Taking of NAMURE.
IRREGULAR ODE.
Nil oriturum aliàs, nil ortum tale fatentes.
Hor. ad Augustum.
I.
Of Arms and War my Muse aspires to Sing,And strike the Lyre upon an untry'd String:
New Fire informs my Soul, unfelt before;
And, on new Wings, to Heights unknown I soar.
O Pow'r unseen! by whose Resistless Force
Compell'd, I take this Flight, direct my Course:
For Fancy, wild and pathless Ways will chuse,
Which Judgment, rarely, or with Pain, pursues.
Why scorns the lowly Swain his Oaten Reeds,
Daring aloud to strike the Sounding Lyre,
And sing Heroick Deeds;
Neglecting Flames of Love, for Martial Fire?
II.
William, alone, my Feeble Voice can raise;What Voice so weak, that cannot sing his Praise!
The listning World each Whisper will befriend
That breaths his Name, and ev'ry Ear attend.
The hov'ring Winds on downy Wings shall wait around,
And catch, and waft to Foreign Lands, the flying Sound.
Ev'n I will in his Praise be heard;
For by his Name my Verse shall be preferr'd.
Born like a Lark upon this Eagles Wing,
High as the Spheres, I will his Triumph sing;
From the deep Vale extends, up to the vaulted Skies :
A thousand talking Tongues the Monster bears,
A thousand waking Eyes, and ever open Ears;
Hourly she stalks, with Huge Gigantick Pace,
Measu'ring the Globe, like Time, with constant Race:
Yet shall she stay, and bend to William's Praise:
Of Him, her thousand Ears shall hear triumphant Lays,
Of Him, her Tongues shall talk, on Him her Eyes shall gaze.
III.
But lo, a Change astonishing my Eyes!And all around, behold new Objects rise!
What Forms are these I see? and whence?
Beings substantial? or does Air condense,
Are these by Fancy wrought!
Can strong Idea's strike so deep the Sense!
O sacred Poesie! O boundless Power!
What Wonders dost thou trace, what hidden Worlds explore.
Thro' Seas, Earth, Air, and the wide circling Sky,
What is not sought and seen, by thy all-piercing Eye!
IV.
'Twas now, when flow'ry Lawns the Prospect made,And flowing Brooks beneath a Forest's shade;
A Lowing Heifer, Loveliest of the Herd,
Stood feeding by; while two fierce Bulls prepar'd
Their Armed Heads for Fight; by Fate of War, to prove
The Victor worthy of the Fair Ones Love.
For soon the shady Scene withdrew.
And now, for Woods, and Fields, and springing Flowr's;
Behold a Town arise, Bulwark'd with Walls, and lofty Tow'rs!
Two Rival Armies all the Plain o'erspread,
Each in Battalia rang'd, and shining Arms array'd:
With eager Eyes, beholding both from far,
Namure, the Prize and Mistress of the War.
V.
Now, Thirst of Conquest, and Immortal Fame,Does ev'ry Chief and Soldier's Heart inflame.
Defensive Arms, the Gallick Forces bear;
While Hardy Britons for the Storm prepare:
For Fortune had with partial Hand, before
Resign'd the Rule to Gallia's Pow'r.
High on a Rock the mighty Fortress stands,
Founded by Fate; and wrought by Nature's Hands.
Thro' craggy Cliffs, that strike the Sight with Pain,
And nod impending Terrors o'er the Plain.
To this, what Dangers Men can add, by Force, or Skill,
(And great is Humane Force and Wit, in Ill)
Are join'd; on ev'ry side, wide gaping Engines wait,
Teeming with Fire, and big with certain Fate;
Ready to hurl Destruction from above,
In dreadful Roar, mocking the Wrath of Jove.
Thus fearful, does the Face of adverse Pow'r appear;
But British Forces are unus'd to fear:
Tho' thus oppos'd, they might, if William were not there.
VI.
But hark, the Voice of War! Behold the Storm begin!The Trumpets Clangor, speaks in loud Alarms,
Of Cannons burst, and ratling clash of Arms.
Clamours from Earth to Heaven, from Heav'n to Earth rebound,
Distinction, in promiscuous Noise is drown'd,
And Echo lost in one continu'd Sound.
Torrents of Fire from Brazen Mouths are sent,
Follow'd by Peals, as if each Pole were rent;
Such Flames the Gulphs of Tartarus disgorge,
So vaulted Ætna roars from Vulcan's Forge;
Such were the Peals from thence, such the vast Blaze that broke,
Redning with horrid Gloom, the dusky Smoke,
When the huge Cyclops did with molding Thunder sweat,
And Massive Bolts on repercussive Anvils beat.
VII.
Amidst this Rage, behold, where William stands,Undaunted, Undismay'd!
Which heard with Awe, are with Delight obey'd.
A thousand fiery Deaths around him fly;
And burning Balls hiss harmless by:
For ev'ry Fire his sacred Head must spare,
Nor dares the Lightning touch the Lawrels there.
VIII.
Now many a wounded Briton feels the RageOf Missive Fires that fester in each Limb,
Which dire Revenge alone has Pow'r t'asswage;
Revenge makes Danger dreadless seem.
And now, with desp'rate Force, and fresh Attack,
Through obvious Deaths, resistless way they make;
Raising high Piles of Earth, and heap on heap they lay,
And then ascend; resembling thus (as far
As Race of Men inferior, may)
The fam'd Gigantick War.
(A Brave, but impious Fire!)
Uprooting Hills, with most stupendous Hale,
To form the High and Dreadful Scale.
The Gods, with Horrour and Amaze, look'd down,
Beholding Rocks from their firm Basis rent;
Mountain on Mountain thrown,
With threatning hurl, that shook th'Æthereal Firmament!
Th'Attempt, did Fear in Heav'n create;
Ev'n Jove desponding sate,
'Till Mars with all his Force collected, stood,
And pour'd whole War on the rebellious Brood;
Who tumbling Headlong from th'Empyreal Skies,
O'erwhelm'd those Hills, by which they thought to rise.
Mars, on the Gods did then his Aid bestow,
And now in Godlike William storms, with equal Force below.
IX.
Still they proceed, with firm unshaken Pace,And hardy Breasts oppos'd to Dangers Face.
With daring Feet, on springing Mines they tread
Of secret Sulphur, in dire Ambush laid.
Still they proceed; tho' all beneath, the Lab'ring Earth
Trembles to give the dread Irruptions Birth.
Thro' this, thro' more, thro' all they go,
Mounting at last amidst the vanquish'd Foe.
See, how they climb, and scale the steepy Walls!
See, how the Britons rise! see the retiring Gauls!
Now from the Fort, behold the yielding Flag is spread,
And William's Banner on the Breach display'd.
X.
Hark, the triumphant Shouts, from every Voice!The Skies with Acclamations Ring!
Hark, how around, the Hills rejoice,
And Rocks, reflected Io's Sing!
Heroick Harmony prepare,
And charm to Silence every Wind,
And glad the late Tormented Air.
Far, is the sound of Martial Musick spread,
Ech'oing thro' all the Gallick Host,
Whose numerous Troops the dreadful Storm survey'd:
But they with Wonder, or with Awe, dismay'd,
Unmov'd beheld the Fortress lost.
William, their num'rous Troops with Terror fill'd,
Such wondrous Charms, can Godlike Valour show!
Not the wing'd Perseus, with Petrifick Shield
Of Gorgon's Head, to more amazement charm'd his Foe.
Nor, when on soaring Horse he flew, to aid
And save from Monsters Rage, the Beauteous Maid;
Or she to surer Chains decreed,
Then was Namure; 'till now by William freed.
XI.
Descend my Muse, from thy too daring height,Descend to Earth, and ease thy wide stretch'd Wing;
For weary art thou grown, of this unwonted Flight,
And dost with Pain of Triumphs sing.
More fit for thee, resume thy rural Reeds;
For, War let more Harmonious Harps be strung:
Sing thou of Love, and leave Great William's Deeds
To Him who sung the Boyne; or Him to whom he Sung.
THE Birth of the Muse.
Of thee to sing; infuse the Holy Fire.
Belov'd of Gods and Men, thy self disclose;
Say, from what Source thy Heav'nly Pow'r arose,
Which from unnumb'red Years deliv'ring down
The Deeds of Heroes deathless in Renown,
Extends their Life and Fame to Ages yet unknown.
At once the Rivals started to the Race:
Or both to all Eternity contend.
One to preserve what t'other cannot save,
And rescue Virtue rising from the Grave.
For thee my Voice is tun'd, and speaking Lyre is strung;
For ev'ry Grace of ev'ry Muse is thine,
In thee their various Fires united shine,
Darling of Phœbus and the tuneful Nine!
To thee alone I dare my Song commend,
Whose Nature can forgive, and Pow'r defend,
And shew by Turns the Patron and the Friend.
Thy Song of right, does first to Jove belong:
For thou thy self art of Celestial Seed,
Nor dare a Sire inferior boast the Breed.
And Jove with Joy the finish'd Work survey'd;
Vicissitude of Things, of Men and States,
Their Rise and Fall were destin'd by the Fates.
Then Time had first a Name; by firm Decree
Appointed Lord of all Futurity.
Within whose ample Bosom Fates repose
Causes of Things, and secret Seeds enclose,
Which ripening there, shall one Day gain a Birth,
And force a Passage thro' the teeming Earth.
To him they give, to rule the spacious Light,
And bound the yet unparted Day and Night;
To wing the Hours that whirl the rowling Sphere,
To shift the Seasons, and conduct the Year.
Duration of Dominion and of Pow'r
To him prescribe, and fix each fated Hour.
This mighty Rule, to Time the Fates ordain,
But yet to hard Conditions bind his Reign.
For ev'ry beauteous Birth he brings to Light,
(How good soe'er and grateful in his sight,)
And all his Race with Iron Teeth devour.
Nor Good, nor Great shall 'scape his hungry Maw,
But bleeding Nature prove the rigid Law.
Or pois'd amid the Skies in Ballance hung.
Nor yet, did Golden Fires the Sun adorn,
Or borrow'd Lustre silver Cynthia's Horn.
Nor yet, had Time Commission to begin,
Or Fate the many-twisted Web to spin;
When all the Heav'nly Host assembled came
To view the World yet resting on its Frame;
Eager they press, to see the Sire dismiss
And rowl the Globe along the vast Abyss.
Which for a Space suspend the promis'd Scene.
Once more his Eyes on Time intentive look,
Again, inspect Fate's universal Book.
And present views the Deeds of future Days.
Where Nature's Bloom presents the Golden Age.
The Golden Leaf to Silver soon resigns,
And fair the Sheet, but yet more faintly shines.
Of baser Brass, the next denotes the Times,
An impious Page deform'd with deadly Crimes.
The Fourth yet wears a worse and browner Face,
And adds to Gloomy Days an Iron Race.
Then all the Kingly Line his Eye pursues:
The First of Men, and Lords of Earth design'd,
Who under him should govern Human-kind.
Of future Heroes, there, the Lives he reads,
In search of Glory spent, and Godlike Deeds;
Who Empires found, and goodly Cities build,
And savage Men compel to leave the Field.
When Lo! but thence a Narrow Space remov'd,
And hungry Time has all the Scene defac'd,
The Kings destroy'd, and laid the Kingdoms waste:
Together all in Common Ruins lie,
And but anon and ev'n the Ruins die.
Th'Almighty, inly touch'd, Compassion found,
To see Great Actions in Oblivion drown'd;
And forward search'd the Roll, to find if Fate
Had no Reserve to spare the Good and Great.
Bright in his View the Trojan Heroes shine,
And Ilian Structures rais'd by Hands Divine;
But Ilium soon in Native Dust is laid,
And all her boasted Pile a Ruin made:
Nor Great Æneas can her Fall withstand,
But flies, to save his Gods, to foreign Land.
The Roman Race succeed the Dardan State,
And first and second Cæsar God-like Great.
Still on to after-days his Eyes descend,
And rising Heroes still the Search attend.
When fair Britannia fix'd his Sight at last.
And looks a Venus born from Ocean's Bed.
For rowling Years, her happy Fortunes smile,
And Fates propitious bless the beauteous Isle;
To Worlds remote, she wide extends her Reign,
And wields the Trident of the stormy Main.
Thus on the Base of Empire firm she stands,
While bright Eliza rules the willing Lands.
And Fate revers'd shews an ill-omen'd Face.
The Void of Heav'n a gloomy Horror fills,
And Cloudy Veils involve her shining Hills;
Of Greatness pass'd no Footsteps she retains,
Sunk in a Series of Inglorious Reigns.
She feels the Change, and deep regrets the Shame
Of Honours lost, and her diminish'd Name:
And glad wou'd shrink beneath her Oozy Bed.
In shady Draughts and dusky Lines disclose.
Th'ensuing Scene revolves a Martial Age,
And ardent Colours gild the glowing Page.
Which kindling Day, restores the darkned Skies;
And see! on Seas the beamy Ball descends,
And now its Course to fair Britannia bends:
Along the foamy Main the Billows bear
The floating Fire, and waft the shining Sphere.
Hail, happy Omen! Hail, auspicious Sight!
Thou glorious Guide to yet a greater Light.
For see! a Prince, whom dazling Arms array,
Pursuing closely, plows the wat'ry Way,
Tracing the Glory thro' the flaming Sea.
From Iron Sleep; again thy Fortunes smile.
Once more look up, the Mighty Man behold,
Whose Reign renews the former Age of Gold.
The Fates at length the blissful Web have spun,
And bid it round in endless Circles run.
Again, shall distant Lands confess thy Sway,
Again, the wat'ry World thy Rule Obey;
Again, thy Martial Sons shall thirst for Fame,
And win in foreign Fields a deathless Name;
For William's Genius ev'ry Soul inspires,
And warms the frozen Youth with warlike Fires.
Already, see, the Hostile Troops retreat,
And seem forewarn'd of their impending Fate.
Already routed Foes his Fury feel,
And fly the Force of his unerring Steel.
The haughty Gaul, who well 'till now, might boast,
A matchless Sword and unresisted Host,
At his foreseen Approach the Field forsakes;
His Cities tremble, and his Empire shakes.
And Fleets audaciously usurp'd the Main;
A gath'ring Storm he seem'd, which from afar
Teem'd with a Deluge of destructive War.
'Till William's stronger Genius soar'd above,
And down the Skies the daring Tempest drove.
So from the radiant Sun retires the Night,
And western Clouds shot thro' with orient Light.
So when th'assuming God, whom Storms obey,
To all the warring Winds at once gave way,
The frantick Brethren ravag'd all around,
And Rocks, and Woods, and Shoars their Rage resound;
Incumbent o'er the Main, at length they sweep
The liquid Plains, and raise the peaceful Deep:
But when superior Neptune leaves his Bed,
His Trident shakes, and shews his awful Head;
The madding Winds are hush'd, the Tempests cease,
And ev'ry rowling Surge resides in Peace.
Where, Heav'n serene, and Air unmov'd appears.
The Rose and Lilly paint the verdant Plains,
And Palm and Olive shade the Sylvan Scenes.
The peaceful Thames beneath his Banks abides,
And soft, and still, the Silver Surface glides.
The Zephyrs fan the Fields, the whisp'ring Breeze
With fragrant Breath remurmurs thro' the Trees.
The warbling Birds applauding new-born Light,
In wanton Measures wing their airy Flight.
Above the Floods the finny Race repair,
And bound aloft, and bask in upper Air;
They gild their scaly Backs in Phœbus Beams,
And scorn to skim the Level of the Streams.
Whole Nature wears a Gay and Joyous Face,
And blooms and ripens with the Fruits of Peace.
But cheerfully Manures the grateful Soil;
And golden Ceres grace the waving Field.
Th'advent'rous Man, who durst the Deep explore,
Oppose the Winds, and tempt the shelfy Shoar,
Beneath his Roof now tastes unbroken Rest,
Enough with Native Wealth and Plenty blest.
Nor leaves the Sacred Arts for stubborn Arms.
No more the Mothers from their Hopes are torn,
Nor weeping Maids the promis'd Lover mourn.
No more the Widows Shrieks and Orphans Cries,
Torment the patient Air and pierce the Skies.
But peaceful Joys the prosp'rous Times afford,
And banish'd Virtue is again restor'd.
And he whose Arms alone sustain'd the Toil,
And propp'd the nodding Frame of Britain's Isle;
By whose illustrious Deeds, her Leaders fir'd,
Have Honours lost retriev'd, and new acquir'd,
And Good, as Great, in awful Peace shall reign;
For his Example still the Rule shall give,
And those it taught to Conquer, teach to Live.
Succeeding Leaves, and brighter still beholds;
The latest seen the fairest seems to shine,
Yet sudden does to one more fair resign.
Th'Eternal paus'd—
Nor would Britannia's Fate beyond explore;
Enough he saw besides the coming Store.
Enough the Heroe had already done,
And round the wide Extent of Glory run:
Nor further now the shining Path pursues,
But like the Sun the same bright Race renews.
Or Time unequally such Worth devour!
Why is this Man distinguish'd from the Rest?
Whose soaring Genius now sublime aspires,
And deathless Fame the due Reward requires.
Approving Heav'n th'exalted Virtue views,
Nor can the Claim which it approves refuse.
And in his mighty Mind the Means revolves.
He thought; Nor doubted once, again to chuse,
But spake the Word, and made th'immortal Muse.
Ne'er did his Pow'r produce so bright a Child,
On whose Creation Infant Nature smil'd.
Perfect at first, a finish'd Form she wears,
And Youth perpetual in her Face appears.
Th'assembled Gods who long expecting staid,
With new Delight gaze on the lovely Maid,
And think the wish'd-for World was well delay'd.
Nor did the Sire himself his Joy disguise,
But stedfast view'd, and fix'd, and fed his Eyes.
And thus the God the Heav'nly Fair bespoke.
O'er Time and Fame, I give unbounded Pow'r.
Thou, from Oblivion shalt the Heroe save;
Shalt raise, revive, immortalize the Brave.
To thee, the Dardan Prince shall owe his Fame;
To thee, the Cæsars their eternal Name.
Eliza sung by thee, with Fate shall strive,
And long as Time, in Sacred Verse survive.
And yet O Muse, remains the noblest Theme;
The first of Men, Mature for Endless Fame,
Thy future Songs shall grace, and all thy Lays,
Thenceforth, alone shall wait on William's Praise.
On his Heroick Deeds thy Verse shall rise;
Thou shalt diffuse the Fires that he supplies:
Thro' him thy Songs shall more sublime aspire;
And he, thro' them, shall deathless Fame acquire:
Or blast the Monuments the Muse bestows.
Again impatient Crowd the Crystal Coast.
The Father, now, within his spacious Hands,
Encompass'd all the mingled Mass of Seas and Lands;
And having heav'd aloft the pond'rous Sphere,
He Launch'd the World to float in ambient Air.
ON Mrs. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING.
IRREGULAR ODE.
I.
Let all be husht, each softest Motion cease,Be ev'ry loud tumultuous Thought at Peace,
And ev'ry ruder Gasp of Breath
Be calm, as in the Arms of Death.
And thou most fickle, most uneasie Part,
Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart,
Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,
Thou busie, idle thing, to heave.
Stir not a Pulse; and let my Blood,
That turbulent, unruly Flood,
Be softly staid:
Let me be all, but my Attention, dead.
Leave your officious Toil and Strife;
For I would hear her Voice, and try
If it be possible to die.
II.
Come all ye Love-sick Maids and wounded Swains,And listen to her Healing Strains.
A wond'rous Balm, between her Lips she wears,
Of Sov'reign Force to soften Cares;
And this through ev'ry Ear she can impart,
(By tuneful Breath diffus'd) to ev'ry Heart.
Swiftly the gentle Charmer flies,
And to the tender Grief soft Air applies,
Which, warbling Mystick Sounds,
Cements the bleeding Panter's Wounds.
But ah! beware of clam'rous Moan:
Let no unpleasing Murmur or harsh Groan,
Your slighted Loves declare:
Your very tend'rest moving Sighs forbear,
For even they will be too boist'rous here.
And let all sawcy Praise be dumb.
III.
And lo! Silence himself is here;Methinks I see the Midnight God appear,
In all his downy Pomp array'd,
Behold the rev'rend Shade:
An ancient Sigh he sits upon,
Whose Memory of Sound is long since gone,
And purposely annihilated for his Throne:
Beneath, two soft transparent Clouds do meet,
In which he seems to sink his softer Feet.
A melancholy Thought, condens'd to Air,
Stol'n from a Lover in Despair,
Like a thin Mantle, serves to wrap
In Fluid Folds his visionary Shape.
A Wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears,
Where curling Mists supply the Want of Hairs:
While the still Vapors, which from Poppies rise,
Bedew his hoary Face, and lull his Eyes.
IV.
But hark! the heav'nly Sphere turns round,And Silence now is drown'd
In Extasie of Sound.
How on a sudden the still Air is charm'd,
As if all Harmony were just alarm'd!
And ev'ry Soul with Transport fill'd,
Alternately is thaw'd and chill'd.
See how the Heav'nly Choir
Come flocking, to admire,
And with what Speed and Care,
Descending Angels cull the thinnest Air!
Haste then, come all th'Immortal Throng,
And listen to her Song;
Leave your lov'd Mansions, in the Sky,
And hither, quickly hither fly;
Your Loss of Heav'n, nor shall you need to fear,
While she Sings, 'tis Heav'n here.
V.
See how they croud, see how the little Cherubs skip!While others sit around her Mouth, and sip
Sweet Hallelujahs from her Lip.
Those Lips, where in Surprise of Bliss they rove;
For ne'er before did Angels taste
So exquisite a Feast,
Of Musick and of Love.
Prepare then, ye Immortal Choir,
Each sacred Minstrel tune his Lyre,
And with her Voice in Chorus join,
Her Voice, which next to yours is most Divine.
Bless the glad Earth with Heav'nly Lays,
And to that Pitch th'eternal Accents raise,
Which only Breath inspir'd can reach,
To Notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach:
While we, charm'd with the lov'd Excess,
Are wrapt in sweet Forgetfulness:
Of all, of all, but of the present Happiness:
Wishing for ever in that State to lye,
For ever to be dying so, yet never die.
Priam's Lamentation and Petition TO ACHILLES, For the Body of his Son HECTOR.
Argument Introductory to this Translation.
Hector's Body, (after he was Slain) remain'd still in the Possession of Achilles; for which Priam made great Lamentation. Jupiter had Pity on him, and sent Iris to comfort him, and direct him after what manner he should go to Achilles's Tent; and how he should there Ransom the Body of his Son. Priam accordingly orders his Chariot to be got ready, and preparing rich Presents for Achilles, sets forward to the Grecian Camp, accompany'd by no Body but his Herald Idæus. Mercury, at Jupiter's Command, meets him by the Way, in the Figure of a young Grecian, and, after bemoaning his Misfortunes, undertakes to drive his Chariot, unobserv'd, through the Guards, and to the Door of Achilles's Tent; which having perform'd, he discover'd himself a God, and giving him a short Instruction, how to move Achilles to Compassion, flew up to Heaven.
Translated from the Greek of Homer, Ιλιαδ. Beginning at this Line,
Ως αρα φωνησας απεβη προς μακρον ΟλυμπονΕρμειας------
When Priam from his Chariot did alight;
Leaving Idæus there, alone he went
With Solemn Pace, into Achilles' Tent.
Heedless, he pass'd thro' various Rooms of State,
Until approaching where the Heroe sate;
There at a Feast, the good old Priam found
Jove's best belov'd, with all his Chiefs around:
Two only were t'attend his Person plac'd,
Automedon and Alcymus; the rest
At greater Distance, greater State express'd.
And first of all was by Achilles view'd.
About his Knees his trembling Arms he cast,
And agonizing grasp'd and held 'em fast;
Then caught his Hands, and kiss'd and press'd 'em close,
Those Hands, th'inhuman Authors of his Woes;
Much of his Blood (for many Sons he lost.)
And seeking Refuge, does from Justice run;
Entring some House, in haste, where he's unknown,
Creates Amazement in the Lookers on:
So did Achilles gaze, surpriz'd to see
The Godlike Priam's Royal Misery;
All on each other gaz'd, all in surprize
And mute, yet seem'd to question with their Eyes.
'Till he at length the solemn Silence broke;
And thus the venerable Suppliant spoke.
A prostrate King, in Wretchedness grown old:
Think on your Father, and then look on me,
His hoary Age and helpless Person see;
So furrow'd are his Cheeks, so white his Hairs,
Such, and so many his declining Years;
Cou'd you imagine such, his Misery!
Yet it may come, when he shall be oppress'd,
And neighb'ring Princes lay his Country waste;
Ev'n at this time perhaps some pow'rful Foe,
Who will no Mercy, no Compassion show,
Ent'ring his Palace, sees him feebly fly,
And seek Protection, where no Help is nigh.
In vain, he may your fatal Absence mourn,
And wish in vain for your delay'd Return;
Yet, that he hears you live, is some Relief;
Some Hopes alleviate his Excess of Grief.
It glads his Soul to think, he once may see
His much-lov'd Son; would that were granted me!
But I, most wretched I! of all bereft!
Of all my Worthy Sons, how few are left!
Yet fifty goodly Youths I had to boast,
When first the Greeks invaded Ilion's Coast:
Nineteen, the joyful Issue of one Womb,
Are now, alas! a mournful Tribute to one Tomb.
And their strong Nerves to Dissolution brought.
My Age's Comfort, and his Country's Prop;
Hector, my Darling, and my last Defence,
Whose Life alone, their Deaths could recompence:
And, to compleat my Store of countless Woe,
Him you have slain—of him bereav'd me too!
For his sake only, hither am I come;
Rich Gifts I bring, and Wealth, an endless Sum;
All to redeem that fatal Prize you won,
A worthless Ransom for so brave a Son.
With Pity look, think you your Father see;
Such as I am, he is, alone in this,
I can no Equal have in Miseries;
Of all Mankind, most wretched and forlorn,
Bow'd with such Weight, as never has been born;
The Spring and Source of all my Sorrows come;
With Gifts, to court mine and my Country's Bane,
And kiss those Hands, which have my Children slain.
He spake.—
Priam he views, and for his Father fears;
That, and Compassion melt him into Tears.
Then, gently with his Hand he put away
Old Priam's Face, but he, still prostrate lay,
And there with Tears, and Sighs, afresh begun
To mourn the Fall of his ill-fated Son.
But Passion diff'rent ways Achilles turns,
Now, he Patroclus, now, his Father mourns:
Thus both with Lamentations fill'd the Place,
'Till Sorrow seem'd to wear one common Face.
THE LAMENTATIONS OF Hecuba, Adromache, and Helen, Over the dead Body of HECTOR.
Connexion of this with the former Translation.
Priam, at last, moves Achilles to Compassion, and after having made him Presents of great Value, obtains the Body of his Son. Mercury awakens Priam early in the Morning, and advises him to haste away with the Body, least Agamemnon should be informed of his being in the Camp: He himself helps to harness the Mules and Horses, and conveys him safely, and without Noise, Chariot and all, from among the Grecian Tents; then flies up to Heav'n, leaving Priam and Idæus to travel on with the Body toward Troy.
Gilding the Face of Universal Day;
Slowly his Chariot mov'd, as that had mourn'd;
The Mules, beneath the mangled Body go,
As bearing (now) unusual Weight of Woe.
To Pergamus high top Cassandra flies,
Thence, she afar the sad Procession spies:
Her Father and Idæus first appear,
Then Hector's Corps extended on a Bier;
At which, her boundless Grief loud Cries began,
And, thus lamenting, thro' the Streets she ran:
Hither, ye wretched Trojans, hither all!
Behold the Godlike Hector's Funeral!
If e'er you went with Joy, to see him come
Adorn'd with Conquest and with Lawrels home,
Assemble now, his Ransom'd Body see,
What once was all your Joy, now all your Misery!
Nor Man, nor Woman, in the City staid;
With clam'rous Moan to Scæas Gate they run,
There the lov'd Body of their Hector meet,
Which they, with loud and fresh Lamentings, greet.
His Rev'rend Mother, and his Tender Wife,
Equal in Love, in Grief had equal Strife:
In Sorrow they no Moderation knew,
But wildly wailing, to the Chariot flew;
There strove the rolling Wheels to hold, while each
Attempted first his breathless Corps to reach;
Aloud they beat their Breasts, and tore their Hair,
Rending around with Shrieks the suff'ring Air.
Who would have there lamented all the Day,
But Priam from his Chariot rose, and spake,
Trojans enough; Truce with your Sorrows make;
Give way to me, and yield the Chariot Room;
First let me bear my Hector's Body home,
Yielding, like Waves of a divided Sea.
With Care, the Body on a Sumptuous Bed,
And round about were skilful Singers plac'd,
Who wept, and sigh'd, and in sad Notes express'd
Their Moan; All in a Chorus did agree
Of Universal, Mournful Harmony.
When, first, Andromache, her Passion broke,
And thus (close pressing his pale Cheeks) she spoke.
Andromache's Lamentation.
Thy early Fate, and too untimely Urn:
In the full Pride of Youth thy Glories fade,
And thou in Ashes must with them be laid.
Why am I thus distress'd! why thus forlorn!
Why do I live, who am of thee bereft!
Yet I were blest, were I alone undone;
Alas, my Child! where can an Infant run?
Unhappy Orphan! thou in Woes art nurst;
Why were you born?—I am with Blessings curst!
For long e'er thou shalt be to Manhood grown,
Wide Desolation will lay waste this Town:
Who is there now that can Protection give,
Since He, who was her Strength, no more doth live?
Who of her Rev'rend Matrons will have Care?
Who save her Children from the Rage of War?
For He to all Father and Husband was,
And all are Orphans now, and Widows by his Loss
Soon will the Grecians, now, insulting come,
And bear us Captives to their distant Home;
I, with my Child, must the same Fortune share,
And all alike, be Pris'ners of the War;
'Mongst base-born Wretches he his Lot must have,
And be to some inhuman Lord, a Slave.
Or for an only Son, or Father kill'd
By Hector's Hand, on him will vent his Rage,
And with his Blood his Thirsty Grief asswage;
For many fell by his relentless Hand,
Biting that Ground, which with their Blood was stain'd.
And never did his Foe in Battel spare;
Thence come these Suff'rings, which so much have cost,
Much Woe to all, but sure to me the most.
I saw him not, when in the Pangs of Death,
Nor did my Lips receive his latest Breath;
Why held he not to me his dying Hand?
And why receiv'd not I his last Command?
Something he would have said, had I been there,
Which I should still in sad Remembrance bear;
For I could never, never Words forget,
Which Night and Day, I should with Tears repeat.
A general Sigh diffus'd a mournful Sound.
With boiling Passions in her aged Breast,
Mingling her Words with Sighs and Tears, begun
A Lamentation for her Darling Son.
Hecuba's Lamentation.
Than all my other num'rous Issue were;
O my last Comfort, and my best Belov'd!
Thou, at whose Fall, ev'n Jove himself was mov'd,
And sent a God his dread Commands to bear,
So far thou wert high Heav'n's peculiar Care!
From fierce Achilles' Chains thy Corps was freed;
So kind a Fate was for none else decreed:
My other Sons, made Pris'ners by his Hands,
Were sold like Slaves, and shipt to foreign Lands.
And dragg'd, when dead, about Patroclus Tomb,
His lov'd Patroclus, whom thy Hands had slain;
And yet that Cruelty was urg'd in vain,
Since all could not restore his Life again.
Now fresh and glowing, even in Death thou art,
And fair as he who fell by Phœbus' Dart.
And Universal Moan again was made;
When Helen's Lamentation hers supply'd,
And thus, aloud, that fatal Beauty cry'd.
Helen's Lamentation.
No Brother there had half so large a Part:
Not less than twenty Years are now pass'd o're,
Since first I landed on the Trojan Shore;
Since I with Godlike Paris fled from home;
(Would I had dy'd before that Day had come!)
I ne'er could charge thee with a Deed unkind;
Not one untender Word, or Look of Scorn,
Which I too often have from others born.
But you from their Reproach still set me free,
And kindly have reprov'd their Cruelty;
If by my Sisters, or the Queen revil'd,
(For the good King, like you, was ever mild)
Your Kindness still has all my Grief beguil'd.
Ever in Tears let me your Loss bemoan,
Who had no Friend alive, but you alone:
All will reproach me now, where-e'er I pass,
And fly with Horror from my hated Face.
This said; she wept, and the vast Throng was mov'd,
And with a gen'ral Sigh her Grief approv'd.
When Priam (who had heard the mourning Crowd)
Rose from his Seat, and thus he spake aloud.
And fell down Trees to build a Fun'ral Pile;
For with Achilles twelve Days Truce I made.
Chariots were brought, and Mules and Oxen join'd;
Forth from the City all the People went,
And nine Days Space was in that Labour spent;
The Tenth, a most stupendous Pile they made,
And on the Top the Manly Hector laid,
Then gave it Fire; while all, with weeping Eyes,
Beheld the rolling Flames and Smoak arise.
All Night they wept, and all the Night it burn'd;
But when the Rosie Morn with Day return'd,
About the Pile the thronging People came,
And with black Wine quench'd the remaining Flame.
His Brothers then, and Friends search'd ev'ry where,
And gath'ring up his snowy Bones with Care,
Wrapt in soft Purple Palls, and richly wrought,
In which the Sacred Ashes were interr'd,
Then o'er his Grave a Monument they rear'd.
Mean time, strong Guards were plac'd, and careful Spies,
To watch the Grecians, and prevent Surprize.
The Work once ended, all the vast Resort
Of mourning People went to Priam's Court;
There they refresh'd their weary Limbs with Rest,
Ending the Fun'ral with a Solemn Feast.
PARAPHRASE UPON HORACE. ODE XIX. LIB. I.
I.
The Tyrant Queen of soft Desires,With the resistless Aid of sprightly Wine
And wanton Ease, conspires
To make my Heart its Peace resign,
And re-admit Love's long rejected Fires.
For beauteous Glycera I burn,
The Flames so long repell'd with double Force return:
Matchless her Face appears, and shines more bright
Than polish'd Marble when reflecting Light;
And with a grateful Sullenness she charms:
Each Look darts forth a thousand Rays,
Whose Lustre an unwary Sight betrays,
My Eye-balls swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze.
II.
She comes! she comes! she rushes in my Veins!At once all Venus enters, and at large she reigns!
Cyprus no more with her Abode is blest,
I am her Palace, and her Throne my Breast.
Of Savage Scythian Arms no more I write,
Or Parthian Archers, who in flying fight,
And make rough War their Sport;
Such idle Themes no more can move,
Nor any thing but what's of high Import:
And what's of high Import, but Love?
Vervain and Gums, and the green Turf prepare;
With Wine of two Years old, your Cups be fill'd:
After our Sacrifice and Pray'r,
The Goddess may incline her Heart to yield.
STANZA'S In Imitation of Horace, Lib. II. Ode XIV.
Labuntur Anni, &c.
I
Ah! no, 'tis all in vain, believe me 'tisThis Pious Artifice.
Not all these Pray'rs and Alms can buy
One Moment tow'rd Eternity.
Eternity! that boundless Race,
Which Time himself can never run:
(Swift, as he flies, with an unweary'd Pace,)
Which, when ten thousand, thousand Years are done,
Is still the same, and still to be begun.
Fix'd are those Limits, which prescribe
A short Extent to the most lasting Breath;
Millions of other Lives to save thy own,
'Twere fruitless all; not all would bribe
One Supernumerary Gasp from Death.
II
In vain's thy inexhausted StoreOf Wealth, in vain thy Pow'r;
Thy Honours, Titles, all must fail,
Where Piety it self can nought avail.
The Rich, the Great, the Innocent and Just,
Must all be huddled to the Grave,
With the most Vile and Ignominious Slave,
And undistinguish'd lye in Dust.
In vain the Fearful flies Alarms,
In vain he is secure from Wounds of Arms,
In vain avoids the faithless Seas,
And is confin'd to Home and Ease,
Bounding his Knowledge, to extend his Days.
In vain are all those Arts we try,
All our Evasions, and Regret to die:
No Clime is pure, no Air is free:
And no Retreat
Is so Obscure, as to be hid from Fate.
III
Thou must, alas! thou must, my Friend;(The very Hour thou now dost spend
In studying to avoid, brings on thy End)
Thou must forego the dearest Joys of Life;
Leave the warm Bosom of thy tender Wife,
And all the much-lov'd Off-spring of her Womb,
To moulder in the cold Embraces of a Tomb.
All must be left, and all be lost;
Thy House, whose stately Structure so much cost,
Shall not afford
Room for the stinking Carkass of its Lord.
Of all thy pleasant Gardens, Grots and Bow'rs,
Thy costly Fruits, thy far-fetch'd Plants and Flow'rs,
Nought shalt thou save;
Or but a Sprig of Rosemary shalt have,
To wither with thee in the Grave:
Their Transitory Master Dead.
IV
Then shall thy long-expecting Heir,A joyful Mourning wear:
And Riot in the Waste of that Estate
Which thou hast taken so much Pains to get.
All thy hid Stores he shall unfold,
And set at large thy Captive Gold.
That precious Wine, condemn'd by thee
To Vaults and Prisons, shall again be free:
Bury'd alive tho' now it lyes,
Again shall rise,
Again its sparkling Surface show,
And free as Element, profusely flow.
With such high Food he shall set forth his Feasts,
That Cardinals shall wish to be his Guests;
And pamper'd Prelates see
Themselves out-done in Luxury.
In Imitation of HORACE. Ode IX. Lib. I.
I.
Bless me, 'tis cold! how chill the Air!How naked does the World appear!
But see (big with the Off-spring of the North)
The teeming Clouds bring forth:
A Show'r of soft and fleecy Rain
Falls, to new-cloath the Earth again.
Behold the Mountain-Tops, around,
As if with Fur of Ermins crown'd:
And lo! how by Degrees
The universal Mantle hides the Trees,
In hoary Flakes, which downward fly,
As if it were the Autumn of the Sky:
Like aged Limbs, which feebly go
Beneath a venerable Head of Snow.
II.
Diffusive Cold does the whole Earth invade,Like a Disease, through all its Veins 'tis spread,
And each late living Stream is numb'd and dead.
Let's melt the frozen Hours, make warm the Air;
Let chearful Fires Sol's feeble Beams repair;
Fill the large Bowl with sparkling Wine;
Let's drink, 'till our own Faces shine,
'Till we like Suns appear,
To light and warm the Hemisphere.
Wine can dispense to all both Light and Heat,
They are with Wine incorporate:
That pow'rful Juice, with which no Cold dares mix,
Which still is fluid, and no Frost can fix;
Let that but in Abundance flow,
And let it Storm and Thunder, Hail and Snow,
The Care of Heav'n still, for me:
These Winds, which rend the Oaks and plough the Seas,
Great Jove can, if he please,
With one commanding Nod appease.
III.
Seek not to know to Morrow's Doom;That is not ours, which is to come.
The present Moment's all our Store:
The next, should Heav'n allow,
Then this will be no more:
So all our Life is but one Instant Now.
Look on each Day you've past
To be a mighty Treasure won:
And lay each Moment out in haste;
We're sure to live too fast,
And cannot live too soon.
Youth does a Thousand Pleasures bring,
Which from decrepid Age will fly;
The Flow'rs that flourish in the Spring,
In Winter's cold Embraces die.
IV.
Now Love, that everlasting Boy, invitesTo revel while you may, in soft Delights:
Now the kind Nymph yields all her Charms,
Nor yields in vain to youthful Arms.
Slowly she promises at Night to meet,
But eagerly prevents the Hour with swifter Feet.
To gloomy Groves and obscure Shades she flies,
There vails the bright Confession of her Eyes.
Unwillingly she stays,
Would more unwillingly depart,
And in soft Sighs conveys
The Whispers of her Heart.
Still she invites and still denies,
And vows she'll leave you if y'are rude;
Then from her Ravisher she flies,
But flies to be pursu'd:
If from his Sight she does her self convey,
With a feign'd Laugh she will her self betray,
And cunningly instruct him in the Way.
SONG.
[I look'd, and I sigh'd, and I wish'd I cou'd speak]
I
I look'd, and I sigh'd, and I wish'd I cou'd speak,And very fain would have been at her;
But when I strove most my great Passion to break,
Still then I said least of the Matter.
II
I swore to my self, and resolv'd I wou'd trySome way my poor Heart to recover;
But that was all vain, for I sooner cou'd die,
Than live with forbearing to love her.
III
Dear Cælia be kind then; and since your own EyesBy Looks can command Adoration,
Give mine leave to talk too, and do not despise
Those Oglings that tell you my Passion.
IV
We'll look, and we'll love, and tho' neither shou'd speak,The Pleasure we'll still be pursuing;
And so, without Words, I don't doubt we may make
A very good end of this Wooing.
THE RECONCILIATION.
RECITATIVE.
Fair Celia, Love pretended,And nam'd the Myrtle Bow'r,
Where Damon long attended
Beyond the promis'd Hour.
At length impatient growing
Of anxious Expectation,
His Heart with Rage o'erflowing,
He vented thus his Passion.
ODE.
To all the Sex deceitful,A long and last Adieu;
Since Women prove ungrateful
As oft as Men prove true.
The Pains they cause are many,
And long and hard to bear,
The Joys they give (if any)
Few, short, and unsincere.
RECITATIVE.
But Celia now repentingHer breach of Assignation,
Arriv'd with Eyes consenting
And sparkling Inclination.
Like Citherea smiling,
She blush'd, and laid his Passion;
The Shepherd ceas'd reviling,
And sung this Recantation.
PALINODE.
How engaging, how endearing,Is a Lover's Pain and Care!
After Absence or Despair!
Women wise encrease Desiring,
By contriving kind Delays;
And advancing, or retiring,
All they mean is more to please.
ABSENCE.
[Ah! what Pains, what racking Thoughts he proves]
Ah! what Pains, what racking Thoughts he proves,Who lives remov'd from her he dearest loves!
In cruel Absence doom'd past Joys to mourn,
And think on Hours that will no more return.
Oh! let me ne'er the Pangs of Absence try,
Save me from Absence, Love, or let me die.
SONG.
[False though she be to me and Love]
I'll ne'er pursue Revenge;
For still the Charmer I approve,
Tho' I deplore her Change.
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.
SONG in DIALOGUE, For TWO WOMEN.
1.I love, and am belov'd again,
Strephon no more shall sigh in vain;
I've try'd his Faith, and found him true,
And all my Coyness bid adieu.
I love, and am belov'd again,
Yet still my Thyrsis shall complain;
I'm sure he's mine, while I refuse him,
But when I yield, I fear to loose him.
1.
Men will grow faint with tedious Fasting.
2.
And both will tire with often Tasting,
When they find the Bliss not lasting.
1.
Love is compleat in kind Possessing.
2.
Ah no! ah no! that ends the Blessing.
Chorus of both.
Then let us beware how far we consent,
Too soon when we yield, too late we repent;
'Tis Ignorance makes Men admire:
And granting Desire,
We feed not the Fire,
But make it more quickly expire.
SONG.
[Tell me no more I am deceiv'd]
I
Tell me no more I am deceiv'd;That Cloe's false and common:
I always knew (at least believ'd)
She was a very Woman;
As such, I lik'd, as such, caress'd,
She still was constant when possess'd,
She could do more for no Man.
II
But oh! her Thoughts on others ran,And, that, you think a hard thing;
Perhaps, she fancy'd you the Man,
And what care I one Farthing?
You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind;
I take her Body, you her Mind,
Who has the better Bargain?
THE PETITION.
One dear Blessing e'er I die;
Long I've born Excess of Pain,
Let me now some Bliss obtain.
When angry, thus the God reply'd.
Art thou not Amynta's Slave?
Cease, fond Mortal, to implore,
For Love, Love himself's no more.
SONG.
[Cruel Amynta, can you see]
I
Cruel Amynta, can you seeA Heart thus torn which you betray'd?
Love of himself ne'er vanquish'd me.
But through your Eyes the Conquest made.
II
In Ambush there the Traitor lay,Where I was led by faithless Smiles:
No Wretches are so lost as they,
Whom much Security beguiles.
SONG.
[See, see she wakes, Sabina wakes!]
I
See, see she wakes, Sabina wakes!And now the Sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the Morn that breaks
From his bright Beams, than her fair Eyes.
II
With Light united, Day they give,But different Fates e'er Night fulfil:
How many by his Warmth will live!
How many will her Coldness kill!
Occasioned on a LADY's, HAVING Writ Verses in Commendation of a Poem which was written in Praise of another Lady.
Hard is the Task, and bold th'adventrous FlightOf Him, who dares in Praise of Beauty write;
For when to that high Theme our Thoughts ascend,
'Tis to detract, too poorly to commend.
And he, who praising Beauty, do's no wrong,
May boast to be successful in his Song:
And one accepts, and one vouchsafes to praise,
His wide Ambition knows no farther Bound,
Nor can his Muse with brighter Fame be crown'd.
EPIGRAM,
WRITTEN After the Decease of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, under her Picture drawn playing on a Lute.
Were there on Earth another Voice like thine,Another Hand so blest with Skill Divine!
The late afflicted World some Hopes might have,
And Harmony retrieve thee from the Grave.
SONG.
[Pious Selinda goes to Pray'rs]
I
Pious Selinda goes to Pray'rs,If I but ask the Favour;
And yet the tender Fool's in Tears,
When she believes I'll leave her.
II
Wou'd I were free from this Restraint,Or else had hopes to win her;
Wou'd she cou'd make of me a Saint,
Or I of her a Sinner.
A HYMN TO HARMONY. In Honour of St. CECILIA's Day, MDCCI.
I.
To thee the grateful Tribute bring
Of Sacred Verse, and sweet resounding Lays;
Thy Aid invoking while thy Pow'r we praise.
All Hail to thee
All-pow'rful Harmony!
Her wond'rous Works resigning to thy Care;
The Planetary Orbs thy Rule obey,
And tuneful Roll, unerring in their way,
Thy Voice informing each melodious Sphere.
CHORUS.
All Hail to theeAll-pow'rful Harmony!
II.
Could penetrate th'Abyss profound,
Explore the Realms of ancient Night,
And search the living Source of unborn Light.
Confusion heard thy Voice and fled,
And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd Head.
Then didst thou, Harmony, give Birth
To this fair Form of Heav'n and Earth;
Then all those shining Worlds above
In Mystick Dance began to move
A never ceasing, never silent Choir.
CHORUS.
Confusion heard thy Voice and fled,And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd Head.
III.
The mighty Charms in Numbers found;
And didst to Heav'nly Minds reveal
The secret force of tuneful Sound.
When first Cyllenius form'd the Lyre,
Thou didst the God inspire;
When first the vocal Shell he strung,
To which the Muses sung:
Then first the Muses sung; melodious Strains Apollo plaid,
And Musick first begun by thy auspicious Aid.
Hark, hark, again Urania sings!
Again Apollo strikes the trembling Strings!
And see, the list'ning Deities around
Attend insatiate, and devour the Sound.
CHORUS.
Hark, hark, again Urania sings!Again Apollo strikes the trembling Strings!
And see, the list'ning Deities around
Attend insatiate, and devour the Sound.
IV.
To the Relief of this afflicted World repair;
See how with various Woes opprest,
The wretched Race of Men is worn;
Consum'd with Cares, with Doubts distrest,
Or by conflicting Passions torn.
Reason in vain employs her Aid,
The furious Will on Fancy waits;
While Reason still by Hopes or Fears betray'd,
Too late advances or too soon retreats.
Musick alone with sudden Charms can bind
The wandring Sense, and calm the troubled Mind.
CHORUS.
Musick alone with sudden Charms can bindThe wandring Sense, and calm the troubled Mind.
V.
Your Instruments and Voices join;
Harmony, Peace, and sweet Desire,
In ev'ry Breast inspire.
Revive the melancholy drooping Heart,
And soft Repose to restless Thoughts impart.
Appease the wrathful Mind,
To dire Revenge and Death inclin'd:
With balmy Sounds his boiling Blood asswage,
And melt to mild Remorse his burning Rage.
'Tis done; and now tumultuous Passions cease;
And all is husht, and all is Peace.
The weary World with welcome Ease is blest,
By Musick lull'd to pleasing Rest.
CHORUS.
'Tis done; and now tumultuous Passions cease;And all is husht, and all is Peace.
The weary World with welcome Ease is blest,
By Musick lull'd to pleasing Rest.
VI.
Ah, foolish Man, new Toils requiring!
Curs'd Ambition, Strife pursuing,
Wakes the World to War and Ruin.
See, see, the Battel is prepar'd!
Behold the Hero comes!
Loud Trumpets with shrill Fifes are heard;
And hoarse resounding Drums.
War, with discordant Notes and jarring Noise,
The Harmony of Peace destroys.
CHORUS.
War, with discordant Notes and jarring Noise,The Harmony of Peace destroys.
VII.
Her parting Lover mourn;
She weeps, she sighs, despairs and dies,
And watchful wastes the lonely livelong Nights,
Bewailing past Delights
O sooth her Cares
With softest, sweetest Airs,
'Till Victory and Peace restore
Her faithful Lover to her tender Breast,
Within her folding Arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No never to be parted more.
CHORUS.
Let Victory and Peace restoreHer faithful Lover to her tender Breast,
Within her folding Arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No never to be parted more.
VIII.
Now to thy Native Skies repair,
And rule again the Starry Sphere;
Cecilia comes, with holy Rapture fill'd,
To ease the World of Care.
Phœbus himself to her must yield,
And at her Feet lay down
His Golden Harp and Lawrel Crown.
The soft enervate Lyre is drown'd
In the deep Organ's more majestick Sound.
In Peals the swelling Notes ascend the Skies;
Perpetual Breath the swelling Notes supplies,
And lasting as her Name,
Who form'd the tuneful Frame,
Th'immortal Musick never dies.
Grand CHORUS.
Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd!Phœbus himself to her must yield,
And at her Feet lay down
His Golden Harp and Lawrel Crown.
The soft enervate Lyre is drown'd
In the deep Organ's more majestick Sound.
Perpetual Breath the swelling Notes supplies,
And lasting as her Name,
Who form'd the tuneful Frame,
Th'immortal Musick never dies.
VERSES To the Memory of Grace Lady Gethin,
Occasioned by reading her Book, Intitled RELIQUIÆ GETHINIANÆ.
After a painful Life in Study spent,The Learn'd themselves their Ignorance lament;
And aged Men, whose Lives exceed the Space,
Which seems the Bound prescrib'd to mortal Race,
As doom'd to die before they've learn'd to live.
So hard it is true Knowledge to attain,
So frail is Life, and fruitless Human Pain!
Who-e'er on this reflects, and then beholds,
With strict Attention, what this Book unfolds,
With Admiration struck, shall question Who
So very long could live, so much to know?
For so compleat the finish'd Piece appears,
That Learning seems combin'd with Length of Years;
And both improv'd by purest Wit, to reach
At all that Study, or that Time can teach.
But to what height must his Amazement rise!
When having read the Work, he turns his Eyes
Again to view the foremost op'ning Page,
And there the Beauty, Sex, and tender Age
Of Her beholds, in whose pure Mind arose
Th'Ætherial Source from whence this Current flows!
And Superstition o'er Philosophy prevails.
Some heav'nly Minister we strait conclude,
Some Angel-Mind with Female Form indu'd,
To make a short Abode on Earth, was sent,
(Where no Perfection can be permanent)
And having left her bright Example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the Throne, Eternal Hymns
She Sings, amid the Choir of Seraphims;
Or some refulgent Star informs, and guides,
Where she, the blest Intelligence, presides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as Impious to enquire, as Vain:
And all we ought, or can, in this dark State,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.
EPITAPH
UPON Robert Huntington, of Stanton Harcourt, Esq; and Robert his Son.
Father and Son, together laid;
Whose living Virtues shall remain,
When they, and this, are quite decay'd.
And finish'd Worth shou'd do, or shun,
At full was in the Father shown;
What Youth cou'd promise, in the Son.
The perfect Fruit, and op'ning Bud:
First seiz'd those Sweets we had enjoy'd,
Then robb'd us of the coming Good.
TO Mr. DRYDEN, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.
Of Knights imprison'd long by Magic Spells,
'Till future Time the destin'd Hero send,
By whom, the dire Enchantment is to end:
Such seems this Work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great Revealer of dark Poesie.
O'er Persius's too-long-suff'ring Muse been cast,
And, in their room, bright tracks of Light are seen.
Sure Phœbus self thy swelling Breast inspires,
The God of Musick, and Poetick Fires:
Else, whence proceeds this great Surprise of Light!
How dawns this Day, forth from the Womb of Night!
Vainly Contemning what we did not know:
So, Unbelievers impiously despise
The Sacred Oracles, in Mysteries.
Persius, before, in small Esteem was had,
Unless, what to Antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with Scruple read,
(So far, our Ignorance, our Faith mis-led)
'Till you, Apollo's darling Priest, thought fit
To place it in the Poet's Sacred Writ.
For more than its intrinsick Worth will pass:
Adds Worth to Worth, and dignifies the Gold.
To you, we, all this following Treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a Rock did flow.
Polish'd by you, in Modern Brillant shines:
And as before, for Persius, our Esteem
To his Antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever Praise from us is due,
Belongs not to Old Persius, but the New.
For still Obscure, to us no Light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.
'Till Art and Force th'unwilling Sparks reveal;
But thro' your Skill, from those small Seeds of Fire,
Bright Flames arise, which never can Expire.
The ELEVENTH Satire of Juvenal.
The ARGUMENT.
The Design of this Satire is to expose and reprehend
all Manner of Intemperance and Debauchery;
but more particularly that exorbitant Luxury
used by the Romans, in their Feasting. The Poet
draws the Occasion from an Invitation, which
he here makes to his Friend, to dine with him;
very artfully preparing him, with what he was
to expect from his Treat, by beginning the Satire
with a particular Invective against the Vanity
and Folly of some Persons, who having but mean
Fortunes in the World, attempted to live up to
the heighth of Men of great Estates and Quality.
He shews us, the miserable End of such
Spend-thrifts and Gluttons; with the Manner
and Courses, which they took to bring themselves
to it; advising Men to live within Bounds, and
to proportion their Inclinations to the Extent
of their Fortune. He gives his Friend a Bill of
Fare, of the Entertainment he has provided for
him; and from thence he takes Occasion to reflect
upon the Temperance and Frugality of the
And with expensive Food indulge his Guests;
His Wealth and Quality support the Treat:
Nor is it Luxury in him, but State.
But when Poor Rutilus spends all he's Worth,
In hopes of setting one good Dinner forth;
'Tis down-right Madness; for what greater Jests,
Than Begging Gluttons, or than Beggars Feasts?
And proves the Common Theme of all the Town.
Able for Arms, and for his Country's good;
Urg'd
Restrain'd by no Advice. Sometimes Persons were compell'd, by the Tyranny of Nero, to practise the Trade of Fencing, and to Fight upon the Stage, for his inhuman Diversion; otherwise, seldom any but Common Slaves or Condemn'd Malefactors were so employ'd: Which made it the greater Reflection on any Person, who either voluntarily, or forced by his own Extravagance, for a Livelyhood (like Rutilus) apply'd himself to that wretched Trade.
Hinting, that though he was not compell'd to such a Practice of Fencing; yet it was a Shame that he was suffer'd to undertake it, and not advised, or commanded by the Magistracy, to the contrary.
But following his own inglorious Choice:
'Mongst common Fencers, practises the Trade,
That End debasing, for which Arms were made;
Arms, which to Man ne'er-dying Fame afford,
But his Disgrace is owing to his Sword.
Many there are of the same wretched Kind,
Whom, their despairing Creditors, may find
Lurking in Shambles; where with borrow'd Coin
They buy choice Meats, and in cheap Plenty dine;
Such, whose sole Bliss, is Eating; who can give
But that one Brutal Reason why they live.
And yet what's more ridiculous: Of these,
The poorest Wretch, is still most hard to please;
And he whose thin transparent Rags, declare
How much, his tatter'd Fortune wants repair,
Wou'd ransack ev'ry Element, for Choice
Of ev'ry Fish and Fowl, at any Price;
It has a Flavour then, which pleases most,
And he devours it with a greater Gust.
And that exhausted, still new Pledges gives;
'Till forc'd of meer Necessity, to eat,
He comes to pawn his Dish, to buy his Meat.
Nothing of Silver, or of Gold he spares,
Not what his Mother's Sacred Image bears;
The broken Relick, he with speed devours,
As he wou'd all the rest of's Ancestors,
If wrought in Gold, or if expos'd to Sale,
They'd pay the Price of one Luxurious Meal.
Thus certain Ruin treads upon his Heels,
The Stings of Hunger, soon, and Want he feels;
And thus is he reduc'd at length, to serve
Fencers, for miserable Scraps, or starve.
The Question is, at whose Expence 'tis drest.
In Rutilus, the Vanity despise.
Strange Ignorance! That the same Man, who knows
How far yond' Mount above this Mole-hill shows,
Shou'd not perceive a difference as great,
Between small Incomes and a vast Estate!
From Heav'n, to Mortals, sure, that Rule was sent,
Of Know thy self, and by some God was meant
To be our never-erring Pilot here,
Through all the various Courses, which we steer.
Thersites,
An Impudent, Deformed, Ill-Tongu'd Fellow (as Homer describes him, Iliad 2.) who accompany'd the Grecian Army to the Siege of Troy; where he took a Privilege often to rail and snarle at the Commanders. Some relate, that at last Achilles, for his Sawciness, kill'd him with a Blow of his Fist. Therefore we are not to understand Juvenal, here, as relating a matter of Fact; but Thersites is used here, to signifie any body of the same kind: As before, Atticus and Rutilus. The Meaning is, that such as he ought not (neither would he, had he been present) have presumed to oppose Ajax and Ulysses in contending for Achilles his Armour. See his Character admirably improv'd by Mr. Dryden in his Tragedy of Truth found too late.
Yet durst not for Achilles Armour speak;
When scarce Ulysses had a good Pretence,
With all th'advantage of his Eloquence.
Who-e'er attempts weak Causes to support,
Ought to be very sure he's able for't;
And not mistake strong Lungs and Impudence,
For Harmony of Words, and Force of Sense:
A Wise Man's Pow'r's the Limit of his Will.
Devote thy self to Thrift, not Luxury;
And wisely make that kind of Food thy Choice,
To which Necessity confines thy Price.
Well may they fear some miserable End,
Whom Gluttony and Want, at once attend;
Whose large voracious Throats have swallow'd All,
Both Land and Stock, Int'rest and Principal:
Well may they fear, at length, vile Pollio's Fate,
Who sold his very Ring, to purchase Meat;
And tho' a Knight, 'mongst common Slaves now stands,
Begging an Alms, with undistinguish'd Hands.
Sure sudden Death to such shou'd welcome be,
On whom, each added Year heaps Misery,
Scorn, Poverty, Reproach and Infamy.
Observe to tread and follow, by degrees.
Mony they borrow, and from all that lend,
Which, never meaning to restore, they spend;
But that and their small Stock of Credit gone,
Lest Rome should grow too warm, from thence they run:
For of late Years 'tis no more Scandal grown,
For Debt and Roguery to quit the Town,
Than in the midst of Summer's scorching Heat,
From Crouds, and Noise, and Business to retreat.
One only Grief such Fugitives can find;
Reflecting on the Pleasures left behind;
The Plays and loose Diversions of the Place,
But not one Blush appears for the Disgrace.
Ne'er was of Modesty so great a Dearth,
That out of Count'nance Vertue's fled from Earth;
Baffled, expos'd to Ridicule and Scorn,
She's with Astreæ gone, not to return.
Whether, my self I keep those Rules I give,
Or else, an unsuspected Glutton live;
If mod'rate Fare and Abstinence, I prize
In publick, yet in private Gormondize.
Evander's Feast reviv'd, to Day thou'lt see;
The poor Evander, I, and thou shalt be
Alcides and Æneas both to me.
Mean time, I send you now your Bill of Fare;
Be not surpriz'd, that 'tis all homely Cheer:
For nothing from the Shambles I provide,
But from my own small Farm, the tend'rest Kid
And fattest of my Flock, a Suckling yet,
That ne'er had Nourishment, but from the Teat;
No bitter Willow-tops have been its Food,
Scarce Grass; its Veins have more of Milk than Blood.
Next that, shall Mountain Sparagus be laid,
Pull'd by some plain, but cleanly Country-Maid.
Together with the Hens which laid 'em, drest;
Clusters of Grapes, preserv'd for half a Year,
Which, plump and fresh as on the Vines appear;
Apples, of a ripe Flavour, fresh and fair;
Mixt with the Syrian and the Signian Pear,
Mellow'd by Winter, from their cruder Juice,
Light of Digestion now, and fit for use.
Accounted Riot, in a Senator:
When the good Curius thought it no Disgrace,
With his own Hands, a few small Herbs to dress;
And from his little Garden, cull'd a Feast,
Which fetter'd Slaves wou'd now disdain to taste;
For scarce a Slave, but has to Dinner now,
The well-dress'd Paps of a fat pregnant Sow.
On Birth-Days, Festivals, or Days of State;
If they had fresh Meat, 'twas delicious Fare!
Which rarely hapned: And 'twas highly priz'd
If ought was left of what they sacrific'd.
To Entertainments of this Kind, wou'd come
The Worthiest and the Greatest Men in Rome;
Nay, seldom any at such Treats were seen,
But those who had at least thrice
By the Tyranny of Tarquinius Superbus, (the last Roman King) the very Name of King became hateful to the People. After his Expulsion, they assembled, and resolv'd to commit the Government, for the future, into the Hands of two Persons, who were to be chosen every Year anew, and whom they call'd Consuls.
Or the
Was a General chosen upon some emergent Occasion; his Office was limited to six Months; which Time expired, (if Occasion were) they chose another, or continued the same, by a new Election. The Dictator differ'd in nothing from a King, but in his Name, and the Duration of his Authority: His Power being full as great, but his Name not so hateful to the Romans.
And now from Honourable Toil enlarg'd,
Retir'd to Husband and Manure their Land,
Humbling themselves to those they might Command.
Then might y'have seen the good old Gen'ral haste,
Before th'appointed Hour, to such a Feast;
His Spade aloft, as 'twere in Triumph held,
Proud of the Conquest of some stubborn Field.
'Twas then, when pious Consuls bore the Sway,
And Vice discourag'd, pale and trembling lay.
Ev'n Pow'r it self, of Justice stood in awe.
It was not then, a Roman's anxious Thought,
Where largest Tortoise-Shells were to be bought,
Where Pearls might of the greatest Price be had,
And shining Jewels to adorn his Bed,
That he at vast Expence might loll his Head.
Plain was his Couch, and only rich his Mind;
Contentedly he slept, as cheaply, as he din'd.
The Soldier then, in Græcian Arts unskill'd,
Returning rich with Plunder, from the Field:
If Cups of Silver, or of Gold he Brought,
With Jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,
To glorious Trappings, streight the Plate he turn'd,
And with the glitt'ring Spoil his Horse adorn'd;
Or else a Helmet for himself he made,
Where various Warlike Figures were inlaid:
The Roman Wolf, suckling the Twins was there,
And Mars himself, arm'd with his Shield and Spear,
As threatning Death, to each resisting Foe.
No use of Silver, but in Arms was known,
Splendid they were in War, and there alone.
No Side-boards then, with gilded Plate were dress'd,
No sweating Slaves, with massive Dishes press'd;
Expensive Riot was not understood,
But Earthen Platters held their homely Food.
Who wou'd not envy them, that Age of Bliss,
That sees with shame the Luxury of This?
Heav'n unwearied then, did Blessings pour,
And pitying Jove foretold each dang'rous Hour;
Mankind were then familiar with the God,
He snuff'd their Incense with a gracious Nod;
And wou'd have still been bounteous, as of Old,
Had we not left him for that Idol, Gold.
His Golden Statues, hence the God have driv'n:
For well he knows, where our Devotion's giv'n,
'Tis Gold we Worship, though we pray to Heav'n.
Tho' none can please us now but from Japan.
Invite my Lord to Dine, and let him have
The nicest Dish his Appetite can crave;
But let it on an Oaken Board be set,
His Lordship will grow sick, and cannot eat:
Something's amiss, he knows not what to think,
Either your Venson's Rank, or Ointments stink.
Order some other Table to be brought,
Something, at great Expence in India bought,
Beneath whose Orb, large yawning Panthers lie,
Carv'd on rich Pedestals of Ivory:
He finds no more of that offensive Smell,
The Meat recovers, and my Lord grows well.
An Iv'ry Table is a certain whet;
You would not think how heartily he'll eat,
As if new Vigour to his Teeth were sent,
By Sympathy from those o'th' Elephant.
Riot agrees not with Frugality;
With me they'd starve, for want of Ivory:
For not one inch does my whole House afford,
Not in my very Tables, or Chess-board;
Of Bone, the Handles of my Knives are made,
Yet no ill Taste from thence affects the Blade,
Or what I carve; nor is there ever left
Any unsav'ry Haut-goust from the Haft.
You'll find, but serv'd up in no formal state;
No Sew'rs, nor dextrous Carvers have I got,
Such as by skilful Trypherus are taught:
In whose fam'd Schools the various Forms appear
Of Fishes, Beasts, and all the Fowls o'th' Air;
And where, with blunted Knives, his Scholars learn
How to dissect, and the nice Joints discern;
From the harsh Carving of his wooden Feast.
On me attends a raw unskilful Lad,
On Fragments fed, in homely Garments clad,
At once my Carver, and my Ganymede;
With diligence he'll serve us while we Dine,
And in plain Beechen Vessels, fill our Wine.
No Beauteous Boys I keep, from Phrygia brought,
No Catamites, by shameful Pandars taught:
Only to me two home-bred Youths belong,
Unskill'd in any but their Mother-Tongue;
Alike in Feature both, and Garb appear,
With honest Faces, though with uncurl'd Hair.
This Day thou shalt my Rural Pages see,
For I have drest 'em both to wait on thee.
Of Country Swains they both were born, and one
My Ploughman's is, t'other my Shepherd's Son;
A chearful Sweetness in his Looks he has,
And Innocence unartful in his Face:
And gentle Sighs break from the tender Boy;
His absence from his Mother, oft he'll mourn,
And with his Eyes look Wishes to return.
Longing to see his tender Kids, again,
And feed his Lambs upon the flowry Plain;
A modest Blush he wears, not form'd by Art,
Free from Deceit his Face, and full as free his Heart.
Such Looks, such Bashfulness, might well adorn
The Cheeks of Youths that are more Nobly born,
But Noblemen those humble Graces scorn.
This Youth, to Day shall my small Treat attend,
And only he with Wine shall serve my Friend,
With Wine from his own Country brought, and made
From the same Vines, beneath whose fruitful Shade
He and his wanton Kids have often play'd.
With am'rous Songs and wanton Dances grac'd;
Where sprightly Females, to the Middle bare,
Trip lightly o'er the Ground, and frisk in Air;
Whose pliant Limbs in various Postures move,
And twine and bound, as in the Rage of Love.
Such Sights, the languid Nerves to Action stir,
And jaded Lust springs forward with this Spur.
Vertue
Which Husbands, now, do with their Wives behold.
These Lines in Juvenal,
Quod pudeat narrasse aliquem præsentibus ipsis.
in some late Editions, are plac'd nearer the latter End of this Satire: And in the Order of this Translation, wou'd so have follow'd, after Line 349, viz.
But vig'rous Youth to active Sports inclin'd.
But I have continued 'em in this Place after Lubin. Besides the Example of the Learned Holyday for the same Position; agreeing better here, in my Mind, with the Sense both before and after. For the Megalensian Games consisting chiefly of Races, and such like Exercises; I cannot conceive where the extraordirary Cause of Shame lay in Female Spectators: But it was a manifest Immodesty, for them to lye by their Husbands, and see the lewd Actions of their own Sex, in the manner describ'd.
Which Husbands, now, do with their Wives behold;
A needful Help, to make 'em both approve
The dry Embraces of long-wedded Love.
In Nuptial Cinders, this revives the Fire,
And turns their mutual Loathing to Desire.
But she, who by her Sexes Charter, must
Have double Pleasure paid, feels double Lust;
Apace she warms, with an immod'rate Heat,
Strongly her Bosom heaves, and Pulses beat;
With Arms expanded, and with naked Thighs,
Sucking in Passion both at Ears and Eyes.
But this becomes not me, nor my Estate;
These are the vicious Follies of the Great.
Let him who does on Iv'ry Tables dine,
Whose Marble Floors, with drunken Spawlings shine;
Let him lascivious Songs and Dances have,
Which, or to see, or hear, the lewdest Slave,
The vilest Prostitute in all the Stews,
With bashful Indignation wou'd refuse.
But Fortune, there, extenuates the Crime;
What's Vice in me, is only Mirth in him:
The Fruits which Murder, Cards, or Dice afford,
A Vestal ravish'd, or a Matron whor'd,
Are laudable Diversions in a Lord.
T'afford you Pleasures of another kind:
And Homer's Sacred Lines, and Virgil's read;
Either of whom does all Mankind excel,
Tho' which exceeds the other, none can tell.
It matters not with what ill Tone they're Sung,
Verse so sublimely good, no Voice can wrong.
Thy Jealousies and Fears, and while you may
To Peace and soft Repose, give all the Day.
From Thoughts of Debt, or any worldly Ill
Be free, be all uneasie Passions still.
What tho' thy Wife do with the Morning Light,
(When thou in vain has toil'd and drudg'd all Night)
Steal from thy Bed and House, abroad to roam,
And having quech'd her Flame, come breathless home,
Fleck'd in her Face, and with disorder'd Hair,
Her Garments ruffled, and her Bosom bare;
Half drown'd in Sin, still burning in Desire:
Whilst you are forc'd to wink, and seem content,
Swelling with Passion, which you dare not vent;
Nay, if you wou'd be free, from Night-alarms,
You must seem fond, and doating on her Charms,
Take her (the last of Twenty) to your Arms.
At th'Entrance of my Threshold be forgot;
All thy Domestick Griefs at home be left,
The Wife's Adult'ry, with the Servants Theft;
And (the most racking Thought, which can intrude)
Forget false Friends and their Ingratitude.
While Megalensian Shows are in the Circus seen:
The Prætor sits, on a Triumphal Seat;
Vainly with Ensigns, and with Robes adorn'd,
As if with Conquest, from the Wars return'd.
This Day all Rome, (if I may be allow'd,
Without Offence to such a num'rous Crowd,
To say all Rome) will in the Circus sweat;
Echos already do their Shouts repeat:
Methinks I hear the Cry—Away, away,
The
In running the Races in the Circus, with Horses in Chariots; there were four distinct Factions, known by their Liveries: Which were Green, a kind of Russet Red, White, and Blue. One of these Factions was always favoured by the Court, and at this time probably the Green. Which makes our Poet fancy he hears the Shouts, for Joy of their Party. Afterward Domitian added two more, the Golden and Purple Factions.
Rome would in Tears her lov'd Diversion mourn;
For that would now a Cause of Sorrow yield,
Great as the loss of Cannæ's fatal Field.
Such Shows as these, were not for us design'd,
But vig'rous Youth to active Sports inclin'd.
On Beds of Roses laid, let us repose,
While round our Heads refreshing Ointment flows;
And live this Day devoted to our Ease.
Early to Day we'll to the Bath repair,
Nor need we now the common Censure fear:
On Festivals, it is allow'd no Crime
To Bath, and Eat, before the usual time;
But that continu'd, wou'd a loathing give,
Nor could you thus a Week together live:
For, frequent Use would the Delight exclude:
Pleasure's a Toil, when constantly pursu'd.
PROLOGUE TO QUEEN MARY,
UPON Her Majesty's coming to see the Old Batchelour, after having seen the Double-Dealer.
Wit is again the Care of Majesty;
And while thus honour'd our proud Stage appears,
We seem to rival Ancient Theatres.
Thus flourish'd Wit in our Forefathers Age,
And thus the Roman and Athenian Stage.
But this we know, our Audience will excel:
For never was in Rome, nor Athens, seen
So fair a Circle, and so bright a Queen.
And many rough and stormy Winters past;
Hid from the World, and thrown in Shades of Night,
Of Heat depriv'd, and almost void of Light:
While Wit, a hardy Plant, of Nature bold,
Has strugled strongly with the killing Cold:
So does it still through Opposition grow,
As if its Root was warmer kept by Snow:
But when shot forth, then draws the Danger near,
On ev'ry side the gath'ring Winds appear,
And Blasts destroy that Fruit, which Frosts wou'd spare.
But now, new Vigour and new Life it knows,
And Warmth that from this Royal Presence flows.
How Gay wou'd then, this drooping Land appear!
Then, like the Sun, with Pleasure she might view,
The smiling Earth, cloath'd by her Beams anew.
Mix'd with the Lawrel's never-fading Green,
The new Creation of a Gracious Queen.
EPILOGUE
AT THE Opening of the Queen's Theatre in the Hay-Market, with an Italian Pastoral: Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
At present we expect you shou'd be kind:
Inconstancy it self can claim no Right,
Before Enjoyment and the Wedding Night.
You must be fixt a little e'er you range,
You must be true 'till you have time to change.
A Week at least; one Night is sure too soon,
But we pretend not to a Honey Moon.
To Novelty we know you can be true,
But what, alas! or who, is always new?
With Novelty entire you're entertain'd;
For not alone our House and Scenes are new,
Our Song and Dance, but ev'n our Actors too.
Our Play it self has something in't uncommon,
Two faithful Lovers, and one constant Woman.
In sweet Italian Strains our Shepherds sing,
Of harmless Loves our painted Forests ring
In Notes, perhaps less Foreign than the thing,
To Sound and Show at first we make pretence,
In time we may regale you with some Sense,
But that, at present were too great Expence.
We only fear the Beaux may think it hard,
To be to Night from smutty Jests debarr'd:
But in good Breeding, sure, they'll once excuse,
Ev'n Modesty, when in a Stranger Muse.
The Day's at hand, when we shall shift the Scene,
And to your selves shew your dear selves again:
Paint the Reverse of what you've seen to Day,
And in bold Strokes the vicious Town display.
PROLOGUE TO Pyrrhus King of Epirus.
Our Age has much improv'd the Warrior's Art;For Fighting, now, is thought the weakest Part;
And a good Head, more useful than a Heart.
This way of War, does our Example yield;
That Stage will win, which longest keeps the Field.
We mean not Battel, when we bid Defiance;
But starving one another to Compliance.
Our Troops encamp'd are by each other view'd,
And those which first are hungry, are subdu'd.
And there, in Truth, depends the great Decision:
They conquer, who cut off the Foe's Provision.
Let Fools, with Knocks and Bruises, keep a Pother;
Our War and Trade, is to out-wit each other.
That both our Conduct, and our Foresight, fail us,
To raise Recruits, and draw new Forces down,
Thus, in the dead Vacation of the Town?
To muster up our Rhimes, without our Reason,
And forage for an Audience out of Season?
Our Author's Fears must this false Step excuse;
'Tis the first Flight of a just-feather'd Muse:
Th'Occasion ta'en, when Criticks are away;
Half Wits and Beaux, those rav'nous Birds of Prey.
But, Heav'n be prais'd, far hence they vent their Wrath,
Mauling, in mild Lampoon, th'intriguing Bath.
Thus does our Author his first Flight commence;
Thus, against Friends at first, with Foils we fence:
Thus prudent Gimcrack try'd if he were able
(E'er he'd wet Foot) to swim upon a Table.
Then spare the Youth; or if you'll damn the Play,
Let him but first have his; then take your Day.
EPILOGUE TO OROONOKO.
Spoken by Mrs. Verbruggen.
You see we try all Shapes, and Shifts, and Arts,To tempt your Favours, and regain your Hearts.
We weep, and laugh, join Mirth and Grief together,
Like Rain and Sunshine mixt, in April Weather.
Your different Tastes divide our Poet's Cares:
One Foot the Sock, t'other the Buskin wears:
Thus while he strives to please, he's forc'd to do't,
Like Volscius, Hip-hop, in a single Boot.
Criticks, he knows, for this may damn his Books:
But he makes Feasts for Friends, and not for Cooks.
Tho' Errant-Knights of late no Favour find,
Sure you will be to Ladies-Errant kind.
We Damsels fly, to save our Reputation:
So they, their Valour show, we, our Discretion.
To Lands of Monsters, and fierce Beasts they go.
We, to those Islands where rich Husbands grow:
Tho' they're no Monsters, we may make 'em so.
If they're of English Growth, they'll bear't with Patience:
But save us from a Spouse of Oroonoko's Nations!
Then bless your Stars, you happy London Wives,
Who love at large, each Day, yet keep your Lives:
Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating Blindness,
Who thought her Husband kill'd her out of Kindness.
Death with a Husband ne'er had shewn such Charms,
Had she once dy'd within a Lover's Arms.
Her Error was from Ignorance proceeding:
Poor Soul! she wanted some of our Town Breeding.
Forgive this Indian's Fondness of her Spouse;
Their Law no Christian Liberty allows:
Alas! they make a Conscience of their Vows!
Then damn the Heathen School, where she was taught.
She might have learnt to Cuckold, Jilt and Sham,
Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.
PROLOGUE to the Husband his own Cuckold.
A Comedy written by Mr. J. Dryden, Junior.
This Year has been remarkable two ways,For blooming Poets, and for blasted Plays.
We've been by much appearing Plenty mock'd,
At once both tantaliz'd, and over-stock'd.
Our Authors too, by their Success of late,
Begin to think Third Days are out of Date.
What can the Cause be, that our Plays won't keep,
Unless they have a Rott some Years like Sheep?
For our parts, we confess we're quite asham'd
To read such weekly Bills of Poets damn'd.
When Christnings fall, and Funerals encrease.
Thus 'tis, and thus 'twill be when we are dead,
There will be Writers which will ne'er be read.
Why will you be such Wits, and write such things?
You're willing to be Wasps, but want the Stings.
Let not your Spleen provoke you to that height,
'Odslife you don't know what you do, Sirs, when you write.
You'll find that Pegasus has Tricks, when try'd,
Tho' you make nothing on't but up and ride;
Ladies and all, I'faith, now get astride.
Contriving Characters, and Scenes, and Plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting Knots;
With the same Ease, and Negligence of Thought,
The charming Play is writ, and Fringe is wrought.
Tho' this be frightful, yet we're more afraid,
When Ladies leave, that Beaux will take the Trade:
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twou'd stop,
But shou'd they write, we must e'en shut up Shop.
A Mode said I? 'Tis a Disease, I think,
A stubborn Tetter that's not cur'd with Ink.
For still it spreads, 'till each th'Infection takes,
And seizes ten, for one that it forsakes.
Our Play to Day is sprung from none of these,
Nor should you Damn it, tho' it does not please,
Since born without the Bounds of your four Seas.
For if you grant no Favour as 'tis new,
Yet as a Stranger, there is something due:
From Rome (to try its Fate) this Play was sent,
Start not at Rome, for there's no Popery meant;
Tho' there the Poet may his Dwelling chuse,
Yet still he knows his Country claims his Muse.
Hither an Offering his First-born he sends,
Whose good, or ill Success, on you depends.
Yet he has hope some Kindness may be shown,
As due to greater Merit than his own,
And begs the Sire may for the Son attone.
There's his last Refuge, if the Play don't take,
Yet spare young Dryden for his Father's sake.
PROLOGUE TO THE COURT; ON THE QUEEN's Birth-Day, 1704.
Hereafter shall in loftier Strains be heard;
And, soaring to transcend her usual Theme,
Shall Sing of Virtue and Heroick Fame.
No longer shall she toil upon the Stage,
And fruitless War with Vice and Folly wage;
No more in mean Disguise she shall appear,
And Shapes she wou'd reform be forc'd to wear:
While Ignorance and Malice join to blame,
And break the Mirror that reflects their Shame.
Shew her bright Virgin Face, and scorn the Satyr's Mask.
Happy her future Days! which are design'd
Alone to paint the Beauties of the Mind.
By just Originals to draw with Care,
And Copy from the Court a faultless Fair:
Such Labours with Success her Hopes may crown,
And shame to Manners an incorrigible Town.
Such various Virtues all around she views,
She knows not where to fix, or which to chuse.
Yet still ambitious of the daring Flight,
ONE only awes her with Superior Light.
From that Attempt the Conscious Muse retires,
Nor to Inimitable Worth aspires;
But secretly Applauds, and silently Admires.
That first enliven'd this Auspicious Day:
We owe the Blessings of the Present Hour.
Concurring Omens of propitious Fate
Bore, with One Sacred Birth, an equal Date:
Whence we derive whatever we possess,
By Foreign Conquest, or Domestick Peace.
Then broke the Morn that lighted up this Sun!
Then was it doom'd whose Councils shou'd succeed;
And by whose Arm the Christian World be freed;
Then the fierce Foe was pre-ordain'd to yield,
And then the Battel won at Blenheim's Glorious Field.
THE TEARS OF AMARYLLIS for AMYNTAS.
A PASTORAL.
Lamenting the DEATH of The late Lord Marquiss of BLANFORD.
Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable the Lord GODOLPHIN, Lord High-Treasurer of England.
Amissos queritur fetus ------
------ miserabile Carmen
Integrat, & mœstis late loca quæstibus implet.
Virg. Geor. 4.
With welcome Rays begins to chear the Sight;
When grateful Birds prepare their Thanks to pay,
And warble Hymns to hail the dawning Day;
And from their fleecy Sides first shake the silver Dew.
Wounded with Grief, and wild with her Despair,
Forsook her Myrtle Bow'r and Rosie Bed,
To tell the Winds her Woes, and mourn Amyntas dead.
Who had a Heart so hard, that heard her Cries
And did not weep? Who such relentless Eyes?
Tygers and Wolves their wonted Rage forego,
And dumb Distress and new Compassion shew,
As taught by her to taste of Human Woe.
Nature her self attentive Silence kept,
And Motion seem'd suspended while she wept;
The rising Sun restrain'd his fiery Course,
And rapid Rivers listen'd at their Source;
Ev'n Eccho fear'd to catch the flying Sound,
Lest Repetition should her Accents drown;
The very Morning Wind with-held his Breeze,
Nor fann'd with fragrant Wings the noiseless Trees;
And in the Grave with lov'd Amyntas laid.
No Voice, no whisp'ring Sigh, no murm'ring Groan,
Presum'd to mingle with a Mother's Moan;
Her Cries alone her Anguish could express,
All other Mourning would have made it less.
Inhabitants of these once lov'd Abodes;
Hear my Distress and lend a pitying Ear,
Hear my Complaint—you would not hear my Pray'r;
The Loss which you prevented not, deplore,
And mourn with me Amyntas now no more.
Lives there like me another Wretch forlorn?
Tell me, thou Sun that round the World dost shine,
Hast thou beheld another Loss like mine?
Ye Winds, who on your Wings sad Accents bear,
And catch the Sounds of Sorrow and Despair,
Such weight of Woe, such deadly Sighs before?
Tell me, thou Earth, on whose wide-spreading Base
The wretched Load is laid of Human Race,
Dost thou not feel thy self with me opprest?
Lye all the Dead so heavy on thy Breast?
When hoary Winter on thy shrinking Head
His Icy, Cold, depressing Hand has laid,
Hast thou not felt less Chilness in thy Veins?
Do I not pierce thee with more freezing Pains?
But why to thee do I relate my Woe,
Thou cruel Earth, my most remorseless Foe,
Within whose darksome Womb the Grave is made,
Where all my Joys are with Amyntas laid?
What is't to me, tho' on thy naked Head
Eternal Winter should his Horror shed,
Tho' all thy Nerves were numb'd with endless Frost,
And all thy Hopes of future Spring were lost?
To me what Comfort can the Spring afford?
Can my Amyntas be with Spring restor'd?
Unlock the Tomb where my Amyntas lies?
No, never! never!—Say then, rigid Earth,
What is to me thy everlasting Dearth?
Tho' never Flow'r again its Head should rear,
Tho' never Tree again should Blossom bear;
Tho' never Grass should cloath the naked Ground,
Nor ever healing Plant or wholsom Herb be found.
None, none were found when I bewail'd their Want;
Nor wholsom Herb was found, nor healing Plant,
To ease Amyntas of his cruel Pains;
In vain I search'd the Valleys, Hills and Plains;
But wither'd Leaves alone appear'd to view,
Or pois'nous Weeds distilling deadly Dew.
And if some naked Stalk, not quite decay'd,
To yield a fresh and friendly Bud essay'd,
Soon as I reach'd to crop the tender Shoot,
A shrieking Mandrake kill'd it at the Root.
Witness to this, ye Fawns of ev'ry Wood,
Who at the Prodigy astonish'd stood.
What Show'rs of unavailing Tears ye shed;
How each ran fearful to his mossie Cave,
When the last Gasp the dear Amyntas gave.
For then the Air was fill'd with dreadful Cries,
And sudden Night o'erspread the darken'd Skies;
Phantoms, and Fiends, and wand'ring Fires appear'd,
And Skreams of ill-presaging Birds were heard.
The Forest shook, and flinty Rocks were cleft,
And frighted Streams their wonted Channels left;
With frantick Grief o'erflowing fruitful Ground,
Where many a Herd and harmless Swain was drown'd.
While I forlorn and desolate was left,
Of ev'ry Help, of ev'ry Hope bereft;
To ev'ry Element expos'd I lay,
And to my Griefs a more defenceless Prey.
For thee, Amyntas, all these Pains were born,
For thee these Hands were wrung, these Hairs were torn;
For thee my Soul to sigh shall never leave,
These Eyes to weep, this throbbing Heart to heave,
And hide my Head in Shades of endless Night:
For thou were Light, and Life, and Health to me;
The Sun but thankless shines that shews not thee.
Wert thou not Lovely, Graceful, Good and Young?
The Joy of Sight, the Talk of ev'ry Tongue?
Did ever Branch so sweet a Blossom bear?
Or ever early Fruit appear so fair?
Did ever Youth so far his Years transcend?
Did ever Life so immaturely end?
For thee the tuneful Swains provided Lays,
And ev'ry Muse prepar'd thy future Praise.
For thee the busie Nymphs stripp'd ev'ry Grove,
And Myrtle Wreaths and Flow'ry Chaplets wove.
But now, ah dismal Change! the tuneful Throng
To loud Lamentings turn the chearful Song.
Their pleasing Task the weeping Virgins leave,
And with unfinish'd Garlands strew thy Grave.
There let me fall, there, there lamenting lie,
There grieving grow to Earth, despair, and die.
Excess of Grief her faultring Speech suppress'd.
Along the Ground her colder Limbs she laid,
Where late the Grave was for Amyntas made;
Then from her swimming Eyes began to pour,
Of softly falling Rain a Silver Show'r;
Her loosely flowing Hair, all radiant bright,
O'er-spread the dewy Grass like Streams of Light:
As if the Sun had of his Beams been shorn,
And cast to Earth the Glories he had worn.
A Sight so lovely sad, such deep Distress
No Tongue can tell, no Pencil can express.
Began the swelling Air with Sighs to fill;
The Water-Nymphs, who motionless remain'd,
Like Images of Ice, while she complain'd,
Now loos'd their Streams; as when descending Rains
Roll the steep Torrents headlong o'er the Plains,
Charm'd with her Cries, and at her Griefs amaz'd,
Began to roar and howl with horrid Yell,
Dismal to hear, and horrible to tell;
Nothing but Groans and Sighs were heard around,
And Eccho multiply'd each mournful Sound.
Of Grief was made, as from some secret Cause.
The balmy Air with fragrant Scents was fill'd,
As if each weeping Tree had Gums distill'd.
Such, if not sweeter, was the rich Perfume
Which swift ascended from Amyntas Tomb;
As if th'Arabian Bird her Nest had fir'd,
And on the spicy Pile were new expir'd.
Was sudden spread with lively springing Green;
And Amaryllis saw, with wond'ring Eyes,
A flow'ry Bed, where she had wept, arise;
The blowing Buds advanc'd their Purple Head;
From ev'ry Tear that fell, a Violet grew,
And thence their Sweetness came, and thence their mournful Hew.
When Solitude ye seek in gloomy Shades;
Or walk on Banks where silent Waters flow,
For there this lonely Flow'r will love to grow.
Think on Amyntas, oft as ye shall stoop
To crop the Stalks and take 'em softly up.
When in your snowy Necks their Sweets you wear,
Give a soft Sigh, and drop a tender Tear:
To lov'd Amyntas pay the Tribute due,
And bless his peaceful Grave, where first they grew.
TO CYNTHIA, Weeping and not Speaking.
ELEGY.
Why are those Hours, which Heav'n in pity lentTo longing Love, in fruitless Sorrow spent?
Why sighs my Fair? Why does that Bosom move
With any Passion stirr'd, but rising Love?
Can Discontent find Place within that Breast,
On whose soft Pillows ev'n Despair might rest?
Divide thy Woes, and give me my sad part,
I am no Stranger to an aking Heart;
Too well I know the Force of inward Grief,
And well can bear it, to give you Relief:
All Love's severest Pangs I can endure;
I can bear Pain, tho' hopeless of a Cure.
To wake all Night, yet dread the breaking Day;
I know what 'tis to Wish, and Hope, and all in vain,
And meet, for humble Love, unkind Disdain;
Anger, and Hate, I have been forc'd to bear,
Nay Jealousie—and I have felt Despair.
These Pains, for you, I have been forc'd to prove,
For cruel you, when I began to Love.
'Till warm Compassion took at length my part,
And melted to my Wish your yielding Heart.
O the dear Hour, in which you did resign!
When round my Neck your willing Arms did twine,
And, in a Kiss, you said your Heart was mine.
Thro' each returning Year, may that Hour be
Distinguish'd in the Rounds of all Eternity;
Gay be the Sun, that Hour, in all his Light,
Let him collect the Day, to be more bright,
Shine all, that Hour, and let the rest be Night.
From you, yet not lament to see you grieve!
Shall I, who nourish'd in my Breast Desire,
When your cold Scorn, and Frowns forbid the Fire;
Now, when a mutual Flame you have reveal'd,
And the dear Union of our Souls is seal'd,
When all my Joys compleat in you I find,
Shall I not share the Sorrows of your Mind?
O tell me, tell me All—whence does arise
This Flood of Tears? whence are these frequent Sighs?
Why does that lovely Head, like a fair Flow'r
Oppress'd with Drops of a hard-falling Show'r,
Bend with its weight of Grief, and seem to grow
Downward to Earth, and kiss the Root of Woe?
Lean on my Breast, and let me fold thee fast,
Lock'd in these Arms, think all thy Sorrows past;
Or, what remain, think lighter made by me;
So I should think, were I so held by thee.
Murmur thy Plaints, and gently wound my Ears;
Sigh on my Lip, and let me drink thy Tears;
And let pale Grief to glowing Love give place.
O speak—for Woe in Silence most appears;
Speak, e'er my Fancy magnifie my Fears.
Is there a Cause, which Words cannot express!
Can I nor bear a part, nor make it less?
I know not what to think—Am I in Fault?
I have not, to my Knowledge, err'd in Thought,
Nor wander'd from my Love, nor wou'd I be
Lord of the World, to live depriv'd of thee.
You weep a-fresh, and at that Word you start!
Am I to be depriv'd then?—must we part!
Curse on that Word so ready to be spoke,
For through my Lips, unmeant by me, it broke.
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part,
And my Tongue talks, unprompted by my Heart.
Yet speak, for my Distraction grows apace,
And racking Fears, and restless Doubts increase;
And Fears and Doubts to Jealousie will turn,
The hottest Hell, in which a Heart can burn.
AMORET.
I
Fair Amoret is gone astray;Pursue and seek her, ev'ry Lover;
I'll tell the Signs, by which you may
The wandring Shepherdess discover.
II
Coquet and Coy at once her Air,Both study'd, tho' both seem neglected;
Careless she is with artful Care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
III
With Skill her Eyes dart ev'ry Glance,Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em;
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Tho' certain Aim and Art direct 'em.
IV
She likes her self, yet others hatesFor that which in her self she prizes;
And while she Laughs at them, forgets
She is the Thing that she despises.
LESBIA.
When Lesbia first I saw so heav'nly Fair,With Eyes so bright, and with that awful Air.
I thought my Heart, which durst so high aspire,
As bold as his, who snatch'd Cœlestial Fire.
But soon as e'er the beauteous Idiot spoke,
Forth from her Coral Lips such Folly broke,
Like Balm the trickling Nonsense heal'd my Wound,
And what her Eyes enthrall'd, her Tongue unbound.
DORIS.
Doris , a Nymph of riper Age,Has ev'ry Grace and Art;
A wise Observer to engage,
Or wound, a heedless Heart.
Of Native Blush, and Rosie Dye,
Time has her Cheek bereft;
Which makes the prudent Nymph supply,
With Paint, th'injurious Theft.
Her sparkling Eyes she still retains,
And Teeth in good Repair;
And her well-furnish'd Front disdains
To grace with borrow'd Hair.
Of Size, she is nor short, nor tall,
And does to Fat incline
No more, than what the French wou'd call,
Aimable Embonpoint.
I leave—let it suffice,
She has few Faults, but what she knows,
And can with Skill disguise.
She many Lovers has refus'd,
With many more comply'd;
Which, like her Cloaths, when little us'd,
She always lays aside.
She's one, who looks with great Contempt
On each affected Creature,
Whose Nicety would seem exempt,
From Appetites of Nature.
She thinks they want or Health or Sense,
Who want an Inclination;
And therefore never takes Offence
At him who pleads his Passion.
Whom she refuses, she treats still
With so much sweet Behaviour,
That her Refusal, through her Skill,
Looks almost like a Favour.
To those whom she rejects,
She must be very fond, you'll guess,
Of such whom she affects.
But here our Doris far outgoes,
All that her Sex have done;
She no Regard for Custom knows,
Which Reason bids her shun.
By Reason, her own Reason's meant,
Or if you please, her Will:
For when this last is Discontent,
The first is serv'd but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her Way;
Whether by Nature taught,
I shall not undertake to say,
Or by Experience bought.
But who o'er-night obtain'd her Grace,
She can next Day disown,
And stare upon the Strange-Man's Face,
As one she ne'er had known.
Such artful Wonder frame,
The Lover or distrusts his Eyes,
Or thinks 'twas all a Dream.
Some, Censure this as Lewd and Low,
Who are to Bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow,
Bespeaks a noble Mind.
Doris, our Thanks nor asks, nor needs,
For all her Favours done
From her Love flows, as Light proceeds
Spontaneous from the Sun.
On one or other, still her Fires
Display their Genial Force;
And she, like Sol, alone retires,
To shine elsewhere of Course.
TO SLEEP.
ELEGY.
O sleep! thou Flatterer of happy Minds,How soon a troubled Breast thy Falshood finds!
Thou common Friend, officious in thy Aid,
Where no Distress is shown, nor Want betray'd:
But oh, how swift, how sure thou art to shun
The Wretch, by Fortune or by Love undone!
Where are thy gentle Dews, thy softer Pow'rs,
Which us'd to wait upon my Midnight Hours?
Why dost thou cease thy hov'ring Wings to spread,
With friendly Shade around my restless Bed?
Can no Complainings thy Compassion move?
Is thy Antipathy so strong to Love!
O no! thou art the prosp'rous Lover's Friend,
And dost uncall'd his pleasing Toils attend.
Thy Slumbers lull him in his fair One's Arms;
Or from her Bosom he to thine retires,
Where sooth'd with Ease, the panting Youth respires,
'Till soft Repose restore his drooping Sense,
And Rapture is reliev'd by Indolence.
But oh, what Fortune does the Lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by Despair!
From racking Thoughts by no kind Slumber freed,
But painful Nights his joyless Days succeed.
But why, dull God, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou ease my Pain.
Forgive what my distracting Grief has said,
I own, unjustly I thy Sloth upbraid.
For oft I have thy proffer'd Aid repell'd,
And my Reluctant Eyes from rest with-held;
Implor'd the Muse to break thy gentle Chains,
And sung with Philomel my nightly Strains.
For more enduring Woes my Lays prolong.
The Morning Lark to mine accords his Note,
And tunes to my Distress his warbling Throat:
Each setting and each rising Sun I mourn,
Wailing alike his Absence and Return.
And all for thee—What had I well nigh said?
Let me not name thee, thou too charming Maid.
No—as the wing'd Musicians of the Grove,
Th'Associates of my Melody and Love,
In moving Sounds alone relate their Pain,
And not with Voice articulate complain;
So shall my Muse my tuneful Sorrows sing,
And lose in Air her Name from whom they spring.
O may no wakeful Thoughts her Mind molest,
Soft be her Slumbers, and sincere her Rest:
For her, O Sleep, thy balmy Sweets prepare;
The Peace I lose for her, to her transfer.
Husht as the falling Dews, whose noiseless Show'rs
Imperle the folded Leaves of Ev'ning Flow'rs,
'Till warn'd by waking Day to re-ascend;
So wait thou for her Morn; then, gently rise,
And to the World restore the Day-break of her Eyes.
TO Sir Godfrey Kneller, Occasion'd By L---y ---s Picture.
Thy Pencil triumphs o'er the Poet's Quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her Lays,
It is no more to Rival thee, but Praise.
To trace some Image of the much-lov'd Fair;
And rather shew'd how much, than whom, I lov'd:
But thy unerring Hands, with matchless Art,
Have shewn my Eyes th'Impression in my Heart;
The bright Idea both exists and lives,
Such vital Heat thy Genial Pencil gives:
Whose daring Point, not to the Face confin'd,
Can penetrate the Heart, and paint the Mind.
Others some faint Resemblance may express,
Which, as 'tis drawn by Chance, we find by Guess.
Thy Pictures raise no Doubts, when brought to View,
At once they're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent Artist! How compleat thy Skill!
Thy Pow'r to act, is equal to thy Will.
Nature and Art, in thee, alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befriend:
For what thy Fancy has with Fire design'd,
Is by thy Skill, both temper'd and refin'd.
And, each, to other is subservient made,
Judgment and Genius so concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect Harmony.
And set thy Virtues in unenvy'd Light.
Fame due to vast Desert, is kept in store,
Unpay'd, 'till the Deserver is no more.
Yet, thou, in present, the best Part hast gain'd,
And from the Chosen Few Applause obtain'd:
Ev'n He who best cou'd judge and best cou'd praise,
Has high extoll'd thee, in his deathless Lays;
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy Name;
Let that alone suffice thee, think that, Fame.
Unfit I follow, where he led the way,
And court Applause, by what I seem to pay.
My self I praise, while I thy Praise intend,
For 'tis some Virtue, Virtue to commend:
And next to Deeds, which our own Honour raise,
Is, to distinguish them who merit Praise.
To a CANDLE.
ELEGY.
Thou watchful Taper, by whose silent Light,I lonely pass the melancholly Night;
Thou faithful Witness of my secret Pain,
To whom alone I venture to complain;
O learn with me, my hopeless Love to moan;
Commiserate a Life so like thy own.
Like thine, my Flames to my Destruction turn,
Wasting that Heart, by which supply'd they burn.
Like thine, my Joy and Suffering they display,
At once, are Signs of Life, and Symptoms of Decay,
And as thy fearful Flames the Day decline,
And only during Night presume to shine;
Their humble Rays not daring to aspire
Before the Sun, the Fountain of their Fire:
So mine, with conscious Shame, and equal Awe,
To Shades obscure and Solitude withdraw;
Nor dare their Light before her Eyes disclose,
From whose bright Beams their Being first arose.
OVID's Third Book OF THE ART of LOVE.
WHEREIN He recommends Rules and Instructions to the Fair Sex, in the Conduct of their Amours: After having already composed two Books for the Use of Men, upon the same Subject.
And now we must instruct and arm the Fair.
Both Sexes, well appointed, take the Field,
And mighty Love determine which shall yield.
Man were ignoble, when, thus arm'd, to show
Unequal Force against a naked Foe:
No Glory from such Conquest can be gain'd,
And Odds are always by the Brave disdain'd.
Would you encrease the Craft of Woman-kind!
Teach them new Wiles and Arts! As well you may
Instruct a Snake to bite, or Wolf to prey.
But, sure, too hard a Censure they pursue,
Who charge on all, the Failings of a few.
Examine, first, impartially each Fair,
Then, as she merits, or condemn, or spare.
If Menelaus, and the King of Men,
With Justice, of their Sister-Wives complain;
If false Eriphyle forsook her Faith,
And for Reward procur'd her Husband's Death;
Penelope was Loyal still, and Chaste,
Tho' twenty Years her Lord in Absence pass'd.
Reflect how Laodamia's Truth was try'd,
Who, tho' in Bloom of Youth, and Beauty's Pride,
To share her Husband's Fate, untimely dy'd.
Think how Alceste's Piety was prov'd,
Who lost her Life, to save the Man she lov'd.
Nor Death it self our Nuptials shall divide:
To join thy Ashes, pleas'd I shall expire.
She said, and leap'd amid the Fun'ral Fire.
Virtue her self a Goddess we confess,
Both Female in her Name and in her Dress;
No wonder then, if to her Sex inclin'd,
She cultivates with Care a Female Mind.
But these exalted Souls exceed the Reach
Of that soft Art, which I pretend to teach.
My tender Barque requires a gentle Gale,
A little Wind will fill a little Sail.
Of sportful Loves I sing, and shew what Ways
The willing Nymph must use, her Bliss to raise,
And how to captivate the Man she'd please.
Woman is soft, and of a tender Heart,
Apt to receive, and to retain Love's Dart:
Man has a Breast robust, and more secure,
It wounds him not so deep, nor hits so sure.
You'll find less Fraud imputed to the Fair.
The faithless Jason from Medea fled,
And made Creusa Partner of his Bed.
Bright Ariadne, on an unknown Shore,
Thy Absence, perjur'd Theseus, did deplore.
If then, the wild Inhabitants of Air
Forbore her tender lovely Limbs to tear,
It was not owing, Theseus, to thy Care.
Enquire the Cause, and let Demophoon tell,
Why Phillis by a Fate untimely fell.
Nine times, in vain, upon the promis'd Day,
She sought th'appointed Shore, and view'd the Sea:
Her Fall the fading Trees consent to mourn,
And shed their Leaves round her lamented Urn.
To thee, Eliza, was unfaithful found;
To thee forlorn, and languishing with Grief,
His Sword alone he left, thy last Relief.
Of all your Woes? 'Twas want of needful Art.
Love, of it self, too quickly will expire;
But pow'rful Art perpetuates Desire.
Women had yet their Ignorance bewail'd,
Had not this Art by Venus been reveal'd.
And thus she said; What have poor Women done?
Why is that weak, defenceless Sex expos'd;
On ev'ry Side, by Men well-arm'd, enclos'd?
Twice are the Men instructed by thy Muse,
Nor must she now to teach the Sex refuse.
The
The Poet Stesichorus wrote a bitter Satire against Hellen, for which her Brothers Castor and Pollux pluck'd out his Eyes; but having recanted some time after in his Palinodia, a Poem quite contrary to the former, he was restored to his Sight.
Recanted after, and redress'd the Wrong.
And you, if on my Favour you depend,
The Cause of Women, while you live, defend.
This said, a Myrtle Sprig, which Berries bore,
She gave me (for a Myrtle Wreath she wore.)
And from her Presence Inspiration drew.
Attend, ye Nymphs, by Wedlock unconfin'd,
And hear my Precepts, while she prompts my Mind.
Ev'n now, in Bloom of Youth, and Beauty's Prime,
Beware of coming Age, nor waste your Time:
Now, while you may, and rip'ning Years invite,
Enjoy the seasonable, sweet Delight:
For rolling Years, like stealing Waters, glide;
Nor hope to stop their ever-ebbing Tide:
Think not, hereafter will the Loss repay;
For ev'ry Morrow will the Taste decay,
And leave less Relish than the former Day.
I've seen the time, when, on that wither'd Thorn,
The blooming Rose vy'd with the blushing Morn.
With fragrant Wreaths I thence have deck'd my Head,
And see, how leaf-less now, and how decay'd!
And you, who now the Love-sick Youth reject,
Will prove, in Age, what Pains attend Neglect.
Nor wake, to strew your Street with Morning Flow'rs.
Then nightly Knockings at your Door will cease,
Whose noiseless Hammer, then, may rust in Peace.
How soon a wrinkl'd Skin plump Flesh invades!
And what avails it, tho' the Fair one swears
She from her Infancy had some grey Hairs?
She grows all hoary in a few more Years,
And then the venerable Truth appears.
The Snake his Skin, the Deer his Horns may cast,
And both renew their Youth and Vigour pass'd:
But no Receipt can Human-kind relieve,
Doom'd to decrepit Age, without Reprieve.
Then crop the Flow'r which yet invites your Eye.
And which, ungather'd, on its Stalk must die.
Besides, the tender Sex is form'd to bear,
And frequent Births, too soon will Youth impair:
And Earth it self decays, too often till'd.
Thou didst not, Cynthia, scorn the Latmian Swain;
Nor thou, Aurora, Cephalus disdain;
The Paphian Queen, who, for Adonis' Fate,
So deeply mourn'd, and who laments him yet,
Has not been found inexorable since;
Witness Harmonia, and the Dardan Prince.
Then take Example, Mortals, from above,
And like Immortals live, and like 'em love.
Refuse not those Delights, which Men require,
Nor let your Lovers languish with Desire.
False tho' they prove, what Loss can you sustain?
Thence let a thousand take, 'twill all remain.
Tho' constant Use, ev'n Flint and Steel impairs,
What you employ no Diminution fears.
Who would, to light a Torch, their Torch deny?
Or who can dread drinking an Ocean dry?
Still Women lose, you cry, if Men obtain:
What do they lose, that's worthy to retain
Quid, nisi quam sumis, dic mihi perdis aquam?
These Verses are not barely translated to the litteral Sense which is conceiv'd to be in 'em; but paraphras'd according to the Interpretation of Heinsius, who seems truly to understand the Text, tho' differing in his Conjecture from Scaliger and other Commentators. If any Reader is curious enough to consult the Commentary of Heinsius on this Place, he will find by other Instances cited from Ovid, that aquam sumere was a Phrase appropriated to a particular Time and Custom among Women. This had not been insisted on here, had it not been the only Passage in this Book which all other Commentators but Heinsius have render'd unintelligible; for otherwise the Verses are not very considerable: And the most which Ovid says in this Place, is no more than if speaking of eating he had said, Why should any one scruple to use their Hands, when it can cost 'em nothing but a little Water to wash 'em afterwards, which is not worth saving?
But undeceive whom needless Fears perplex.
Now launch'd to Sea, we ask a brisker Gale.
And, first, we treat of Dress. The well-dress'd Vine
Produces plumpest Grapes, and richest Wine;
And plenteous Crops of golden Grain are found,
Alone, to grace well-cultivated Ground.
Beauty's the Gift of Gods, the Sexes Pride!
Yet, to how many, is that Gift deny'd?
Art helps a Face; a Face, tho' heav'nly fair,
May quickly fade for want of needful Care.
In ancient Days, if Women slighted Dress,
Then Men were ruder too, and lik'd it less.
If Hector's Spouse was clad in stubborn Stuff,
A Soldier's Wife became it well enough.
Ajax, to shield his ample Breast, provides
Seven lusty Bulls, and tanns their sturdy Hides;
And yet his Wife not elegantly dress'd?
With rude Simplicity Rome first was built,
Which now we see adorn'd, and carv'd, and gilt
This Capitol with that of Old compare;
Some other Jove, you'd think, was worshipp'd there.
That lofty Pile, where Senates dictate Law,
When Tatius reign'd, was poorly thatch'd with Straw:
And where Apollo's Fane refulgent stands,
Was heretofore a Tract of Pasture-Lands.
Let ancient Manners other Men delight;
But me the Modern please, as more Polite.
Not, that Materials now in Gold are wrought,
And distant Shores for Orient Pearls are sought;
Nor for, that Hills exhaust their Marble Veins,
And Structures rise whose Bulk the Sea restrains:
But, that the World is civiliz'd of late,
And polish'd from the Rust of former Date.
Let not the Nymph with Pendants load her Ear,
Nor in Embroid'ry, or Brocard, appear;
And Cleanliness more animate Love's Fire.
The Hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a Grace,
And much become, or mis-become the Face.
What sutes your Features, of your Glass enquire,
For no one Rule is fix'd for Head-Attire.
A Face too long shou'd part, and flat the Hair,
Lest, upward comb'd, the Length too much appear:
So Laodamia dress'd. A Face too round,
Shou'd show the Ears, and with a Tour be crown'd.
On either Shoulder, one, her Locks displays;
Adorn'd like Phœbus, when he sings his Lays:
Another, all her Tresses ties behind;
So dress'd, Diana hunts the fearful Hind.
Dishevell'd Locks most graceful are to some;
Others, the binding Fillets more become:
Some plat, like Spiral Shells, their braded Hair,
Others, the loose and waving Curl prefer.
But, to recount the several Dresses worn,
Which artfully each sev'ral Face adorn,
The Beasts on Alpine Hills, or Hybla's Bees.
Many there are, who seem to slight all Care,
And with a pleasing Negligence ensnare;
Whole Mornings oft, in such a Dress are spent,
And all is Art, that looks like Accident.
With such Disorder Iöle was grac'd,
When great Alcides first the Nymph embrac'd.
So Ariadne came to Bacchus Bed,
When with the Conqueror from Crete she fled.
The Losses they sustain, by various ways.
Men ill supply those Hairs they shed in Age,
Lost, like Autumnal Leaves, when North-winds rage.
Women, with Juice of Herbs, grey Locks disguise,
And Art gives Colour which with Nature vyes.
The well-wove Tours they wear, their own are thought:
But only are their own, as what they've bought.
And chuse, at publick Shops, what sutes 'em best.
Enrich'd with Gold, or with the Tyrian Dye.
What Folly must in such Expence appear,
When more becoming Colours are less dear?
One, with a Dye is ting'd of lovely Blue;
Such as, thro' Air serene, the Sky we view.
With yellow Lustre see another spread,
As if the Golden Fleece compos'd the Thread.
Some, of the Sea-green Wave the Cast display;
With this, the Nymphs, their beauteous Forms array:
And some, the Saffron Hue will well adorn;
Such is the Mantle of the blushing Morn.
Of Myrtle berries, one, the Tincture shows;
In this, of Amethysts, the Purple glows,
And, that, more imitates the paler Rose.
Nor Thracian Cranes forget, whose silv'ry Plumes
Give Patterns, which employ the mimick Looms.
Nor others, which from Wax derive their Name.
As Fields you find, with various Flow'rs o'erspread
When Vineyards bud, and Winter's Frost is fled;
So various are the Colours you may try,
Of which, the thirsty Wooll imbibes the Dye.
Try ev'ry one, what best becomes you, wear;
For no Complexion all alike can bear.
If fair the Skin, black may become it best,
In black the lovely Fair Briseis dress'd:
If brown the Nymph, let her be cloath'd in white,
Andromeda so charm'd the wond'ring Sight.
Which, sometimes Health, or kindly Heat expels.
Nor, from your tender Legs to pluck with Care
The casual Growth of all unseemly Hair.
Tho' not to Nymphs of Caucasus I sing,
Nor such who taste remote the Mysian Spring;
You let your Teeth disclose the least Defect,
You know the Use of white to make you fair,
And how, with red, lost Colour to repair;
Imperfect Eye-brows you by Art can mend,
And Skin, when wanting, o'er a Scar extend.
Nor need the Fair One be asham'd, who tries,
By Art, to add new Lustre to her Eyes.
How to preserve the Face, and how repair.
In that, the Nymphs, by Time or Chance annoy'd,
May see, what Pains to please 'em I've employ'd.
But, still beware, that from your Lover's Eye
You keep conceal'd the Med'cines you apply:
Tho' Art assists, yet must that Art be hid,
Lest, whom it would invite, it should forbid.
Who would not take Offence, to see a Face
All daub'd, and dripping with the melted Grease?
The Wooll's unsav'ry Scent is still the same.
Marrow of Stags, nor your Pomatums try,
Nor clean your furry Teeth, when Men are by;
For many things, when done, afford Delight,
Which yet, while doing, may offend the Sight.
Even Myro's Statues, which for Art surpass
All others, once were but a shapeless Mass;
Rude was that Gold which now in Rings is worn,
As once the Robe you wear was Wooll unshorn.
Think, how that Stone rough in the Quarry grew,
Which, now, a perfect Venus shews to View.
While we suppose you sleep, repair your Face,
Lock'd from Observers, in some secret Place.
Add the last Hand, before your selves you show;
Your need of Art, why should your Lover know?
For many things, when most conceal'd, are best;
And few, of strict Enquiry, bear the Test.
Those Figures which in Theatres are seen,
Gilded without, are common Wood within.
'Till all is finish'd, which allures the Eye.
To have the Fair one comb her Hair in sight;
To view the flowing Honours of her Head
Fall on her Neck, and o'er her Shoulders spread.
But let her look, that she with Care avoid
All fretful Humours, while she's so employ'd;
Let her not still undo, with peevish Haste,
All that her Woman does; who does her best.
I hate a Vixon, that her Maid assails,
And scratches with her Bodkin, or her Nails;
While the poor Girl in Blood and Tears must mourn,
And her Heart curses, what her Hands adorn.
Plant Centinels before her Dressing-Room:
Or in the Fane of the good Goddess dress,
Where all the Male-kind are debarr'd Access.
A Lady at her Toilet once surpriz'd;
Who starting, snatch'd in haste the Tour she wore,
And in her hurry, plac'd the hinder Part before.
But on our Foes fall ev'ry such Disgrace,
Or barb'rous Beauties of the Parthian Race.
Ungraceful 'tis to see without a Horn,
The lofty Hart, whom Branches best adorn;
A Leaf-less Tree, or an unverdant Mead;
And as ungraceful is a hair-less Head.
For first-rate Beauties, of the finish'd Kind:
Not to a Semele, or
The Daughter of Cadmus, and Mother of Bacchus by Jupiter, having the Curiosity to enjoy the God in his Celestial Majesty, was burnt by Lightning. Leda was the Daughter of Thestius, and the Wife of Tyndarus King of Oebalia: Jupiter in the Shape of a Swan enjoy'd her as she was bathing in the River Eurotus.
Nor an Europa, these my Rules I write;
Nor the fair Helen do I teach, whose Charms
Stirr'd up Atrides, and all Greece, to Arms:
Thee to regain, well was that War begun,
And Paris well defended what he won;
In such a Cause, where both are in the right?
But of the former Sort, the larger Share.
The handsome, least require the Help of Art,
Rich in themselves, and pleas'd with Nature's Part.
When calm the Sea, at ease the Pilot lyes,
But all his Skill exerts when Storms arise.
And few are seen that have not some Defect.
The Nymph too short, her Seat should seldom quit,
Lest, when she stands, she may be thought to sit;
And when extended on her Couch she lyes,
Let Length of Petticoats conceal her Size.
The Lean, of thick-wrought Stuff her Cloaths should chuse,
And fuller made, than what the Plumper use.
If Swarthy, to the Pharian Varnish fly.
A Leg too lank, tight Garters still must wear;
Nor should an ill-shap'd Foot be ever bare.
Round Shoulders, bolster'd, will appear the least;
And lacing strait, confines too full a Breast.
Whose Fingers are too fat, and Nails too coarse,
Should always shun much Gesture in Discourse.
And you, whose Breath is touch'd, this Caution take,
Nor fasting, nor too near another speak.
Let not the Nymph with Laughter much abound,
Whose Teeth are black, uneven, or unsound.
You hardly think how much on this depends,
And how a Laugh, or spoils a Face, or mends.
Gape not too wide, lest you disclose your Gums,
And lose the Dimple which the Cheek becomes.
Nor let your Sides too strong Concussions shake,
Lest you the Softness of the Sex forsake.
In some, Distortions quite the Face disguise;
Another laughs, that you would think she cries.
Another's is as harsh as if she bray'd.
Have learn'd to weep, both when and how they please.
Others, thro' Affectation, lisp, and find,
In Imperfection, Charms to catch Mankind.
Neglect no Means which may promote your Ends;
Now learn what way of Walking recommends.
Too Masculine a Motion shocks the Sight;
But Female Grace allures with strange Delight.
One has an artful Swing and Jut behind,
Which helps her Coats to catch the swelling Wind;
Swell'd with the wanton Wind, they loosely flow,
And ev'ry Step and graceful Motion show.
Another, like an
The Umbrians inhabited a Country joining to the Appenine Hills, which run from Savona, on the Coast of Genoa, to the Sicilian Streights. This Nation were reckon'd as rustick in their Manners, as strong in Bodies, and stout of Heart. The Poet gives us, in an Umbrian Woman, a just Idea of a Modern Peasant's Wife.
Strides all the Space her Petticoat allows.
Between Extreams, in this, a Mean adjust,
Nor shew too nice a Gate, nor too robust.
That, and the Shoulder of the left Arm, bare.
Such Sights ne'er fail to fire my am'rous Heart,
And make me pant to kiss the naked Part.
Can Ships, when under Sail, with Songs, detain:
Scarce could Ulysses by his Friends be bound,
When first he listen'd to the charming Sound.
Singing insinuates: Learn, all ye Maids;
Oft, when a Face forbids, a Voice persuades.
Whether on Theatres loud Strains we hear,
Or in Ruelles some soft Egyptian Air.
Well shall she sing, of whom I make my Choice,
And with her Lute accompany her Voice.
The Rocks were stirr'd, the Beasts to listen staid,
When on his Lyre melodious Orpheus play'd;
Even Cerberus and Hell that Sound obey'd.
And Stones officious were, thy Walls to raise,
O Thebes, attracted by Amphion's Lays.
And was,
Arion was a Musician of Lesbos. Having got a great deal of Mony in his Travels, the Sailors robb'd him and threw him over-board as he was returning home by Sea; but a Dolphin, charm'd with his Musick, convey'd him on his Back safe to Peloponesus, where he procured Periander to put the Sailors to Death.
And read Philetas and Anacreon's Verse.
Terentian Plays may much the Mind improve;
But softest Sapho best instructs to Love.
Propertius, Gallus, and Tibullus read,
And let Varronian Verse to these succeed.
Then mighty Maro's Work with Care peruse;
Of all the Latian Bards the noblest Muse.
Even I, 'tis possible, in After-days,
May scape Oblivion, and be nam'd with these.
My labour'd Lines, some Readers may approve,
Since I've instructed either Sex in Love.
Whatever Book you read of this soft Art,
Read with a Lover's Voice, and Lover's Heart
A Work before unthought of, and unnam'd.
Such thine, Apollo, and Lyæus, thine!
Who gracefully to Dance was never taught:
That active Dancing may to Love engage,
Witness the well-kept Dancers of the Stage.
Tho' it becomes the Sex to trifle well;
To raffle prettily, or slur a Dye,
Implies both Cunning and Dexterity.
Nor is't amiss at Chess to be expert,
For Games most thoughtful, sometimes, most divert.
Learn ev'ry Game, you'll find it prove of Use;
Parties begun at Play, may Love produce.
But, easier 'tis to learn how Bets to lay,
Than how to keep your Temper while you play.
Unguarded then, each Breast is open laid,
And while the Head's intent, the Heart's betray'd.
Quarrels and Brawls arise, and anxious Fears;
Then, Clamours and Revilings reach the Sky,
While losing Gamesters all the Gods defie.
Then horrid Oaths are utter'd ev'ry Cast;
They grieve, and curse, and storm, nay weep at last.
Good Jove avert such shameful Faults as these,
From ev'ry Nymph whose Heart's inclin'd to please.
Soft Recreations fit the Female-kind;
Nature, for Men, has rougher Sports design'd:
To wield the Sword, and hurl the pointed Spear;
To stop, or turn the Steed, in full Career.
Nor may you swim in Tiber's rapid Streams;
Yet when Sol's burning Wheels from Leo drive,
And at the glowing Virgin's Sign arrive,
'Tis both allow'd, and fit, you shou'd repair
To pleasant Walks, and breathe refreshing Air.
Which Cæsar honours, and which Phœbus loves:
Phœbus , who sunk the proud Ægyptian Fleet,
And made Augustus' Victory compleat.
Or seek those Shades, where Monuments of Fame
Are rais'd, to Livia's and Octavia's Name;
Or, where Agrippa first adorn'd the Ground,
When he with Naval Victory was crown'd.
To Isis Fane, to Theatres resort;
And in the Circus see the noble Sport.
In ev'ry publick Place, by turns, be shown;
In vain you're Fair, while you remain unknown.
Should you, in singing,
Thamyras, the Son of Philammon, was a Poet, and one of the greatest Musicians of his time: Having gain'd the Prize of Singing at the Pythick Games, he met the Muses in his Return homewards, and had the Insolence to give them a Challenge, fancying he cou'd out-do them in that Art, at which the Daughters of Jupiter were so enraged that they deprived him of his Reason, or as Diodorus says they took from him his Voice, and his Art of playing on the Lute.
Your Voice unheard, who cou'd your Skill commend?
Had not Apelles drawn the Sea-born Queen,
Her Beauties, still, beneath the Waves had been.
And think their Labours well repay'd with Fame.
Of Gods and Kings the most peculiar Care;
Majestick Awe was in the Name allow'd,
And, they, with rich Possessions were endow'd.
Ennius
Ennius was the first Roman that wrote Annals in Heroick Verse; his Subject was the Wars of Italy, and particularly the Second Punick War, which he did to compliment his Friend and Patron Scipio, in whose Tomb he was bury'd, and who placed the Poet's Statue near his own, which shows how highly he honour'd him.
And, next his own, the Poet's Statue plac'd.
But now their Ivy Crowns bear no Esteem,
And all their Learning's thought an idle Dream.
Still, there's a Pleasure, that proceeds from Praise:
What could the high Renown of Homer raise,
But that he sung his Iliad's deathless Lays?
Danae, Daughter of Acrisius, King of Argos, who having consulted the Oracle, and being told he shou'd be kill'd by her Son, shut her up in a Brazen Tower to prevent it. But Jupiter transforming himself into a Golden Shower, brib'd her Keepers, and got her with Child; which, being born, was the renown'd Perseus. Her Father commanded both the Babe and his Mother to be thrown into the Sea; but being fortunately cast Ashoar on one of the Islands call'd Cyclades, the King of the Island marry'd the Mother; and Perseus, when he was grown up, unwittingly kill'd his Grandfather.
Had she grown old, within her Tow'r immur'd?
This, as a Rule, let ev'ry Nymph pursue,
That 'tis her Int'rest oft to come in View.
In hopes, thro' many, to make sure of one.
That over one, at least, she may prevail.
In ev'ry Place to please, be all her Thought;
Where, sometimes, least we think, the Fish is caught.
Sometimes, all Day, we hunt the tedious Foil,
Anon, the Stag himself shall seek the Toil.
Whose Charms were heighten'd and adorn'd by Grief?
The widow'd Fair, who sees her Lord expire,
While yet she weeps, may kindle new Desire,
And Hymen's Torch re-light with fun'ral Fire.
And look, you fly with speed a Fop profess'd.
Such Tools, to you, and to a thousand more,
Will tell the same dull Story o'er and o'er.
This way and that, unsteadily they rove,
And never fix'd, are Fugitives in Love.
Light, as themselves, and more Effeminate.
Believe me; all I say is for your Good;
Had
Priam, King of Troy, and Father of Paris, who stole Helen, was for restoring her to the Greeks when they demanded her by their Ambassadors; but other Councils prevailing, the War ensu'd, which ended in the Destruction of Troy, and the Death of Priam, who was kill'd by Pyrrhus, Son of Achilles, after forty Years Reign.
Who know no Love, but sordid Love of Gain
But let not powder'd Heads, nor essenc'd Hair,
Your well-believing, easie Hearts ensnare.
Rich Cloaths are oft by common Sharpers worn,
And Diamond Rings fellonious Hands adorn.
So, may your Lover burn with fierce Desire
Your Jewels to enjoy, and best Attire.
Poor Cloe robb'd, runs crying thro' the Streets:
And as she runs, Give me my own, repeats.
How often, Venus, hast thou heard such Cries,
And laugh'd amidst thy Appian Votaries?
Some so notorious are, their very Name
Must ev'ry Nymph whom they frequent, defame.
And faithless Men with constant Care avoid.
Trust not a Theseus, fair Athenian Maid,
Who has so oft th'attesting Gods betray'd.
And thou, Demophoon, Heir to Theseus' Crimes,
Hast lost thy Credit to all future Times.
But once a Contract made, keep well your Word.
For, she for any Act of Hell is fit,
And, undismay'd, may Sacrilege commit;
With impious Hands cou'd quench the vestal Fire,
Poison her Husband, in her Arms, for Hire,
Who, first, to take a Lover's Gift complies,
And then defrauds him, and his Claim denies.
And more in sight pursue th'intended Course.
And Billet-doux are sent, to sound your Heart,
Or Confident, be secretly convey'd.
Soon from the Words you'll judge, if read with Care,
When feign'd a Passion is, and when sincere.
E'er in return you write, some time, require;
Delays, if not too long, encrease Desire:
Nor let the pressing Youth with ease obtain,
Nor yet refuse him with too rude Disdain.
Now, let his Hopes, now, let his Fears encrease,
But by degrees, let Fear to Hope give place.
The usual way of Speech is more Polite.
How have I seen the puzzl'd Lover vex'd,
To read a Letter with hard Words perplex'd!
A Stile too course, takes from a handsome Face,
And makes us wish an uglier in its place.
You from your Husband still wou'd hide th'Affair,
Nor in a foolish Messenger confide.
What Agonies that Woman undergoes,
Whose Hand the Traitor threatens to expose;
Who rashly trusting, dreads to be deceiv'd,
And lives for ever to that Dread enslav'd!
Such Treachery can never be surpass'd,
For those Discov'ries, sure as Light'ning, blast.
Might I advise, Fraud shou'd with Fraud be paid;
Let Arms repel all who with Arms invade.
What, if in sev'ral Hands, you learn'd to write?
My Curse on him who first the Sex betray'd,
And this Advice so necessary made.
Nor let your Pocket-Book two Hands contain,
First, rub your Lover's out, then, write again.
Still one Contrivance more remains behind,
Which you may use as a convenient Blind;
And let your Friend, to you subscribe a Female Name.
And clap on all the Sail the Barque can bear.
Let no rude Passions in your Looks find place;
For Fury will deform the finest Face:
It swells the Lips, and blackens all the Veins,
While in the Eye a Gorgon Horror reigns.
And in a Fountain saw the Change it made,
Swelling her Cheek: She flung it quick aside;
Nor is thy Musick so much worth, she cry'd.
Look in your Glass, when you with Anger glow,
And you'll confess, you scarce your selves can know.
Nor with excessive Pride insult the Sight,
For gentle Looks, alone, to Love invite.
Believe it as a Truth that's daily try'd,
There's nothing more detestable than Pride.
“Like things which by Antipathy we hate!
Let Looks with Looks, and Smiles with Smiles be paid,
And when your Lover bows, incline your Head.
So, Love preluding, plays at first with Hearts,
And after wounds with deeper piercing Darts.
Nor me a melancholy Mistress charms;
Let sad Tecmessa weep in Ajax' Arms.
Let mourning Beauties, sullen Heroes move;
We chearful Men, like Gaiety in Love.
Let Hector in Andromache delight,
Who, in bewailing Troy, wastes all the Night.
Had they not both born Children (to be plain)
I ne'er cou'd think they'd with their Husbands lain.
I no Idea in my Mind can frame,
That either one or t'other doleful Dame,
Cou'd toy, cou'd fondle, or cou'd call their Lords
My Life, my Soul; or speak endearing Words.
Or, fear small things by greater to explain?
Observe what Conduct prudent Gen'rals use,
And how their sev'ral Officers they chuse;
To one, a Charge of Infantry commit,
Another, for the Horse, is thought more fit.
So you your sev'ral Lovers should select,
And, as you find 'em qualify'd, direct.
The wealthy Lover store of Gold should send;
The Lawyer should, in Courts, your Cause defend.
We, who write Verse, with Verse alone should bribe;
Most apt to Love is all the tuneful Tribe.
By us, your Fame shall thro' the World be blaz'd;
So Nemesis, so Cynthia's Name was rais'd.
From East to West, Lycoris Praises ring;
Nor are Corrinna's silent, whom we sing.
No Fraud, the Poet's sacred Breast can bear;
Mild are his Manners, and his Heart sincere.
Nor Wealth he seeks, nor feels Ambition's Fires,
But shuns the Bar; and Books and Shades requires.
With Ease we fix, but we with Pain remove;
Our softer Studies with our Souls combine,
And, both, to Tenderness our Hearts incline.
Be gentle, Virgins, to the Poet's Pray'r,
The God that fills him, and the Muse revere;
Something Divine is in us, and from Heav'n
Th'inspiring Spirit can alone be giv'n.
'Tis Sin, a Price from Poets to exact;
But 'tis a Sin no Woman fears to act.
Yet hide, howe'er, your Avarice from Sight,
Lest you too soon your new Admirer fright.
A new-back'd Courser, and a well-train'd Horse;
Do you, by diff'rent Management, engage
The Man in Years, and Youth of greener Age.
This, while the Wiles of Love are yet unknown,
Will gladly cleave to you, and you alone:
And all the Harvest of his Heat enjoy.
Alone, thus bless'd, of Rivals most beware;
Nor Love, nor Empire, can a Rival bear.
Men more discreetly love, when more mature,
And many things, which Youth disdains, endure;
No Windows break, nor Houses set on Fire,
Nor tear their own, or Mistresses Attire.
In Youth, the boiling Blood gives Fury vent,
But, Men in Years, more calmly Wrongs resent.
As Wood when green, or as a Torch when wet,
They slowly burn, but long retain their Heat.
More bright is youthful Flame, but sooner dies;
Then, swiftly seize the Joy that swiftly flies.
How, surely to enslave our selves, we show.
To trust a Traitor, you'll no Scruple make,
Who is a Traitor only for your sake.
Wou'd you retain him long, then, long refuse.
Oft, at your Door, make him for Entrance wait,
There let him lye, and threaten and entreat.
When cloy'd with Sweets, Bitters the Taste restore;
Ships, by fair Winds, are sometimes run ashore.
Hence springs the Coldness of a marry'd Life,
The Husband, when he pleases, has his Wife.
Bar but your Gate, and let your Porter cry
Here's no Admittance, Sir; I must deny:
The very Husband, so repuls'd, will find
A growing Inclination to be kind.
I, now, sharp Weapons for the Sex provide;
Nor doubt, against my self, to see 'em try'd.
Beware, lest Jealousies his Soul allarm;
That he, and only he's the happy Man.
Anon, by due degrees, small Doubts create,
And let him fear some Rival's better Fate.
Such little Arts make Love its Vigour hold,
Which, else wou'd languish, and too soon grow old.
Then, streins the Courser to out-strip the Wind,
When one before him runs, and one he hears behind.
Love, when extinct, Suspicions may revive;
I own, when mine's secure, 'tis scarce alive.
Yet, one Precaution to this Rule belongs;
Let us at most suspect, not prove our Wrongs.
Sometimes, your Lover to incite the more,
Pretend, your Husband's Spies beset the Door:
Tho' free as Thais, still affect a Fright;
For, seeming Danger heightens the Delight.
Oft let the Youth in thro' your Window steal,
Tho' he might enter at the Door as well;
And, sometimes, let your Maid Surprize pretend,
And beg you, in some Hole to hide your Friend.
And let him taste of Happiness sincere;
Lest, quite dishearten'd with too much Fatigue,
He shou'd grow weary of the dull Intrigue.
Both to evade the Husband, and the Spy.
Agrees with Justice, Modesty, and Law:
But, that a Mistress may be lawful Prize,
None, but her Keeper, I am sure, denies.
For such fair Nymphs, these Precepts are design'd,
Which ne'er can fail, join'd with a willing Mind.
Tho' stuck with Argus' Eyes your Keeper were,
Advis'd by me, you shall elude his Care.
Can he observe what Letters then you write?
Which, in her Breast, your Confident may hide?
Can he the Note beneath her Garter view,
Or that, which, more conceal'd, is in her Shoe?
Yet, these perceiv'd, you may her Back undress,
And, writing on her Skin, your Mind express.
New Milk, or pointed Spires of Flax, when green,
Will Ink supply, and Letters mark unseen.
Fair will the Paper show, nor can be read,
'Till all the Writing's with warm Ashes spread.
And in his Tow'r of Brass, a Grandsire made.
Or in the Circus view the noble Sport?
Or, can you be to Isis Fane pursu'd,
Or Cybelle's, whose Rites all Men exclude?
Tho' watchful Servants to the Bagnio come,
They're ne'er admitted to the Bathing-room.
May you not take to your Sick-bed a Friend?
False Keys a private Passage may procure,
If not, there are more Ways besides the Door.
Sometimes, with Wine, your watchful Follow'r treat;
When drunk, you may with ease his Care defeat:
Or, to prevent too sudden a Surprise,
Prepare a sleeping Draught, to seal his Eyes:
Or let your Maid, still longer time to gain,
An Inclination for his Person feign;
With faint Resistance let her drill him on,
And, after competent Delays, be won.
Since Gold the greatest Vigilance beguiles?
Believe me, Men and Gods with Gifts are pleas'd;
Ev'n angry Jove with Off'rings is appeas'd.
With Presents, Fools and Wise alike are caught,
Give but enough, the Husband may be bought.
That you for ever his Connivance buy;
Pay him his Price at once, for with such Men
You'll know no End of giving now and then.
Of Jealousie occasion'd by a Friend.
Believe me, Apprehensions of that kind,
Are not alone to our false Sex confin'd.
Trust not too far, your She-Companion's Truth,
Lest she sometimes shou'd intercept the Youth:
The very Confident that lends the Bed,
May entertain your Lover, in your stead.
Nor keep a Servant with too fair a Face,
For such I've known supply her Lady's Place.
Teaching the Foe unequal War to wage?
Did ever Bird the Fowler's Net prepare?
Was ever Hound instructed by the Hare?
I'll faithfully proceed to teach my Art.
Defenceless and unarm'd expose my Life,
And for the Lemnian Ladies, whet the Knife.
Nor will you find it hard, Belief to gain;
Full of himself, he your Design will aid:
To what we wish, 'tis easie to persuade.
With dying Eyes, his Face and Form survey,
Then, sigh, and wonder he so long cou'd stay:
Now, drop a Tear, your Sorrows to asswage,
Anon, reproach him, and pretend to rage.
Such Proofs as these, will all Distrust remove,
And make him pity your excessive Love.
Scarce to himself will he forbear to cry,
How can I let this poor fond Creature die?
But chiefly, one, such fond Behaviour fires,
Who courts his Glass, and his own Charms admires.
He'll think a Goddess might with ease be won.
Nor strait fly out, when you a Rival fear.
Let not your Passions o'er your Sense prevail,
Nor credit lightly ev'ry idle Tale.
Let Procris Fate, a sad Example be
Of what Effects attend Credulity.
And flow'ring Hills, a sacred Fountain flows;
With soft and verdant Turf the Soil is spread,
And sweetly-smelling Shrubs the Ground o'er-shade.
There, Rosemary and Bays, their Odours join,
And with the fragrant Myrtle's Scent, combine.
There, Tamarisks with thick-leav'd Box are found,
And Cytissus, and Garden Pines, abound.
Tremble the Leaves, and tender tops of Grass.
Hither, wou'd Cephalus retreat to rest,
When tir'd with Hunting, or with Heat opprest:
And, thus, to Air, the panting Youth wou'd pray,
Come, gentle Aura, come, this Heat allay.
But some Tale-bearing too officious Friend,
By chance, o'er-heard him as he thus complain'd;
Who, with the News to Procris quick repair'd,
Repeating Word for Word what she had heard.
Soon as the Name of Aura reach'd her Ears,
With Jealousie surpriz'd, and fainting Fears,
Her rosie Colour fled her lovely Face,
And Agonies like Death, supply'd the place;
Pale she appear'd as are the falling Leaves,
When first the Vine the Winter's blast receives.
Of ripen'd Quinces, such the yellow Hue,
Or, when unripe, we Cornel-berries view.
Reviving from her Swoon, her Robes she tore,
Nor her own faultless Face to wound, forbore.
With
The Priestesses and Priests of Bacchus, who celebrated the Festival of that God, did it with the Noise of Shouts, Drums, Timbrels and Cymbals, were crown'd with Ivy, Vine, &c. and carry'd a Thyrsus or Staff wreath'd with it in their Hands; they were frantick and outragious in their Actions during this Ceremony.
Thither arriv'd, she leaves, below, her Friends;
And, all alone, the shady Hill ascends.
What Folly, Procris, o'er thy Mind prevail'd?
What Rage, thus, fatally, to lye conceal'd?
Whoe'er this Aura be (such was thy Thought)
She, now shall in the very Fact be caught.
Anon, thy Heart repents its rash Designs,
And now to go, and now to stay inclines:
Thus, Love, with Doubts perplexes still thy Mind,
And makes thee seek, what thou must dread to find.
But still thy Rival's Name rings in thy Ears,
And more suspicious still the Place appears:
But more than all, excessive Love deceives,
Which, all it fears, too easily believes.
Soon as she saw where Cephalus had lain.
The scorching Ardour of the Mid-day Sun;
With Water, first, he sprinkled o'er his Face,
Which glow'd with Heat; then sought his usual Place.
Procris, with anxious but with silent Care,
View'd him extended, with his Bosom bare;
And heard him, soon, th'accustom'd Words repeat,
Come Zephyr, Aura come, allay this Heat:
Soon as she found her Error, from the Word,
Her Colour and her Temper were restor'd.
With Joy she rose, to clasp him in her Arms:
But, Cephalus, the rustling Noise alarms;
Some Beast, he thinks, he in the Bushes hears,
And strait, his Arrows and his Bow prepares.
Hold! hold! unhappy Youth!—I call in vain,
With thy own Hand thou hast thy Procris slain.
Me, me, (she crys) thou'st wounded with thy Dart!
But Cephalus was wont to wound this Heart.
Yet, lighter on my Ashes, Earth will lye,
Since, tho' untimely, I unrival'd die:
Jealous of Air, to Air I yield my Breath.
Close to his heavy Heart, her Cheek he laid,
And wash'd, with streaming Tears, the Wound he made;
At length, the Springs of Life their Currents leave,
And her last Gasp, her Husband's Lips receive.
'Till, safe to Port our weary Bark we guide.
What Rules, to Treats and Entertainments reach.
Come not the first, invited to a Feast;
Rather, come last, as a more grateful Guest.
For, that, of which we fear to be depriv'd,
Meets with the surest Welcome, when arriv'd.
Besides, Complexions of a courser kind,
From Candle-light, no small Advantage find.
Nor let your unwip'd Hands besmear your Face;
Nor, yet, too squeamishly your Meat avoid,
Lest we suspect you were in private cloy'd.
Of all Extreams in either kind, beware,
And still, before your Belly's full, forbear.
No Glutton Nymph, however Fair, can wound,
Tho' more than Hellen she in Charms abound.
More suits the Sex, and sooner finds Excuse;
It warms the Blood, adds Lustre to the Eyes,
And Wine and Love have always been Allies.
But, carefully from all Intemp'rance keep,
Nor drink 'till you see double, lisp, or sleep.
For in such Sleeps, Brutalities are done,
Which, tho' you loath, you have no Pow'r to shun.
Shou'd next be taught, how to behave in Bed.
With weary Wings, the labour'd Flight pursues;
Her purple Swans unyoak'd, the Chariot leave,
And needful Rest (their Journey done) receive.
And equal Arms, on either Sex bestow:
While Men and Maids, who by my Rules improve,
Ovid, must own, their Master is in Love.
OF PLEASING; AN EPISTLE TO Sir RICHARD TEMPLE.
That no one Man is pleas'd with what he has.
So Horace sings—and sure, as strange is this:
That no one Man's displeas'd with what he is.
The Foolish, Ugly, Dull, Impertinent,
Are with their Persons and their Parts content.
Nor is that all; so odd a thing is Man,
He most would be what least he should or can.
Hence, homely Faces still are foremost seen,
And cross-shap'd Fops affect the nicest Mien;
And Fools are still most forward to advise;
Th'untrusted Wretch, to Secresie pretends,
Whisp'ring his Nothing round to All as Friends.
Dull Rogues affect the Politician's part;
And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with Art;
Who nothing has to lose, the War bewails;
And he who nothing pays, at Taxes rails.
Thus, Man, perverse, against plain Nature strives,
And to be artfully absurd, contrives.
Plautus will dance, Luscus at Ogling aims,
Old Tritus keeps, and undone Probus games.
Noisome Curculio, whose envenom'd Breath,
Tho' at a distance utter'd, threatens Death,
Full in your Teeth his stinking Whisper throws;
Nor mends his Manners, tho' you hold your Nose.
Thersites, who seems born to give Offence,
From uncouth Form and frontless Impudence,
Assumes soft Airs, and with a Slur comes in,
Attempts a Smile, and shocks you with a Grin.
And Helluo invites with a forbidding Face.
But, that forsaken, we like Comets err:
Toss'd thro' the Void, by some rude Shock we're broke,
And all our boasted Fire is lost in Smoke.
Men most affect, in general to please:
Of this Affection, Vanity's the Source,
And Vanity alone obstructs its Course;
That Telescope of Fools, thro' which they spy
Merit remote, and think the Object nigh.
The Glass remov'd, would each himself survey,
And in just Scales, his Strength and Weakness weigh,
Pursue the Path for which he was design'd,
And to his proper Force adapt his Mind;
Scarce one, but, to some Merit might pretend,
Perhaps might please, at least would not offend.
Must be no Bavius, but a Bickerstaffe.
If Garth, or Blackmore, friendly Potions give,
We bid the dying Patient drink and live:
When Murus comes, we cry, beware the Pill,
And wish the Tradesman were a Tradesman still.
If Addison, or Rowe, or Prior write,
We study 'em with Profit and Delight:
But when vile Macer and Mundungus rhyme,
We grieve we've learnt to read, ay, curse the Time,
All Rules of Pleasing in this one unite,
Affect not any thing in Nature's spight.
Baboons and Apes ridiculous we find;
For what? For ill resembling Human-kind.
None are, for being what they are, in fault,
But for not being what they wou'd be thought.
As to one perfect in the Pleasing Art;
By Nature, form'd for Love, and for Esteem.
Affecting none, all Virtues you possess,
And really are what others but profess.
I'll not offend you, while my self I please;
I loath to flatter, tho' I love to praise.
But when such early Worth so bright appears,
And antedates the Fame which waits on Years;
I can't so stupidly affected prove,
Not to confess it, in the Man I love.
Tho' now I aim not at that known Applause
You've won in Arms, and in your Country's Cause;
Nor Patriot now, nor Hero I commend,
But the Companion praise, and boast the Friend.
That I presume too much in this Essay.
How should I show what pleases? How explain
A Rule, to which I never could attain?
But tell a Tale, which, after, we'll apply.
Concern'd to find his only Son a Dunce;
Compos'd a Book in favour of the Lad,
Whose Memory, it seems, was very bad.
This Work contain'd a world of wholesome Rules,
To help the Frailty of forgetful Fools.
The careful Parent laid the Treatise by,
'Till Time should make it proper to apply.
Simon at length the look'd-for Age attains,
To read and profit by his Father's Pains;
And now the Sire prepares the Book t'impart,
Which was yclep'd Of Memory the Art.
But ah! how oft is human Care in vain!
For now, he could not find his Book again.
The Place where he had laid it, he forgot,
Nor could himself remember what he wrote.
Which if not true, is yet invented well.
Such is my Case: Like most of theirs who teach:
I ill may practice, what I well may preach.
My self not trying, or not turn'd to please,
May lay the Line, and measure out the Ways.
The Mulcibers, who in the Minories sweat,
And massive Bars on stubborn Anvils beat,
Deform'd themselves, yet, forge those Stays of Steel,
Which arm Aurelia with a Shape to kill.
So Macer and Mundungus school the Times,
And write in rugged Prose the Rules of softer Rhymes.
Well do they play the careful Criticks Part,
Instructing doubly by their matchless Art:
Rules for good Verse they first with Pains indite,
Then shew us what are bad, by what they write.
A PINDARIQUE ODE, Humbly Offer'd to the QUEEN,
On the Victorious Progress of Her MAJESTY's Arms, under the Conduct of the Duke of Marlborough.
To which is prefix'd, A Discourse on the Pindarique Ode.
Carmina fingo.
Hor. Ode 2. L. 4.
I.
Daughter of Memory, Immortal Muse,Calliope; what Poet wilt thou chuse
Of ANNA's Name to Sing?
To whom wilt thou thy Fire impart,
Thy Lyre, thy Voice, and tuneful Art;
Whom raise Sublime on thy Ætherial Wing,
And Consecrate with Dews of thy Castalian Spring?
II.
Without thy Aid, the most aspiring MindMust flag beneath, to narrow Flights confin'd,
Striving to rise in vain:
Nor e'er can hope with equal Lays
To celebrate bright Virtue's Praise.
Thy Aid obtain'd, even I, the humblest Swain,
May climb Pierian Heights, and quit the lowly Plain.
III.
High in the Starry Orb is hung,And next Alcides Guardian Arm,
That
Orpheus was said to be the Son of the Muse Calliope. The Poetical Fiction of the Harp of Orpheus is this. Mercury, the same Day that he was born of Maja in Cyllene, a Mountain of Arcadia, found a living Tortoise, which he carried home with him to his Cradle, and immediately compos'd a Harp of the Shell. A little after he stole the Oxen of Apollo; this caus'd some Difference between the Deities, but the Matter being referr'd to Jupiter, he order'd Mercury to return the Oxen to the right Owner; on this there follow'd not only a Reconciliation but Friendship, and Apollo expressing an extream Pleasure at the Invention of the Harp, Mercury bestow'd it on him as a Pledge of his future Friendship. Of this Homer, in his Hymn to Mercury, speaks at large. Afterwards Apollo inventing another Instrument call'd the Cithara, gave the Lyra to Orpheus. The Muses, after the Death of Orpheus, Translated his Harp into Heav'n, where it became a Constellation, and is plac'd between the Knee and Left Arm of Engonasis or Hercules.
Who Woods, and Rocks, and Winds, cou'd Charm,
That Harp which on Cyllenes shady Hill,
When first the Vocal Shell was found,
With more than Mortal Skill
Inventer Hermes taught to sound.
Hermes on bright Latona's Son,
By sweet Persuasion won,
The wond'rous Work bestow'd;
Latona's Son, to thine
Indulgent, gave the Gift Divine:
A God the Gift, a God th'Invention show'd.
I.
To that high-sounding Lyre I tune my Strains;A lower Note his lofty Song disdains
The Lyre is struck! the Sounds I hear!
O Muse, propitious to my Pray'r!
O well known Sounds! O Melody, the same
That kindled Mantuan Fire, and rais'd Mæonian Flame!
II.
Nor are these Sounds to British Bards unknown,Or sparingly reveal'd to one alone:
Witness sweet Spencer's Lays:
And witness that Immortal Song,
As Spencer sweet, as Milton strong,
Which humble Boyn o'er Tiber's Flood cou'd raise,
And mighty William Sing, with well-proportion'd Praise.
III.
Rise, Fair Augusta, lift thy Head,With Golden Tow'rs thy Front adorn;
Come forth, as comes from Tithon's Bed
With chearful Ray the ruddy Morn.
Thy lovely Form, and fresh reviving State,
In Crystal Flood of Thames survey;
Bless Anna's most Auspicious Sway.
While distant Realms and neighb'ring Lands,
Arm'd Troops and hostile Bands
On ev'ry Side molest,
Thy happier Clime is Free,
Fair Capital of Liberty!
And Plenty knows, and Days of Halcyon Rest.
I.
As Britain's Isle, when old vex'd Ocean roars;Unshaken sees against her Silver Shoars
His foaming Billows beat;
So Britain's QUEEN, amidst the Jars
And Tumults of a World in Wars,
Fix'd on the Base of Her well-founded State,
Serene and safe Looks down, nor feels the Shocks of Fate.
II.
But Greatest Souls, tho' blest with sweet Repose,Are soonest touch'd with Sense of others Woes.
To Mercy and soft Pity prone,
And mov'd with Sorrows not her own,
Has all her Peace and downy Rest resign'd,
To wake for Common Good, and succour Human-kind.
III.
Fly, Tyranny, no more be knownWithin Europa's blissful Bound;
Far as th'unhabitable Zone
Fly ev'ry hospitable Ground.
To horrid Zembla's Frozen Realms repair,
There with the baleful Beldam, Night,
Unpeopl'd Empire share,
And rob those Lands of Legal Right.
For now is come the promis'd Hour,
When Justice shall have Pow'r;
Justice to Earth restor'd!
Again Astrea Reigns!
ANNA Her equal Scale maintains,
And Marlbrô weilds Her sure deciding Sword.
I.
Now, coud'st thou soar, my Muse, to Sing the ManIn Heights sublime, as when the Mantuan Swan
Her tow'ring Pinions spread;
Thou should'st of Marlbrô Sing, whose Hand
Unerring from his QUEEN's Command,
Far as the
Lucan in his Third Book, V. 202. gives it the indefinite Epithete of Multifidi Istri. But Ovid, Trist. 2. Solus ad ingressus missus Septemplicis Istri. And Sidonius Apollinaris gives it the same Epithete, on the like Occasion with this Ode, when in his Panegyrick to Majorianus Cæsar, he tells him,
Augustus potuit, rigidum Septemplicis Istri
Agmen in arma rapis—
The Ancient Geographers differ'd very much in their Account of the Rise of this River; so that on a double account the same Epithets may be appropriated to it which are usual to the Nile.
To save th'Imperial State, Her hardy Britons led.
II.
Nor there thy Song should end; tho' all the NineMight well their Harps and Heav'nly Voices join
To Sing that Glorious Day,
When Bold Bavaria fled the Field,
And Veteran Gauls unus'd to yield,
On Blenheim's Plain imploring Mercy lay;
And Spoils and Trophies won, perplex'd the Victors way.
III.
But cou'd thy Voice of Blenheim Sing,And with Success that Song pursue;
To keep the Victor still in view?
For as the Sun ne'er stops his radiant Flight,
Nor Sets, but with impartial Ray
To all who want his Light
Alternately transfers the Day:
So in the Glorious Round of Fame,
Great Marlbrô, still the same,
Incessant runs his Course;
To Climes remote, and near,
His Conqu'ring Arms by turns appear,
And Universal is his Aid and Force.
I.
Attempt not to proceed, unwary Muse,For O! what Notes, what Numbers cou'dst thou chuse,
Tho' in all Numbers skill'd;
To Sing the Hero's matchless Deed,
Which
Belgia need not only be strictly understood of the Seven Provinces, call'd Belgium Fœderatum, by the Distinction made in the Time of Phil. 2. but may also be interpreted with respect to that which was anciently call'd Belgium, comprehending the lower Germany, in regard of the great Consequences attending such a Victory.
To Sing Ramillia's Day! to which must yield
Cannæ's Illustrious Fight, and Fam'd Pharsalia's Field.
II.
In the short Course of a Diurnal Sun,Behold the Work of many Ages done!
What Verse such Worth can Raise?
Lustre and Life, the Poet's Art
To middle Virtue may impart;
But Deeds sublime, exalted high like These,
Transcend his utmost Flight; and mock his distant Praise.
III.
Still wou'd the willing Muse aspire,With Transport still her Strains prolong;
But Fear unstrings the trembling Lyre,
And Admiration stops her Song.
Go on, Great Chief, in ANNA's Cause proceed;
Nor sheath the Terrors of thy Sword,
'Till Europe thou hast freed,
And Universal Peace restor'd.
This mighty Work when thou shalt End,
Equal Rewards attend,
Of Value far above
Thy Trophies and thy Spoils;
Thy QUEEN's just Favour, and thy Country's Love.
To the Right Honourable the Earl of GODOLPHIN, Lord High-Treasurer of GREAT BRITAIN. PINDARIQUE ODE.
Aut ob avaritiam, aut misera ambitione laborat.
Hunc capit argenti splendor ------
Hic mutat merces surgente a sole, ad eum quo
Vespertina tepet regio: quin per mala præceps
Fertur ------
Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas.
Hor. Sat. 4. L. 1.
I.
To hazardous Attempts and hardy Toils,Ambition some excites;
And some, Desire of Martial Spoils
To bloody Fields invites;
Provokes to tempt the dangerous Main,
To pass the burning Line, and bear
Th'Inclemency of Winds, and Seas, and Air;
Pressing the doubtful Voy'ge 'till India's Shore
Her spicy Bosom bares, and spreads her shining Ore.
II.
Nor Widows Tears, nor tender Orphans Cries,Can stop th'Invader's Force;
Nor swelling Seas, nor threatning Skies,
Prevent the Pirate's Course:
Their Lives to selfish Ends decreed,
Thro' Blood or Rapine they proceed;
No anxious Thoughts of ill Repute,
Suspend th'impetuous and unjust Pursuit:
But Pow'r and Wealth obtain'd, guilty and great,
Their Fellow-Creatures Fears they raise, or urge their Hate.
III.
But not for these, his Iv'ry LyreWill tuneful Phœbus string,
Th'immortal Epode sing.
Thy Springs, Castalia, turn their Streams aside
From Rapine, Avarice, and Pride;
Nor do thy Greens, shady Aonia, grow,
To bind with Wreaths a Tyrant's Brow.
I.
How just, most mighty Jove, yet how severeIs thy supreme Decree,
That impious Men shall joyless hear, &c. This Thought or Opinion is borrow'd from Pindar, Pyth. 1. where he says—But such Men whom Jupiter hates are confounded with Terror when they hear the sweet Harmony of the Muses. This Passage is often cited by Plutarch, and others, in favour of Musick and Poetry. Mr. Cowley in his Notes on his Davideis, Book 1. on David's dispossessing Saul of the Evil Spirit, collects a great number of surprizing Citations on this Subject.
The Muses Harmony!
Their sacred Songs, (the Recompence
Of Virtue, and of Innocence)
Which pious Minds to Rapture raise,
And worthy Deeds, at once excite and praise,
To guilty Hearts afford no kind Relief;
But add inflaming Rage, and more afflicting Grief.
II.
Monstrous Typhœus, thus, new Terrors fill,He, who assail'd the Skies,
Of dreadful Ætna lyes.
Hearing the Lyre's Celestial Sound,
He bellows in th'Abyss profound;
Sicilia trembles at his Roar,
Tremble the Seas, and far Campania's Shoar;
While all his hundred Mouths, at once expire
Volumes of curling Smoke, and Floods of liquid Fire.
III.
From Heav'n alone, all Good proceeds;To heav'nly Minds belong
All Pow'r and Love, Godolphin, of good Deeds,
And Sense of Sacred Song!
And thus, most pleasing are the Muse's Lays
To them who merit most her Praise;
Wherefore, for thee, her Iv'ry Lyre she strings,
And soars with Rapture while she sings.
I.
Whether, Affairs of most important WeightRequire thy aiding Hand,
Thy serious Thoughts demand;
Whether, thy Days and Nights are spent
In Cares, on Publick Good intent;
Or, whether, leisure Hours invite
To manly Sports, or to refin'd Delight;
In Courts residing, or to Plains retir'd,
Where gen'rous Steeds contest, with Emulation fir'd;
II.
Thee still she seeks, and tuneful sings thy Name,As once she Theron sung,
While with the deathless Worthy's Fame
Olympian Pisa rung:
Nor less Sublime, is now, her Choice,
Nor less inspir'd by thee, her Voice.
And now, she loves aloft to sound
The Man for more than Mortal Deeds renown'd;
Vary'ing anon her Theme, she takes Delight
The swift-heel'd Horse to praise, and sing his rapid Flight.
III.
And see! theAlluding to the Notion that Mares have conceiv'd by the Western Wind, without the Assistance of a Horse: See Virg. Geor. 3. ver. 273. from whence Tasso has borrow'd the Birth of Raymond's Horse Gierusalem, Canto 7.
Volta l'aperta bocca incontro l'oraRaccoglie i semi del fecondo vento,
E de tepidi fiati (ô meraviglia!) &c.
Virg:
------ illæOre omnes versæ in Zephyrum, stant rupibus altis,
Exceptantque Leves auras: & sæpe sine ullis
Conjugiis, vento gravidæ (mirabile dictu!)
&c.
Impatient of the Rein;
Faster they run, than flies the Scythian Dart,
Nor passing, print the Plain!
The Winds themselves who with their Swiftness vye,
In vain their airy Pinions ply;
So far in matchless Speed, thy Coursers pass
Th'Ætherial Authors of their Race.
I.
And now, a while, the well-strain'd Coursers breath;And now, my Muse, prepare
Of Olive Leaves a twisted Wreath
To bind the Victor's Hair.
The Fable on which this Digression is founded, is, that Neptune and Pallas had a Contention who should give the Name to Athens; and it was agreed, that which of 'em should confer the greatest Benefit on Mankind, should obtain the Victory. The Gods were assembled in Judgment, and Pallas struck the Earth with her Spear, whence up sprung the fruitful Olive-tree; then Neptune in his turn darted his Trident against the Earth, which opening was deliver'd of a Horse; but the Victory was adjudg'd to Pallas.
The fruitful Olive first design'd;
Deep in the Glebe her Spear she lanc'd,
When all at once, the laden Boughs advanc'd:
The Gods with Wonder view'd the teeming Earth,
And all with one Consent, approv'd the beauteous Birth.
II.
This done, Earth-shaking Neptune next essay'd,In Bounty to the World,
To emulate the blue-ey'd Maid;
And his huge Trident hurl'd
Against the sounding Beach; the Stroke
Transfix'd the Globe, and open broke
The Central Earth, whence, swift as Light
Forth rush'd the first-born Horse. Stupendous Sight!
Neptune, for human Good the Beast ordains,
Whom soon he tam'd to Use, and taught to hear the Reins.
III.
Thus Gods contended, (noble Strife!Worthy the heav'nly Mind)
Who most should do to soften anxious Life,
And most endear Mankind.
Thus, thou Godolphin, dost with Marlbrô strive,
From whose joint Toils we Rest derive:
Triumph in Wars abroad his Arm assures,
Sweet Peace at home thy Care secures.
HOMER's HYMN TO VENUS
Of Cyprian Venus, Goddess of Desire:
Her Charms, th'Immortal Minds of Gods can move,
And tame the stubborn Race of Men to Love.
The wilder Herds and ravenous Beasts of Prey,
Her Influence feel, and own her kindly Sway.
Thro' pathless Air, and boundless Ocean's Space,
She rules the feather'd Kind and finny Race;
Whole Nature on her sole Support depends,
And far as Life exists, her Care extends.
But three are found inflexible to Love.
Blue-ey'd Minerva free preserves her Heart,
A Virgin unbeguil'd by Cupid's Art;
In shining Arms the Martial Maid delights,
O'er War presides, and well-disputed Fights;
With Thirst of Fame she first the Hero fir'd,
And first the Skill of useful Arts inspir'd;
Taught Artists first the carving Tool to wield,
Chariots with Brass to arm, and form the fenceful Shield;
She first taught modest Maids in early Bloom
To shun the lazy Life, and spin, or ply the Loom.
Her smiling Arts and proffer'd Friendship flies:
She loves, with well-mouth'd Hounds and chearful Horn,
Or Silver-sounding Voice, to wake the Morn,
To wound the Mountain Boar, or rouse the woodland Deer:
Sometimes, of gloomy Groves she likes the Shades,
And there of Virgin Nymphs the Chorus leads;
And sometimes, seeks the Town, and leaves the Plains,
And loves Society where Virtue reigns.
Is Virgin Vesta, dear to mighty Jove;
Whom Neptune sought to wed, and Phœbus woo'd;
And both with fruitless Labour long pursu'd;
For she, severely chaste, rejected both,
And bound her Purpose with a solemn Oath,
A Virgin Life inviolate to lead;
She swore, and Jove assenting bow'd his Head.
But since her rigid Choice the Joys deny'd
Of Nuptial Rites, and Blessings of a Bride,
The bounteous Jove with Gifts that Want supply'd.
And first is fed with Fumes of Sacrifice:
For Holy Rites to Vesta first are pay'd,
And on her Altar First-fruit Off'rings laid;
So Jove ordain'd in Honour of the Maid.
Whom Love and Cytherea's Arts displease:
Of other Beings, none in Earth or Skies
Her Force resists, or Influence denies.
With Ease, her Charms the Thunderer can bind,
And captivate with Love th'Almighty Mind:
Ev'n He, whose dread Commands the Gods obey,
Submits to her, and owns superior Sway;
Enslav'd to Mortal Beauties by her Pow'r,
He oft descends, his Creatures to adore;
While to conceal the Theft from Juno's Eyes,
Some well-dissembled Shape the God belies.
Juno, his Wife and Sister, both in Place
And Beauty, first among th'Ætherial Race;
Wise Saturn got, and Cybele brought forth;
And Jove, by never-erring Counsel sway'd,
The Partner of his Bed and Empire made.
The laughing Queen her self with Love inspir'd.
Swift thro' her Veins the sweet Contagion ran,
And kindled in her Breast, Desire of mortal Man;
That she, like other Deities, might prove
The Pains and Pleasures of inferior Love;
And not insultingly the Gods deride,
Whose Sons were human by the Mother's side:
Thus, Jove ordain'd she now for Man should burn,
And bring forth Mortal Off-spring in her turn.
His lowing Herds the young Anchises fed:
Beheld, and lov'd to Madness soon as seen.
To Cyprus, strait the wounded Goddess flies,
Where Paphian Temples in her Honour rise,
And Altars smoke with daily Sacrifice.
Soon as arriv'd, she to her Shrine repair'd,
Where entring quick, the shining Gates she barr'd.
The ready Graces wait, her Baths prepare,
And oint with fragrant Oils her flowing Hair;
Her flowing Hair around her Shoulders spreads,
And all adown, Ambrosial Odour sheds.
Last, in transparent Robes her Limbs they fold,
Enrich'd with Ornaments of purest Gold.
And thus attir'd, her Chariot she ascends,
And Cyprus left, her Flight to Troy she bends.
Which lov'd Anchises chose for his Retreat:
And ever as she walk'd thro' Lawn or Wood,
Promiscuous Herds of Beasts admiring stood.
And lick the Ground, and crouch beneath her Feet.
Dogs, Lions, Wolves and Bears their Eyes unite,
And the swift Panther stops to gaze with fix'd Delight.
For, ev'ry Glance she gives, soft Fire imparts,
Enkindling sweet Desire in Savage Hearts.
Inflam'd with Love, all single out their Mates,
And to their shady Dens each Pair retreats.
Where her Anchises was alone retir'd;
Withdrawn from all his Friends, and Fellow-Swains,
Who fed their Flocks beneath, and sought the Plains:
In pleasing Solitude the Youth she found,
Intent upon his Lyre's harmonious Sound.
In Form and Dress, a Huntress of the Wood;
For had he seen the Goddess undisguis'd,
The Youth with Awe and Fear had been surpriz'd.
Fix'd he beheld her, and with Joy admir'd
To see a Nymph so bright, and so attir'd.
For from her flowing Robe a Lustre spread,
As if with radiant Flame she were array'd;
Her Hair in part disclos'd, in part conceal'd,
In Ringlets fell, or was with Jewels held;
With various Gold and Gems her Neck was grac'd,
And orient Pearls heav'd on her panting Breast:
Bright as the Moon she shone, with silent Light,
And charm'd his Sense with Wonder and Delight.
A thrilling Joy he felt, and pleasing Pain.
Who humbly dost to visit Earth repair.
Who-e'er thou art, descended from above,
Latona, Cynthia, or the Queen of Love,
All hail! all Honour shall to thee be paid;
Or art thou Themis? or the blue-ey'd Maid?
Or, art thou fairest of the Graces three,
Who with the Gods share Immortality?
Or else, some Nymph, the Guardian of these Woods,
These Caves, these fruitful Hills, or Crystal Floods?
Who-e'er thou art, in some conspicuous Field,
I, to thy Honour will an Altar build,
Where holy Off'rings I'll each Hour prepare;
O prove but thou propitious to my Pray'r.
Grant me, among the Trojan Race, to prove
A Patriot worthy of my Country's Love;
Bless'd in my self, I beg, I next, may be
Bless'd in my Children and Posterity:
And, lov'd by all, late may my Days be done.
Delight of Human-kind, thy Sexes Pride!
Honour'd Anchises, you behold in me
No Goddess bless'd with Immortality;
But Mortal I, of mortal Mother came,
Otreus my Father, (you have heard the Name)
Who rules the fair Extent of Phrygia's Lands,
And all her Towns and Fortresses commands.
When yet an Infant, I to Troy was brought,
There was I nurs'd, and there, your Language taught;
Then wonder not, if, thus instructed young,
I, like my own, can speak the Trojan Tongue.
In me, one of Diana's Nymphs behold;
Why thus arriv'd, I shall the Cause unfold.
I, and my Fellow Nymphs of Cynthia's Train,
Dancing in Chorus, and with Garlands crown'd,
And by admiring Crowds encompass'd round,
Lo! hov'ring o'er my Head I saw the God
Who Argus slew, and bears the golden Rod:
Sudden he seiz'd, then, bore me from their Sight,
Cutting thro' liquid Air his rapid Flight.
O'er many States and peopled Towns we pass'd,
O'er Hills and Valleys, and o'er Desarts waste;
O'er barren Moors, and o'er unwholesome Fens,
And Woods where Beasts inhabit dreadful Dens.
Thro' all which pathless Way our Speed was such,
We stopt not once the Face of Earth to touch.
Mean time he told me, while thro' Air we fled,
That Jove ordain'd I should Anchises wed,
And with illustrious Off-spring bless his Bed.
This said, and pointing to me your Abode,
To Heav'n again up-soar'd the swift-wing'd God.
Unknown, and lost, far from my native home.
But I conjure you, by the Throne of Jove,
By all that's dear to you, by all you love,
By your good Parents; (for no bad, could e'er
Produce a Son so graceful, good, and fair:)
That you no Wiles employ to win my Heart,
But let me hence an untouch'd Maid depart;
Inviolate and guiltless of your Bed,
Let me be to your House and Mother led.
Me to your Father and your Brothers show,
And our Alliance first let them allow:
Let me be known, and my Condition own'd,
And no unequal Match I may be found.
Equality to them my Birth may claim,
Worthy a Daughter's or a Sister's Name,
Tho' for your Wife, of too inferior Fame.
Next, let Ambassadors to Phrygia haste
To tell my Father of my Fortunes pass'd,
Of Doubts and Fears, which, Cares for me create.
They in return shall Presents bring from thence
Of rich Attire, and Sums of Gold immense:
You in peculiar shall with Gifts be grac'd,
In Price and Beauty far above the rest.
This done, perform the Rites of Nuptial Love,
Grateful to Men below, and Gods above.
She said, and from her Eyes shot subtle Fires,
Which to his Heart insinuate Desires.
Resistless Love invading thus his Breast,
The panting Youth the smiling Queen address'd.
And Otreus you report your Father's Name,
And since th'Immortal Hermes from above,
To execute the dread Commands of Jove,
Your wondrous Beauties hither has convey'd,
A Nuptial Life with me henceforth to lead:
One Minute to defer the happy Hour,
This Instant will I seize upon thy Charms,
Mix with thy Soul, and melt within thy Arms:
Tho' Phœbus, arm'd with his unerring Dart,
Stood ready to transfix my panting Heart;
Tho' Death, tho' Hell, in consequence attend,
Thou shalt with me the Genial Bed ascend.
The Goddess smil'd, nor did th'Attempt withstand:
But fix'd her Eyes upon the Hero's Bed,
Where soft and silken Coverlets were spread,
And over all, a Counterpane was plac'd,
Thick sown with Furs of many a Savage Beast,
Of Bears and Lions, heretofore his Spoil;
And still remain'd the Trophies of his Toil.
And he with eager Haste disrobes the Fair.
Her Bracelets next, and braided Hair unty'd:
And now, his busie Hand her Zone unbrac'd,
Which girt her radiant Robe around her Waste;
Her radiant Robe at last aside was thrown,
Whose rosie hue with dazling Lustre shone.
And on a Chair of Gold her Vestments laid.
Anchises now, (so Jove and Fate ordain'd)
The sweet Extream of Ecstacy attain'd;
And Mortal he, was like th'Immortals bless'd,
Not conscious of the Goddess he possess'd.
And from the flow'ry Field returning, led
Their Sheep to fold, and Oxen to the Shed;
The wary Goddess her Anchises bound:
Then gently rising from his Side and Bed,
In all her bright Attire her Limbs array'd.
Nor more a Mortal, but her self appears:
Her Face refulgent, and Majestick Mien,
Confess'd the Goddess, Love's and Beauty's Queen.
Thy fond Repose and Lethargy forsake:
Look on the Nymph who late from Phrygia came,
Behold me well—say, if I seem the same.
And starting from his Bed, Anchises woke:
But when he Venus view'd without Disguise,
Her shining Neck beheld, and radiant Eyes;
Attempting, with his Robe his Face to hide.
Confus'd with Wonder, and with Fear oppress'd,
In winged Words, he thus the Queen address'd.
Whose Charms so far Humanity excell'd;
To thy Celestial Pow'r my Vows I paid,
And with Humility implor'd thy Aid:
But thou, for secret Cause to me unknown,
Didst thy Divine Immortal State disown.
But now, I beg thee by the Filial Love
Due to thy Father, Ægis-bearing Jove,
Compassion on my human State to show;
Nor let me lead a Life infirm below:
Defend me from the Woes which Mortals wait,
Nor let me share of Men the common Fate:
Since never Man with length of Days was blest,
Who in Delights of Love a Deity possess'd.
Be bold, Anchises; in my Love confide:
Nor me, nor other God, thou needst to fear,
For thou, to all the heav'nly Race art Dear.
Know, from our Loves, thou shalt a Son obtain,
Who over all the Realm of Troy shall reign;
From whom, a Race of Monarchs shall descend,
And whose Posterity shall know no End.
To him thou shalt the Name Æneas give,
As one, for whose Conception I must grieve,
Oft as I think, he to exist began
From my Conjunction with a Mortal Man.
To a superior Race of Men gives Birth;
And next resembling Gods in Form and Mind.
To live with Gods, the lovely Ganymede.
Where, by th'Immortals honour'd, (strange to see!)
The Youth enjoys a bless'd Eternity.
In Bouls of Gold, he ruddy Nectar pours,
And Jove regales in his unbended Hours.
Long did the King, his Sire, his Absence mourn,
Doubtful, by whom, or where the Boy was born:
'Till Jove at length, in pity of his Grief,
Dispatch'd Argicides to his Relief;
And more with Gifts to pacifie his Mind,
He sent him Horses of a deathless kind,
Whose Feet outstript in Speed the rapid Wind.
The Youth's Advancement to a heav'nly State;
Where, all his Hours are past in circling Joy,
Which Age can ne'er decay, nor Death destroy.
Now, when this Embassie the King receives,
No more for absent Ganimede he grieves;
The pleasing News his aged Heart revives,
And with Delight his Swift-heel'd Steeds he drives.
Tithonus Partner of her rosie Bed,
(Tithonus too was of the Trojan Line,
Resembling Gods in Face and Form Divine)
For him she strait the Thunderer address'd,
That with perpetual Life he might be bless'd:
Jove heard her Pray'r, and granted her Request.
But ah! how rash was she, how indiscreet!
The most material Blessing to omit;
That Length of Days might be with Strength supply'd;
And to her Lover's endless Life, engage
An endless Youth, incapable of Age.
But hear what Fate befell this heav'nly Fair,
In Gold enthron'd, the brightest Child of Air.
Tithonus, while of pleasing Youth possess'd,
Is by Aurora with Delight caress'd;
Dear to her Arms, he in her Court resides,
Beyond the Verge of Earth, and Ocean's utmost Tides.
Deform his Beard, and disadorn his Head,
The Goddess cold in her Embraces grew,
His Arms declin'd, and from his Bed withdrew;
Yet still a kind of nursing Care she show'd,
And Food ambrosial, and rich Cloaths bestow'd:
But when of Age he felt the sad Extream,
And ev'ry Nerve was shrunk, and Limb was lame,
Of Youth, of Vigour, and of Voice bereft.
On Terms like these, I never can desire
Thou shouldst to Immortality aspire.
Thy Strength, thy Beauty, and thy Youth retain,
Couldst thou for ever thus my Husband prove,
I might live happy in thy endless Love;
Nor should I e'er have Cause to dread the Day,
When I must mourn thy Loss and Life's Decay.
But thou, alas! too soon and sure must bend
Beneath the Woes which painful Age attend;
Inexorable Age! whose wretched State
All Mortals dread, and all Immortals hate.
And for thy sake Reproach and Shame must bear.
Could captivate the Minds of Gods above,
And force 'em, by my all-subduing Charms,
To sigh and languish in a Woman's Arms:
Must now no more that Pow'r superior boast,
Nor tax with Weakness the Celestial Host;
Since I my self, this dear Amends have made,
And am at last by my own Arts betray'd.
This Hour, by thee, I have a Son conceiv'd;
Whom hid beneath my Zone, I must conceal,
'Till Time his Being and my Shame reveal.
In their deep Bosoms nurse, as soon as born:
They nor of Mortal nor Immortal Seed
Are said to spring, yet on Ambrosia feed,
With Gods and Goddesses in Dance divine.
And their Embraces seeks in shady Groves.
Their Origine and Birth these Nymphs deduce
From common Parent Earth's prolifick Juice:
With lofty Firs which grace the Mountain's Brow,
Or ample-spreading Oaks, at once they grow;
All have their Trees allotted to their Care,
Whose Growth, Duration and Decrease they share.
But holy are these Groves by Mortals held,
And therefore, by the Ax are never fell'd.
But when the Fate of some fair Tree draws nigh,
It first appears to droop, and then grows dry;
The Bark to crack and perish, next is seen,
And last the Boughs it sheds, no longer green:
And thus the Nymphs expire by like degrees,
And live and die coæval with their Trees.
Shall in their sweet Recesses nurse my Son;
And when his Cheeks with Youth's first Blushes glow,
To thee the Sacred Maids the Boy shall show.
I will again to visit thee descend,
Bringing thy beauteous Son to charm thy Sight,
Whose Godlike Form shall fill thee with Delight;
Him will I leave thenceforward to thy Care,
And will that with him thou to Troy repair:
There, if Enquiry shall be made, to know
To whom thou dost so bright an Off-spring owe;
Be sure, thou nothing of the Truth detect,
But ready Answer make as I direct.
Say of a Sylvan Nymph the fair Youth came,
And Calycopis call his Mother's Name.
For shouldst thou boast the Truth, and madly own
That thou in Bliss hadst Cytherea known,
And with avenging Thunder strike thee dead.
Now all is told thee, and just Caution giv'n,
Be secret thou, and dread the Wrath of Heav'n.
Cutting thro' liquid Air her Heav'nward Flight.
Then, to some other Pow'r transfer my Lays.
Æneas, signifying one who causeth Grief. By this Passage, it should seem as if the Etymologists had err'd, who, as he was the Hero of Virgil's Epick Poem, have deriv'd his Name from αινεω, to extol, or praise; it appearing here expresly to be derived from ανια Grief, or [illeg.] to affect with Grief.
Of Wood-Nymphs there were the Dryades and the Hamadryades; the Dryades presided over Woods and Groves; the Hamadryades each over her particular Tree. None of them were accounted Immortal, but extreamly long liv'd. Ausonius, from Hesiod, computes the compleat Life of a Man at 96 Years; a Crow he says lives nine times as long; a Deer four times as long as a Crow; a Raven three times as long as a Deer; the Phænix ten times as long as a Raven; and these Hamadryades live ten times as long as the Phænix. But the most receiv'd Opinion was, that they liv'd just as long as their Trees. Therefore this from Ausonius seems rather to relate to the Dryades, and the Duration of a whole Wood; for there are frequent Instances where they were indifferently call'd Dryades and Hamadryades, by the ancient Poets. They were very sensible of good Offices, and grateful to them who at any time preserved their Trees. The Scholiast, upon a Passage mentioning these Nymphs in Apollon. Argonaut. l. 2. relates the following Story cited from Charon Lampsacenus. A young Man call'd Ræcus observing a fair Oak almost fallen to the Earth, order'd it to be supported, and took such effectual Care that he re-establish'd it again to flourish in its Place. The Nymph of the Tree appear'd to him, and in return bid him ask what he pleas'd. The Youth readily demanded of her the last Favour, which she as readily promis'd; and according to Agreement, sent a Bee to summon him at the Time when he might be happy: But the young Man hapning to be gaming at Dice when the Bee came, was so offended with its buzzing that he gave it ill Words, and chid it from him; this Reception of her Ambassador so enrag'd the Nymph, that in Revenge she render'd him impotent. This Story is also cited in part by Nat. Com. See Ovid. Metam. l. 8. of the Fate of Erisichthon, for cutting down one of these animated Trees.
The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | ||