The Genuine Works in Verse and Prose, Of the Right Honourable George Granville, Lord Lansdowne

His Juno barren in unfruitful Joys,
Our British Jove his Nuptial Hours employs:
So Fate ordains, That all our Hopes may be,
And all our Prospect, gallant York, in Thee.

By the same Wish aspiring Queens are led,
Each languishing to mount his Royal Bed;
His Youth, his Wisdom, and his early Fame
Create in every Breast a Rival Flame:
Remotest Kings sit trembling on their Thrones,
As if no Distance cou'd secure their Crowns;
Fearing his Valour, wisely they contend
To bribe with Beauty so renown'd a Friend:
Beauty the Price, there need no other Arts,
Love is the surest Bait for Heroes Hearts:
Nor can the Fair conceal as high Concern,
To see the Prince, for whom, unseen, they burn.

Brave York, attending to the general Voice,
At length resolves to make the wisht for Choice,
To noble Mordaunt, generous and just,
Of his great Heart, he gives the sacred Trust:
“Thy Choice, said he, shall well direct that Heart,
“Where Thou, my best belov'd, hast such a Part,
“In Council oft, and oft in Battle try'd,
“Betwixt thy Master, and the World decide.

The chosen Mercury prepares t'obey
This high Command. Gently ye Winds convey
And with auspicious Gales his Safety wait,
On whom depend Great Britain's Hopes and Fate.
So Jason with his Argonauts, from Greece
To Cholcos sail'd, to seek the Golden Fleece.

As when the Goddesses came down of old
On Ida's Hill, so many Ages told,
With Gifts their young Dardanian Judge they try'd,
And each bad high to win him to her Side;
So tempt they him, and emulously vie
To bribe a Voice that Empires would not buy;
With Balls and Banquets, his pleas'd Sense they bait,
And Queens and Kings upon his Pleasures wait.

Th'impartial Judge surveys with vast Delight
All that the Sun surrounds of Fair and Bright,
Then, strictly just, he with adoring Eyes,
To radiant Este, gives the Royal Prize.
Of Antique Stock her high Descent she brings,
Born to renew the Race of Britain's Kings;
Who could deserve, like her, in whom we see
United, all that Paris found in Three.
O equal Pair! when both were set above
All other Merit, but each other's Love.

Welcome, bright Princess, to Great Britain's Shore,
As Berecynthia to high Heaven, who bore
That shining Race of Goddesses and Gods
That fill'd the Skies, and rul'd the blest Abodes:
From Thee, my Muse expects as noble Themes,
Another Mars and Jove, another James;

Our future Hopes, all from thy Womb arise;
Our present Joy and Safety, from your Eyes,
Those charming Eyes, which shine to reconcile
To Harmony and Peace, our stubborn Isle.
On brazen Memnon, Phoebus casts a Ray,
And the tough Metal, so salutes the Day.

The British Dame, fam'd for resistless Grace,
Contends not now, but for the Second Place,
Our Love suspended, we neglect the Fair
For whom we burn'd, to gaze adoring here.
So sang the Sirens with enchanting Sound,
Enticing all to listen and be drown'd;
'Till Orpheus ravish'd in a nobler Strain,
They ceas'd to Sing, or Singing, charm'd in vain.

This blest Alliance, Peterborow, may
Th'indebted Nation bounteously repay;
Thy Statues, for the Genius of our Land,
With Palm adorn'd, on every Threshold stand.

------ Utinam modò dicere possem
Carmina digna Deâ: Certè est Dea carmine digna:

Spoken by the Author, being then not Twelve Years of Age, to her Royal Highness the Dutchess of York, at Trinity-College in Cambridge.

When join'd in one, the Good, the Fair, the Great,
Descend to view the Muses humble Seat,
Tho' in mean Lines, they their vast Joys declare,
Yet for Sincerity and Truth, they dare
With your own Tasso's mighty Self compare.
Then, bright and merciful as Heav'n, receive
From them such Praises, as to Heav'n they give,
Their Praises for that gentle Influence,
Which those auspicious Lights, Your Eyes, dispense;
Those radiant Eyes, whose irresistless Flame
Strikes Envy dumb, and keeps Sedition tame:
They can to gazing Multitudes give Law,
Convert the Factious, and the Rebel awe;
They conquer for the Duke, where-e'er You tread;
Millions of Proselytes, behind are led;
Thro' Crowds of new-made Converts still you go,
Pleas'd and triumphant at the glorious Show.
Happy that Prince who has in You obtain'd
A greater Conquest, than his Arms e'er gain'd.

With all War's Rage, he may Abroad o'ercome,
But Love's a gentler Victory at Home;
Securely here, He on that Face relies,
Lays by his Arms, and conquers with Your Eyes.
And all the glorious Actions of his Life,
Thinks well rewarded, blest with such a Wife.

To the KING. In the First Year of His Majesty's Reign.

May all thy Years, like this, auspicious be,
And bring thee Crowns, and Peace, and Victory!
Scarce had'st thou time t'unsheath thy conqu'ring Blade,
It did but glitter, and the Rebels fled:
Thy Sword, the Safe-guard of thy Brother's Throne,
Is now as much the Bulwark of thy own.
Aw'd by thy Fame, the trembling Nations send
Throughout the World, to court so firm a Friend.
The guilty Senates, that refus'd thy Sway,
Repent their Crime, and hasten to obey;
Tribute they raise, and Vows and Off'rings bring,
Confess their Phrenzy, and confirm their King,
Who with their Venom over-spread thy Soil,
Those Scorpions of the State, present their Oil.

So the World's Saviour, like a Mortal drest,
Altho' by daily Miracles confest,
Accus'd of evil Doctrine by the Jews,
The giddy Crowd their rightful Prince refuse;
But when they saw such Terror in the Skies,
The Temple rent, their King in Glory rise;
Seiz'd with Amaze, they own'd their lawful Lord,
And struck with Guilt, bow'd, trembl'd, and ador'd.

To the KING.

[Tho' train'd in Arms, and learn'd in martial Arts]

Tho' train'd in Arms, and learn'd in martial Arts,
Thou choosest, not to conquer Men, but Hearts;
Expecting Nations for thy Triumphs wait,
But thou prefer'st the Name of Just to Great.
So Jove suspends his subject World to Doom,
Which, would he please to Thunder, he'd consume.
O! could the Ghosts of mighty Heroes dead,
Return on Earth, and quit th'Elysian Shade!
Brutus to James would trust the Peoples Cause;
Thy Justice is a stronger Guard than Laws.
Marius and Sylla would resign to Thee,
Nor Cæsar and great Pompey Rivals be;
Or Rivals only, who should best obey,
And Cato give his Voice for Regal Sway.

To the KING.

[Heroes of old, by Rapine, and by Spoil]

Heroes of old, by Rapine, and by Spoil,
In Search of Fame, did all the World embroil;
Thus to their Gods each then ally'd his Name,
This sprang from Jove, and that from Titan came:
With equal Valour, and the same Success,
Dread King, might'st thou the Universe oppress;
But Christian Laws constrain thy martial Pride,
Peace is thy Choice, and Piety thy Guide;
By Thy Example Kings are taught to sway,
Heroes to fight, and Saints may learn to pray.

From Gods descended, and of Race Divine,
Nestor in Council, and Ulysses shine;
But in a Day of Battle, all would yield
To the fierce Master of the seven-fold Shield:
Their very Deities were grac'd no more,
Mars had the Courage, Jove the Thunder bore.
But all Perfections meet in James alone,
And Britain's King is all the Gods in One.

To the Author, on his foregoing Verses to the KING. By Mr. Edmund Waller.

An early Plant, which such a Blossom bears,
And shows a Genius, so beyond his Years,
A Judgment that could make so fair a Choice,
So high a Subject, to employ his Voice;
Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing
The growing Greatness of our matchless King.

Answer. To Mr. Waller.

When into Libya the young Grecian came,
To talk with Hammon, and consult for Fame;
When from the Sacred Tripod where he stood,
The Priest inspir'd, saluted him a God;
Scarce such a Joy that haughty Victor knew,
Thus own'd by Heaven, as I, thus prais'd by You.
Whoe'er their Names can in thy Numbers show,
Have more than Empire, and Immortal grow;
Ages to come shall scorn the Pow'rs of old,
When in thy Verse, of greater Gods they're told;
Our beauteous Queen, and Royal James's Name,
For Jove and Juno shall be plac'd by Fame;

Thy Charles for Neptune, shall the Seas command,
And Sacarissa shall for Venus stand:
Greece shall no longer boast, nor haughty Rome,
But think from Britain all the Gods did come.

To the Immortal Memory of Mr. EDMUND WALLER,

Upon his Death.

Alike partaking of Celestial Fire,
Poets and Heroes to Renown aspire,
'Till crown'd with Honour, and immortal Name,
By Wit, or Valour, led to equal Fame,
They mingle with the Gods who breath'd the noble Flame.
To high Exploits, the Praises that belong,
Live, but as nourish'd by the Poet's Song.

A Tree of Life is sacred Poetry,
Sweet is the Fruit, and tempting to the Eye;
Many there are, who nibble without Leave,
But none who are not born to Taste, survive.

Waller, shall never die, of Life secure,
As long as Fame, or aged Time endure.

Waller, the Muse's Darling, free to taste
Of all their Stores, the Master of the Feast;
Not like old Adam, stinted in his Choice,
But Lord of all the spacious Paradise.

Those Foes to Virtue, Fortune, and Mankind,
Fav'ring his Fame, once, to do Justice join'd;
No carping Critick interrupts his Praise;
No Rival strives, but for a second Place;
No Want constrain'd; (the Writer's usual Fate)
A Poet with a plentiful Estate;
The first of Mortals who before the Tomb,
Struck that pernicious Monster, Envy, dumb;
Malice and Pride, those Savages, disarm'd;
Not Orpheus with such powerful Magick charm'd.
Scarce in the Grave can we allow him more,
Than living we agreed to give before.

His noble Muse employ'd her generous Rage
In crowning Virtue, scorning to engage
The Vice and Follies of an impious Age.
No Satyr lurks within this hallow'd Ground,
But Nymphs and Heroines, Kings and Gods abound;
Glory, and Arms, and Love, is all the Sound.
His Eden with no Serpent is defil'd,
But all is gay, delicious all, and mild.

Mistaken Men, his Muse of Flattery blame,
Adorning twice an impious Tyrant's Name,

We raise our own, by giving Fame to Foes;
The Valour that he prais'd, he did oppose.

Nor were his Thoughts to Poetry confin'd,
The State, and Business shar'd his ample Mind;
As all the Fair were Captives to his Wit,
So Senates to his Wisdom would submit;
His Voice so soft, his Eloquence so strong,
Like Cato's was his Speech, like Ovid's was his Song.

Our British Kings are rais'd above the Herse,
Immortal made, in his immortal Verse;
No more are Mars and Jove Poetick Themes,
But the celestial Charles's, and just James:
Juno and Pallas, all the shining Race
Of heavenly Beauties, to the Queen give place:
Clear, like her Brow, and graceful was his Song,
Great, like her Mind, and like her Vertue strong.

Parent of Gods, who do'st to Gods remove,
Where art thou plac'd? And which thy Seat above?
Waller, the God of Verse, we will proclaim,
Not Phoebus now, but Waller be his Name;
Of joyful Bards, the sweet Seraphick Quire
Acknowledge thee their Oracle and Sire;
The Spheres do Homage, and the Muses sing
Waller, the God of Verse, who was the King.

To MYRA. Loving at first Sight.

No Warning of th'approaching Flame,
Swiftly, like sudden Death, it came;
Like Travellers, by Light'ning kill'd,
I burnt the Moment I beheld.

In whom so many Charms are plac'd,
Is with a Mind as nobly grac'd;
The Case so shining to behold,
Is fill'd with richest Gems, and Gold.

To what my Eyes admir'd before,
I add a thousand Graces more;
And Fancy blows into a Flame,
The Spark that from her Beauty came.

The Object thus improv'd by Thought,
By my own Image I am caught;
Pygmalion so, with fatal Art
Polish'd the Form that stung his Heart.

To MYRA.

[Warn'd, and made wise by others Flame]

Warn'd, and made wise by others Flame,
I fled from whence such Mischiefs came,
Shunning the Sex, that kills at Sight,
I sought my Safety in my Flight.

But ah! in vain from Fate we fly,
For first, or last, as all must die;
So 'tis as much decreed above,
That first, or last, we all must love.

My Heart which stood so long the Shock
Of Winds and Waves, like some firm Rock,
By one bright Spark from Myra thrown,
Is into Flame, like Powder, blown.

SONG. To MYRA.

Foolish Love, be gone, said I,
Vain are thy Attempts on me;
Thy soft Allurements I defy,
Women, those fair Dissemblers, fly,
My Heart was never made for thee.

Love heard; and straight prepar'd a Dart;
Myra, revenge my Cause, said he:
Too sure 'twas shot, I feel the Smart,
It rends my Brain, and tears my Heart;
O Love! my Conqu'rer, pity me.

An Imitation of the Second Chorus in the Second Act of Seneca's Thyestes.

When will the Gods, propitious to our Pray'rs,
Compose our Factions, and conclude our Wars?
Ye Sons of Inachus, repent the Guilt
Of Crowns usurp'd, and Blood of Parents spilt;
For impious Greatness, Vengeance is in store;
Short is the Date of all ill-gotten Pow'r.
Give ear, ambitious Princes, and be wise;
Listen, and learn wherein true Greatness lies:
Place not your Pride in Roofs that shine with Gems,
In purple Robes, nor sparkling Diadems;
Nor in Dominion, nor Extent of Land:
He's only Great, who can himself command,
Whose Guard is peaceful Innocence, whose Guide
Is faithful Reason; who is void of Pride,
Checking Ambition; nor is idly vain
Of the false Incense of a popular Train;

Who without Strife, or Envy, can behold
His Neighbour's Plenty, and his Heaps of Gold;
Nor covets other Wealth, but what we find
In the Possessions of a virtuous Mind.

Fearless He sees, who is with Virtue crown'd,
The Tempest rage, and hears the Thunder sound;
Ever the same, let Fortune smile or frown,
On the red Scaffold, or the blazing Throne;
Serenely, as he liv'd, resigns his Breath,
Meets Destiny half way, nor shrinks at Death.

Ye sovereign Lords, who sit like Gods in State,
Awing the World, and bustling to be great;
Lords but in Title, Vassals in Effect,
Whom Lust controuls, and wild Desires direct;
The Reigns of Empire but such Hands disgrace,
Where Passion, a blind Driver, guides the Race.

What is this Fame, thus crowded round with Slaves?
The Breath of Fools, the Bait of flatt'ring Knaves:
An honest Heart, a Conscience free from Blame,
Not of great Acts, but Good, give me the Name:
In vain we plant, we build, our Stores increase,
If Conscience roots up all our inward Peace.
What need of Arms, or Instruments of War,
Or batt'ring Engines that destroy from far?
The greatest King, and Conqueror is He,
Who Lord of his own Appetites can be;

Blest with a Pow'r that nothing can destroy,
And all have equal Freedom to enjoy.

Whom worldly Luxury, and Pomps allure,
They tred on Ice, and find no Footing sure:
Place me, ye Pow'rs! in some obscure Retreat,
O! keep me innocent, make others great:
In quiet Shades, content with rural Sports,
Give me a Life remote from guilty Courts,
Where free from Hopes or Fears, in humble Ease,
Unheard of, I may live and die in Peace.

Happy the Man who thus retir'd from Sight,
Studies himself and seeks no other Light:
But most unhappy he, who sits on high,
Expos'd to every Tongue and every Eye;
Whose Follies blaz'd about, to all are known,
But are a Secret to himself alone:
Worse is an evil Fame, much worse than none.

A Loyal Exhortation. Written in the Year 1688.

Of Kings dethron'd, and Blood of Brethren spilt,
In vain, O Britain! you'd avert the Guilt;
If Crimes which your Fore-Fathers blush'd to own,
Repeated, call for heavier Vengeance down.

Tremble, ye People who your Kings distress,
Tremble, ye Kings, for People you oppress;
Th'Eternal sees, arm'd with his forky Rods,
The Rise and Fall of Empire's from the Gods.

Verses sent to the Author in his Retirement. Written by Mrs. Elizabeth Higgons.

I

Why, Granville, is thy Life to Shades confin'd,
Thou whom the Gods design'd
In Publick to do Credit to Mankind?
Why sleeps the noble Ardour of thy Blood,
Which from thy Ancestors, so many Ages past,
From Rollo down to Bevil flow'd,
And then appear'd again at last?
In thee, when thy victorious Lance
Bore the disputed Prize from all the Youth of France.

II

In the first Trials which are made for Fame,
Those to whom Fate Success denies,
If taking Counsel from their Shame,
They modestly retreat, are wise.

But why should you who still succeed,
Whether with graceful Art you lead
The fiery Barb, or with as graceful Motion tread,
In shining Balls, where all agree
To give the highest Praise to thee.
Such Harmony in every Motion's bound,
As Art could ne'er express by any Sound.

III

So lov'd and prais'd, whom all admire,
Why, why should you from Courts and Camps retire?
If Myra is unkind, if it can be,
That any Nymph can be unkind to thee;
If pensive made by Love, you thus retire,
Awake your Muse, and string your Lyre;
Your tender Song, and your melodious Strain
Can never be addrest in vain;
She needs must love, and we shall have you back again.

Occasion'd by the foregoing Verses. Written in the Year 1690.

Cease, tempting Siren, cease thy flatt'ring Strain,
Sweet is thy charming Song, but sung in vain:

When the Winds blow, and loud the Tempests roar,
What Fool would trust the Waves, and quit the Shore?
Early, and vain, into the World I came,
Big with false Hopes, and eager after Fame;
Till looking round me, 'ere the Race began,
Madmen, and giddy Fools, were all that ran;
Reclaim'd betimes, I from the Lists retire,
And thank the Gods whom my Retreat inspire.
In happier Times our Ancestors were bred,
When Virtue was the only Path to tread:
Give me, ye Gods! but the same Road to Fame,
Whate'er my Fathers dar'd, I dare the same.
Chang'd is the Scene, some baneful Planet rules
An impious World, contriv'd for Knaves and Fools.
Look now around, and with impartial Eyes
Consider, and examine all who rise;
Weigh well their Actions, and their treach'rous Ends,
How Greatness grows, and by what Steps ascends;
What Murders, Treasons, Perjuries, Deceit;
How many crush'd, to make one Monster great.
Would you command? Have Fortune in your Pow'r?
Hug when you stab, and smile when you devour?
Be bloody, false, flatter, forswear, and lye,
Turn Pander, Pathick, Parasite, or Spy;
Such thriving Arts may your wish'd Purpose bring,
A Minister at least, perhaps a King.

Fortune, we most unjustly partial call,
A Mistress free, who bids alike to all;
But on such Terms as only suit the Base,
Honour denies and shuns the foul Embrace.
The honest Man, who starves and is undone,
Not Fortune, but his Vertue keeps him down.
Had Cato bent beneath the conq'ring Cause,
He might have liv'd to give new Senates Laws;
But on vile Terms disdaining to be great,
He perish'd by his Choice, and not his Fate
Honours and Life, th'Usurper bids, and all
That vain mistaken Men Good-fortune call,
Virtue forbids, and sets before his Eyes
An honest Death, which he accepts, and dies:
O glorious Resolution! Noble Pride!
More honour'd, than the Tyrant liv'd, he dy'd;
More lov'd, more prais'd, more envy'd in his Doom,
Than Cæsar trampling on the Rights of Rome.
The Virtuous Nothing fear, but Life with Shame,
And Death's a pleasant Road that leads to Fame.

On Bones, and Scraps of Dogs let me be fed,
My Limbs uncover'd, and expos'd my Head
To bleakest Colds, a Kennel be my Bed.
This, and all other Martyrdom for thee,
Seems glorious, all, thrice beauteous Honesty!

Judge me, ye Pow'rs! Let Fortune tempt or frown,
I stand prepar'd, my Honour is my own.

Ye great Disturbers, who in endless Noise,
In Blood and Rapine seek unnatural Joys;
For what is all this Bustle but to shun
Those Thoughts with which you dare not be alone?
As Men in Misery, opprest with Care,
Seek in the Rage of Wine to drown Despair.
Let others fight, and eat their Bread in Blood,
Regardless if the Cause be bad or good;
Or cringe in Courts, depending on the Nods
Of strutting Pygmies who would pass for Gods.
For me, unpractis'd in the Courtiers School,
Who loath a Knave, and tremble at a Fool;
Who honour generous Wycherly opprest,
Possest of little, worthy of the best,
Rich in himself, in Virtue that outshines
All but the Fame of his immortal Lines,
More than the wealthiest Lord, who helps to drain
The famish'd Land, and rouls in impious Gain;
What can I hope in Courts? Or how succeed?
Tygers and Wolves shall in the Ocean breed,
The Whale and Dolphin fatten on the Mead;
And every Element exchange its Kind,
Ere thriving Honesty in Courts we find.

Happy the Man, of Mortals happiest He,
Whose quiet Mind from vain Desires is free;
Whom neither Hopes deceive, nor Fears torment,
But lives at Peace, within himself content,
In Thought, or Act, accountable to none,
But to himself, and to the Gods alone:
O Sweetness of Content! Seraphick Joy!
Which nothing wants, and nothing can destroy.

Where dwells this Peace, this Freedom of the Mind?
Where, but in Shades remote from Human kind;
In flow'ry Vales, where Nymphs and Shepherds meet,
But never comes within the Palace Gate.
Farewell then Cities, Courts, and Camps, farewell,
Welcome, ye Groves, here let me ever dwell,
From Cares, from Business, and Mankind remove,
All but the Muses, and inspiring Love:
How sweet the Morn! How gentle is the Night!
How calm the Evening! And the Day how bright!

From hence, as from a Hill, I view below
The crowded World, a mighty Wood in show,
Where several Wand'rers travel Day and Night
By different Paths, and none are in the Right.

SONG.

[Love is by Fancy led about]

Love is by Fancy led about
From Hope to Fear, from Joy to Doubt;
Whom we now an Angel call,
Divinely grac'd in every Feature,
Straight's a deform'd, a perjur'd Creature;
Love and Hate are Fancy all.
'Tis but as Fancy shall present
Objects of Grief, or of Content,
That the Lover's blest, or dies:
Visions of mighty Pain, or Pleasure,
Imagin'd Want, imagin'd Treasure,
All in powerful Fancy lies.

Beauty and Law.

A Poetical Pleading.

King Charles II. having made a Grant of the Reversion of an Office in the Court of King's Bench, to his Son the Duke of Grafton; the Lord Chief Justice laying Claim to it, as a Perquisite legally belonging to his Office, the Cause came to be heard before the House of Lords, between the Dutchess Relict of the said Duke, and the Chief Justice.

The Princes sat; Beauty and Law contend;
The Queen of Love will her own Cause defend:
Secure she looks, as certain none can see
Such Beauty plead, and not her Captive be.

What need of Words with such commanding Eyes?
Must I then speak? O Heavn's! the Charmer cries;
O barbarous Clime! where Beauty borrows Aid
From Eloquence, to charm, or to persuade!
Will Discord never leave with envious Care
To raise Debate? But Discord governs here.
To Juno, Pallas, Wisdom, Fame, and Power,
Long since preferr'd, what Trial needs there more?
Confess'd to Sight, three Goddesses descend
On Ida's Hill, and for a Prize contend;
Nobly they bid, and lavishly pursue
A Gift, that only could be Beauty's Due:
Honours and Wealth the generous Judge denies,
And gives the Triumph to the brightest Eyes.
Such Precedents are numberless, we draw
Our Right from Custom; Custom is a Law
As high as Heaven, as wide as Seas or Land;
As ancient as the World is our Command.
Mars an Alcides would this Plea allow:
Beauty was ever absolute till now.
It is enough that I pronounce it mine,
And, right or wrong, he should his Claim resign:
Not Bears nor Tygers sure so savage are,
As these ill-manner'd Monsters of the Bar.

Loud Rumour has proclaim'd a Nymph divine,
Whose matchless Form, to counter-balance mine,
By Dint of Beauty shall extort your Grace:
Let her appear, This Rival, Face to Face;
Let Eyes to Eyes oppos'd this Strife decide;
Now, when I lighten, let her Beams be try'd.
Was't a vain Promise, and a Gown-Man's Lye?
Or stands She here, un-mark'd, when I am by?
So Heav'n was mock'd, and once all Elys round
Another Jupiter was said to sound;
On brazen Floors the royal Actor tries
To ape the Thunder rattling in the Skies;
A brandish'd Torch, with emulating Blaze,
Affects the forky Lightning's pointed Rays:
Thus borne aloft, triumphantly he rode
Thro' crowds of Worshippers, and acts the God.
The Sire omnipotent prepares the Brand,
By Vulcan wrought, and arms his potent Hand;
Then flaming hurls it hissing from above,
And in the vast Abyss confounds the mimick Jove.

Presumptuous Wretch! with mortal Art to dare
Immortal Pow'r, and brave the Thunderer!

Cassiope, preferring with Disdain,
Her Daughter to the Nereids, they complain;
The Daughter, for the Mother's guilty Scorn,
Is doom'd to be devour'd; the Mother's borne
Above the Clouds, where, by immortal Light,
Reverst she shines, expos'd to human Sight,
And to a shameful Posture is confin'd,
As an eternal Terror to Mankind.
Did thus the Gods such private Nymphs respect?
What Vengeance might the Queen of Love expect?

But grant such arbitrary Pleas are vain,
Wav'd let them be; meer Justice shall obtain.
Who to a Husband justlier can succeed,
Than the soft Partner of his Nuptial Bed;
Or to a Father's Right lay stronger Claim,
Than the dear Youth in whom survives his Name?
Behold that Youth, consider whence he springs,
And in his Royal Veins respect your Kings:
Immortal Jove, upon a mortal She,
Begat his Sire: Second from Jove is He.

Well did the Father blindly fight your Cause,
Following the Cry—of Liberty and Laws,

If by those Laws, for which he lost his Life ,
You spoil, ungratefully, the Son and Wife.

What need I more? 'Tis Treason to dispute:
The Grant was Royal; That decides the Suit.
“Shall vulgar Laws, Imperial Pow'r constrain?
“Kings, and the Gods, can never act in vain.

She finish'd here, the Queen of every Grace
Disdain vermilioning her heavenly Face:
Our Hearts take fire, and all in Tumult rise,
And one Wish sparkles in a thousand Eyes.
O! might some Champion finish these Debates!
My Sword shall end, what now my Pen relates.
Up rose the Judge, on each side bending low,
A crafty Smile accompanies his Bow;
Ulysses like, a gentle Pause he makes,
Then, raising by degrees his Voice, he speaks.

In you, my Lords, who judge; and all who hear,
Methinks I read your Wishes for the Fair;
Nor can I wonder, even I contend
With inward Pain, unwilling to offend;
Unhappy! thus oblig'd to a Defence,
That may displease such heav'nly Excellence.
Might we the Laws on any Terms abuse,
So bright an Influence were the best Excuse;

Let Niobe's just Fate, the vile Disgrace
Of the Propoetides polluted Race;
Let Death, or Shame, or Lunacy surprize,
Who dare to match the Lustre of those Eyes?
Aloud the fairest of the Sex complain
Of Captives lost, and Loves invok'd in vain;
At her Appearance all their Glory ends,
And not a Star, but sets, when she ascends.

Where Love presides, still may she bear the Prize;
But rigid Law has neither Ears nor Eyes:
Charms, to which Mars, and Hercules would bow,
Minos and Rhadamanthus disavow.
Justice, by nothing bias'd, or inclin'd,
Deaf to Persuasion, to Temptation blind,
Determines without Favour, and the Laws
O'erlook the Parties, to decide the Cause.
What then avails it, that a beardless Boy
Took a rash Fancy for a female Toy?

Th'insulted Argives, with a numerous Host,
Pursue Revenge and seek the Dardan Coast;
Tho' the Gods built, and tho' the Gods defend
Those lofty Tow'rs, the hostile Greeks ascend;
Nor leave they, till the Town in Ashes lies,
And all the Race of Royal Priam dies:
The Queen of Paphos, mixing in the Fray,
Rallies the Troops, and urges on the Day;
In Person, in the foremost Ranks she stands,
Provokes the Charge, directs, assists, commands;
Stern Diomed, advancing high in Air,
His lofty Jav'lin strikes the heavenly Fair;
The vaulted Skies with her loud Shrieks resound,
And high Olympus trembles at the Wound.
In Causes just, would all the Gods oppose.
'Twere honest to dispute; so Cato chose.
Dismiss that Plea, and what shall Blood avail?
If Beauty is deny'd, shall Birth prevail?
Blood, and high Deeds, in distant Ages done,
Are our Fore-fathers Merit, not our own.
Might none a just Possession be allow'd,
But who could bring Desert, or boast of Blood?
What Numbers, even here, might be condemn'd,
Strip'd, and despoil'd of all, revil'd, contemn'd?

Take a just View, how many may remark,
Who now's a Peer, his Grand-Sire was a Clerk:
Some few remain, enobled by the Sword
In Gothick Times: But now to be My Lord,
Study the Law; nor do these Robes despise;
Honour the Gown, from whence your Honours rise.
Those fam'd Dictators, who subdu'd the Globe,
Gave the Precedence to the peaceful Robe;
The mighty Julius, pleading at the Bar,
Was greater, than when thund'ring in the War
He conquer'd Nations: 'Tis of more Renown
To save a Client, than to storm a Town.

How dear to Britain are her darling Laws!
What Blood has she not lavish'd in their Cause!
Kings are like common Slaves to Slaughter led,
Or wander thro' the World to beg their Bread.
“When Regal Pow'r aspires above the Laws,
“A private Wrong becomes a publick Cause.

He spoke. The Nobles differ, and divide,
Some join with Law, and some with Beauty side.
Mordaunt, tho' once her Slave, insults the Fair,
Whose Fetters 'twas his Pride, in Youth, to wear:
So Lucifer revolting, brav'd the Pow'r
Whom he was wont to worship and implore.
Like impious is their Rage, who have in chace
A new Omnipotence in Grafton's Face.

But Rochester, undaunted, just, and wise,
Asserts the Goddess with the Charming Eyes;
And O! may Beauty never want Reward
For thee, her noble Champion, and her Guard.
Beauty triumphs, and Law submitting lies,
The Tyrant tam'd, aloud for Mercy cries;
Conquest can never fail in radiant Grafton's Eyes.

A Report spread of a beautiful young Lady, Niece to the Lord Chief Justice, who would appear at the Bar of the House of Lords, and eclipse the Charms of the Dutchess of Grafton: No such Lady was seen there, nor perhaps ever in any Part of the World.

The Duke of Grafton, slain at the Siege of Cork in Ireland, about the beginning of the Revolution.

Niobe turn'd into a Stone for presuming to compare herself with Diana.

Propœtides, certain Virgins, who for affronting Venus, were condemn'd to open Prostitution, and afterwards turn'd into Stone.

Minos and Rhadamanthus, famous Legislators, who for their strict Administration of Justice, were after their Deaths made chief Judges in the infernal Regions.

Venus.

LADY HYDE.

When fam'd Apelles sought to frame
Some Image of th'Idalian Dame,
To furnish Graces for the Piece,
He summon'd all the Nymphs of Greece;
So many Mortals were combin'd,
To shew how one Immortal shin'd.

Had Hyde thus sat by Proxy too,
As Venus then was said to do,
Venus her self, and all the Train
Of Goddesses had summon'd been;
The Painter must have search'd the Skies,
To match the Lustre of her Eyes.

Comparing then, while thus we view
The ancient Venus, and the New;

In Her we many Mortals see,
As many Goddesses in Thee.

Afterwards Countess of Clarendon and Rochester.

Lady Hyde having the Small-Pox, soon after the Recovery of Mrs. Mohun

Scarce could the general Joy for Mohun appear,
But new Attempts shew other Dangers near;
Beauty's attack'd in her imperial Fort,
Where all her Loves and Graces kept their Court;
In her chief Residence, besieg'd at last,
Laments to see her fairest Fields laid waste.

On things immortal, all Attempts are vain;
Tyrant Disease, 'tis Loss of Time and Pain;
Glut thy wild Rage, and load thee with rich Prize
Torn from her Cheeks, her fragrant Lips, and Eyes:
Let her but live; as much Vermilion take,
As might a Helen, or a Venus make;
Like Thetis, she shall frustrate thy vain Rape,
And in variety of Charms escape.

The twinkling Stars, drop numberless each Night,
Yet shines the radiant Firmament as bright;
So from the Ocean should we Rivers drain,
Still would enough to drown the World remain.

The Dutchess of ---, unseasonably surpriz'd in the Embraces of her Lord.

Fairest Zelinda, cease to chide, or grieve;
Nor blush at Joys that only you can give;
Who with bold Eyes survey'd those matchless Charms,
Is punish'd, seeing in another's Arms:
With greedy Looks he views each naked Part,
Joy feeds his Eyes, but Envy tears his Heart.
So caught was Mars, and Mercury aloud
Proclaim'd his Grief, that he was not the God;
So to be caught, was every God's Desire:
Nor less than Venus, can Zelinda fire.
Forgive him then, thou more than heavenly fair,
Forgive his Rashness, punish'd by Despair;
All that we know, which wretched Mortals feel
In those sad Regions where the tortur'd dwell,
Is, that they see the Raptures of the Bless'd,
And view the Joys which they must never taste.

To FLAVIA.

Written on her Garden in the North, &c.

What Charm is this, that in the midst of Snow,
Of Storms, and Blasts, the choicest Fruits do grow?

Melons, on Beds of Ice are taught to bear,
And Strangers to the Sun, yet ripen here;
On frozen Ground the sweetest Flow'rs arise,
Unseen by any Light, but Flavia's Eyes;
Where-e'er she treads, beneath the Charmer's Feet,
The Rose, the Jess'min, and the Lilies meet;
Where-e'er she looks, behold some sudden Birth
Adorns the Trees, and fructifies the Earth;
In midst of Mountains, and unfruitful Ground,
As rich an Eden as the first is found.
In this new Paradise the Goddess reigns,
In sovereign State, and mocks the Lover's Pains;
Beneath those Beams that scorch us from her Eyes,
Her snowy Bosom still unmelted lies;
Love from her Lips spreads all his Odours round,
But bears on Ice, and springs from frozen Ground.

So cold the Clime that can such Wonders bear,
The Garden seems an Emblem of the Fair.

To the same. Her Gardens having escap'd a Flood that had laid all the Country round under Water.

What Hands divine have planted and protect,
The Torrent spares, and Deluges respect;

So when the Waters o'er the World were spread,
Cov'ring each Oak, and ev'ry Mountain's Head,
The chosen Patriarch sail'd within his Ark,
Nor might the Waves o'erwhelm the sacred Bark,
The charming Flavia is no less, we find,
The Favourite of Heaven, than of Mankind;
The Gods, like Rivals, imitate our Care,
And vie with Mortals to oblige the Fair;
These Favours thus bestow'd on her alone,
Are but the Homage which they send her down.

O Flavia! may thy Virtue from above
Be crown'd with Blessings, endless as my Love.

To my Friend Dr. Garth. In his Sickness.

Machaon sick, in every Face we find,
His Danger is the Danger of Mankind;
Whose Art protecting, Nature could expire
But by a Deluge, or the general Fire.
More Lives he saves, than perish in our Wars,
And faster than a Plague destroys, repairs.
The bold Carouser, and advent'rous Dame,
Nor fear the Fever, nor refuse the Flame;

Safe in his Skill, from all Restraint set free,
But conscious Shame, Remorse, or Piety.

Sire of all Arts, defend thy darling Son;
O! save the Man whose Life's so much our own!
On whom, like Atlas, the whole World's reclin'd,
And by restoring Garth, preserve Mankind.

Apollo, God of Poetry and Physick.

To my dear Kinsman CHARLES Lord LANSDOWNE,

Upon the Bombardment of the Town of Granville in Normandy, by the English Fleet.

Tho' built by Gods, consum'd by hostile Flame,
Troy bury'd lies, yet lives the Trojan Name;
And so shall thine, tho' with these Walls were lost
All the Records our Ancestors could boast.
For Latium conquer'd, and for Turnus slain,
Æneas lives, tho' not one Stone remain
Where he arose: Nor art thou less renown'd
For thy loud Triumphs on Hungarian Ground.

Those Arms which for nine Centuries had brav'd
The Wrath of Time, on antick Stone engrav'd,
Now torn by Mortars, stand yet undefac'd
On nobler Trophies, by thy Valour rais'd:
Safe on thy Eagle's Wings they soar above
The Rage of War, or Thunder to remove,
Borne by the Bird of Cæsar, and of Jove.

The Granville Arms still remaining at that time on one of the Gates of the Town.

He was created a Count of the Empire, the Family Arms to be borne for ever upon the Breast of the Imperial Spread-Eagle.

LADY HYDE

Sitting at Sir Godfrey Kneller's for her Picture.

While Kneller, with inimitable Art,
Attempts that Face whose Print's on every Heart,
The Poet, with a Pencil less confin'd,
Shall paint her Virtues, and describe her Mind,
Unlock the Shrine, and to the Sight unfold
The secret Gems, and all the inward Gold.
Two only Patterns do the Muses name,
Of perfect Beauty, but of guilty Fame;

A Venus, and a Helen have been seen,
Both perjur'd Wives, the Goddess and the Queen:
In this the Third, are reconcil'd at last
Those jarring Attributes of Fair and Chaste,
With Graces that attract, but not ensnare,
Divinely good, as she's divinely fair;
With beauty, not affected, vain, nor proud;
With Greatness, easy, affable, and good:
Others by guilty Artifice, and Arts
Of promis'd Kindness, practise on our Hearts,
With Expectation blow the Passion up;
She fans the Fire, without one Gale of Hope,
Like the chaste Moon, she shines to all Mankind,
But to Endymion is her Love confin'd.
What cruel Destiny on Beauty waits,
When on one Face depend so many Fates!
Oblig'd by Honour to relieve but one,
Unhappy Men by Thousands are undone.

To Mrs. Granville of Wotton in Buckinghamshire; afterwards Lady Conway.

Love, like a Tyrant whom no Laws constrain,
Now for some Ages kept the World in Pain;

Beauty, by vast Destructions got Renown,
And Lovers only by their Rage were known:
But Granville, more auspicious to Mankind,
Conqu'ring the Heart, as much instructs the Mind;
Blest in the Fate of her victorious Eyes,
Seeing, we love; and hearing, we grow wise:
So Rome for Wisdom, as for Conquest fam'd,
Improv'd with Arts, whom she by Arms had tam'd.
Above the Clouds is plac'd this glorious Light,
Nothing lies hid from her enquiring Sight;
Athens and Rome for Arts restor'd rejoice,
Their Language takes new Musick from her Voice;
Learning and Love, in the same Seat we find,
So bright her Eyes, and so adorn'd her Mind.

Long had Minerva govern'd in the Skies,
But now descends, confest to Human Eyes;
Behold in Granville, that inspiring Queen,
Whom learned Athens so ador'd unseen.

To Mrs. Afra Behn.

Two warriour Chiefs the Voice of Fame divide,
Who best deserv'd, not Plutarch could decide:

Behold two mightier Conquerors appear,
Some for your Wit, some for your Eyes declare;
Debates arise, which captivates us most,
And none can tell the Charm by which he's lost.
The Bow and Quiver does Diana bear;
Venus the Dove; Pallas the Shield and Spear:
Poets such Emblems to their Gods assign,
Hearts bleeding by the Dart, and Pen be thine.

Alexander and Cæsar.

The Desertion.

Now fly, Discretion, to my Aid,
See haughty Mira, fair and bright,
In all the Pomp of Love array'd;
Ah! how I tremble at the Sight!
She comes, she comes—before her all
Mankind does prostrate fall.

Love, a Destroyer fierce and young,
Advent'rous, terrible, and strong,
Cruel and rash, delighting still to vex,
Sparing nor Age nor Sex,
Commands in chief; well fortify'd he lies,
And from her Lips, her Cheeks and Eyes,
All Opposition he defies.

Reason, Love's old invet'rate Foe,
Scarce ever reconcil'd 'till now,
Reason assists her too.

A wise Commander he, for Council fit;
But nice and coy, nor has been seen to sit
In modern Synod, nor appear'd of late
In Courts, nor Camps, nor in Affairs of State;
Reason proclaims them all his Foes,
Who such resistless Charms oppose.

My very bosom Friends make War
Within my Breast, and in her Interests are;
Esteem and Judgment with strong Fancy join
To court, and call the fair Invader in;
My darling fav'rite Inclination too,
All, all conspiring with the Foe.

Ah! whither shall I fly to hide
My Weakness from the Conqu'ror's Pride?
Now, now, Discretion be my Guide.
But see, this mighty Archimedes too,
Surrenders now.

Presuming longer to resist
His very Name,
Discretion must disclaim;
Folly and Madness only would persist.

SONG.

[I'll tell her the next time, said I]

I'll tell her the next time, said I,
In vain! in vain! for when I try,
Upon my timorous Tongue the trembling Accents die.
Alas! a thousand thousand Fears
Still overawe when she appears!
My Breath is spent in Sighs, my Eyes are drown'd in Tears.

In PRAISE of MIRA.

Tune, tune thy Lyre, begin my Muse,
What Nymph, what Queen, what Goddess wilt thou choose?
Whose Praises sing? What Charmer's Name
Transmit immortal down to Fame?
Strike, strike thy Strings, let Echo take the Sound,
And bear it far, to all the Mountains round;

Pindus again shall hear, again rejoice,
And Hemus too, as when th'enchanting Voice
Of tuneful Orpheus charm'd the Grove,
Taught Oaks to dance, and made the Cedars move.

Nor Venus, nor Diana will we name;
Mira is Venus and Diana too,
All that was feign'd of them, apply'd to her, is true;
Then sing, my Muse, let Mira be our Theme.
As when the Shepherds would a Garland make,
They search with Care the fragrant Meadows round;
Plucking but here and there, and only take
The choicest Flow'rs with which some Nymph is crown'd.
In framing Mira so divinely fair,
Nature has taken the same Care;
All that is lovely, noble, good, we see,
All, beauteous Mira, all bound up in Thee.
Where Mira is, there is the Queen of Love,
Th'Arcadian Pastures, and th'Idalian Grove.
Let Mira dance, so charming is her Mien,
In every Movement every Grace is seen;
Let Mira sing, the Notes so sweetly wound,
The Sirens would be silent at the Sound.
Place me on Mountains of eternal Snow.
Where all is Ice, all Winter Winds that blow;

Or cast me underneath the burning Line,
Where everlasting Sun does shine;
Where all is scorch'd—whatever you decree.
Ye Gods! wherever I shall be,
Mira shall still be lov'd, and still ador'd by me.

SONG to MIRA.

[Why, cruel Creature, why so bent]

I

Why, cruel Creature, why so bent
To vex a tender Heart?
To Gold and Title you relent,
Love throws in vain his Dart.

II

Let glittering Fools in Courts be great;
For Pay, let Armies move;
Beauty should have no other Bait
But gentle Vows, and Love.

III

If on those endless Charms you lay
The Value that's their Due,
Kings are themselves too poor to pay,
A thousand Worlds to few.

IV

But if a Passion without Vice,
Without Disguise or Art,
Ah Mira! if true Love's your Price,
Behold it in my Heart.

Mira singing.

The Sirens, once deluded, vainly charm'd,
Ty'd to the Mast, Ulysses sail'd unharm'd;
Had Mira's Voice entic'd his list'ning Ear,
The Greek had stopt, and would have dy'd to hear.
When Mira sings, we seek th'enchanting Sound,
And bless the Notes that do so sweetly wound.
What Musick needs must dwell upon that Tongue,
Whose Speech is tuneful as another's Song!
Such Harmony! such Wit! a Face so fair!
So many pointed Arrows who can bear?
Who from her Wit, or from her Beauty flies,
If with her Voice she overtakes him, dies.

Like Soldiers so in Battle we succeed,
One Peril 'scaping, by another bleed;
In Vain the Dart, or glitt'ring Sword we shun,
Condemn'd to perish by the slaught'ring Gun.

MIRA. At a Review of the Guards in Hyde-Park.

Let meaner Beauties conquer singly still,
But haughty Mira will by thousands kill;
Thro' armed Ranks triumphantly she drives,
And with one Glance commands a thousand Lives:
The trembling Heroes, nor resist, nor fly,
But at the Head of all their Squadrons die.

To MIRA.

[Nature indulgent, provident and kind]

Nature indulgent, provident and kind,
In all things that excel, some Use design'd;
The radiant Sun, of every heavenly Light
The first (did Mira not dispute that Right)
Sends from above ten thousand Blessings down;
Nor is he set so high for Show alone,
His Beams reviving with auspicious Fire,
Freely we all enjoy what all admire:
The Moon and Stars, those faithful Guides of Night,
Are plac'd to help, not entertain the Sight:

Plants, Fruits, and Flow'rs the fertile Fields produce,
Not for vain Ornament, but wholesome Use;
Health they restore, and Nourishment they give,
We see with Pleasure, but we taste to live.

Then think not, Mira, that thy Form was meant
More to create Desire, than to content;
Would the just Gods so many Charms provide
Only to gratify a Mortal's Pride?
Would they have form'd thee so above thy Sex,
Only to play the Tyrant, and to vex?
'Tis impious Pleasure to delight in Harm,
And Beauty should be kind, as well as charm.

THE PROGRESS of BEAUTY.

The God of Day descending from above,
Mixt with the Sea, and got the Queen of Love.
Beauty, that fires the World, 'twas fit should rise
From him alone who lights the Stars and Skies.
In Cyprus long, by Men and Gods obey'd,
The Lover's Toil she gratefully repaid,
Promiscuous Blessings to her Slaves assign'd,
And taught the World that Beauty should be kind.
Learn by this Pattern, all ye Fair, to charm,
Bright be your Beams, but without scorching warm.

Helen was next from Greece to Phrygia brought,
With much Expence of Blood and Empire sought:
Beauty and Love the noblest Cause afford,
That can try Valour, or employ the Sword.
Not Men alone incited by her Charms,
But Heav'n's concern'd, and all the Gods take Arms.

The happy Trojan gloriously possest,
Enjoys the Dame, and leaves to Fate the rest.
Your cold Reflections, Moralists, forbear,
His Title's best who best can please the Fair.
And now the Gods, in pity to the Cares,
The fierce Desires, Distractions, and Despairs
Of tortur'd Men, while Beauty was confin'd,
Resolv'd to multiply the charming Kind.
Greece was the Land where this bright Race begun,
And saw a thousand Rivals to the Sun.
Hence follow'd Arts, while each employ'd his Care
In new Productions to delight the Fair:
To bright Aspasia Socrates retir'd,
His Wisdom grew but as his Love inspir'd;
Those Rocks and Oaks which such Emotions felt,
Were cruel Maids whom Orpheus taught to melt;
Musick, and Songs, and every way to move
The ravish'd Heart, were Seeds and Plants of Love.

The Gods, entic'd by so divine a Birth,
Descend from Heav'n to this new Heav'n on Earth;
Thy Wit, O Mercury's no Defence from Love;
Nor Mars, thy Target; nor thy Thunder, Jove.
The mad Immortals in a thousand Shapes,
Range the wide Globe; some yield, some suffer Rapes,
Invaded, or deceiv'd, not one escapes

The Wife, tho' a bright Goddess, thus gives place
To mortal Concubines of fresh Embrace;
By such Examples were we taught to see
The Life and Soul of Love, is sweet Variety.

In those first Times, 'ere charming Womankind
Reform'd their Pleasures, polishing the Mind,
Rude were their Revels, and obscene their Joys,
The Broils of Drunkards, and the Lust of Boys;
Phoebus laments for Hyacinthus dead,
And Juno jealous, storms at Ganymed.
Return, my Muse, and close that odious Scene,
Nor stain thy Verse with Images unclean;
Of Beauty sing, her shining Progress view,
From Clime to Clime the dazling Light pursue,
Tell how the Goddess spread, and how in Empire grew.

Let others govern, or defend the State,
Plead at the Bar, or manage a Debate,
In lofty Arts and Sciences excel,
Or in proud Domes employ their boasted Skill,
To Marble, and to Brass such Features give,
The Metal and the Stone may seem to live;
Describe the Stars, and Planetary Way,
And trace the Footsteps of eternal Day:
Be this, my Muse, thy Pleasure and thy Care,
A Slave to Beauty, to record the Fair.

Still wand'ring in Love's sweet delicious Maze,
To sing the Triumphs of some heavenly Face,
Of lovely Dames, who with a Smile or Frown
Subdue the proud, the suppliant Lover crown.
From Venus down to Mira bring thy Song,
To thee alone such tender Tasks belong.

From Greece to Africk Beauty takes her Flight,
And ripens with her near Approach to Light:
Frown not, ye Fair, to hear of swarthy Dames,
With radiant Eyes, that take unerring Aims;
Beauty to no Complexion is confin'd,
Is of all Colours, and by none defin'd;
Jewels that shine, in Gold or Silver set,
As precious and as sparkling are in Jet.
Here Cleopatra, with a lib'ral Heart,
Bounteous of Love, improv'd the Joy with Art,
The first who gave recruited Slaves to know
That the rich Pearl was of more Use than Show,
Who with high Meats, or a luxurious Draught,
Kept Love for ever flowing, and full fraught.
Julius and Anthony, those Lords of all,
Each in his turn present the conquer'd Ball;
Those dreadful Eagles that had fac'd the Light
From Pole to Pole, fall dazl'd at her Sight:
Nor was her Death less glorious than her Life,
A constant Mistress, and a faithful Wife;

Her dying Truth some generous Tears would cost,
Had not her Fate inspir'd the World well lost;
With secret Pride the ravish'd Muses view
The Image of that Death which Dryden drew.

Pleas'd in such happy Climates, warm and bright,
Love for some Ages revel'd with Delight;
The martial Moors in Gallantry refin'd,
Invent new Arts to make their Charmers kind;
See in the Lists, by golden Barriers bound,
In warlike Ranks they wait the Trumpet's Sound;
Some Love-Device is wrought on every Sword,
And every Ribbon bears some mystick Word.
As when we see the winged Winds engage,
Mounted on Coursers, foaming Flame and Rage,
Rustling from every Quarter of the Sky,
North, East, and West, in airy Swiftness vie;
One Cloud repuls'd, new Combatants prepare
To meet as fierce, and form a thund'ring War:
So when the Trumpet sounding, gives the Sign,
The justling Chiefs in rude Rencounter join,
So meet, and so renew the dext'rous Fight,
Each fair Beholder trembling for her Knight;

Still as one falls, another rushes in,
And all must be o'ercome, or none can win.
The Victor, from the shining Dame, whose Eyes
Aided his conqu'ring Arm, receives a precious Prize.

Thus flourish'd Love, and Beauty reign'd in State,
Till the proud Spaniard gave these Glories Date:
Past is the Gallantry, the Fame remains,
Transmitted safe in Dryden's lofty Scenes;
Granada lost, beheld her Pomps restor'd,
And Almahide, once more by Kings ador'd.

Love driven thence, to colder Britain flies,
And with bright Nymphs the distant Sun supplies;
Romances which relate the dreadful Fights,
The Loves and Prowess of advent'rous Knights;
To animate their Rage, a Kiss record
From Britain's fairest Nymph was the Reward;
Thus ancient to Love's Empire was the Claim
Of British Beauty, and so wide the Fame,
Which, like our Flag upon the Seas, gives Law
By Right avow'd, and keeps the World in awe.

Our gallant Kings, of whom large Annals prove
The mighty Deeds, stand as renown'd for Love;

A Monarch's Right o'er Beauty they may claim,
Lords of that Ocean from whence Beauty came.
Thy Rosamond, Great Henry, on the Stage,
By a late Muse presented in our Age,
With aking Hearts, and flowing Eyes we view,
While that dissembled Death presents the true
In Bracegirdle, the Persons so agree,
That all seems real the Spectators see.

Of Scots and Gauls defeated, and their Kings,
Thy Captives, Edward, Fame for ever sings;
Like thy high Deeds, thy noble Loves are prais'd,
Who hast to Love the noblest Trophy rais'd:
Thy Statues, Venus, tho' by Phidias's Hand,
Design'd immortal, yet no longer stand;
The Magick of thy shining Zone is past,
But Salisbury's Garter shall for ever last,
Which thro' the World by living Monarchs worn,
Adds Grace to Scepters, and does Crowns adorn.

If such their Fame who gave these Rights divine
To sacred Love, O! what dishonour's thine,
Forgetful Queen, who sever'd that bright Head
Which charm'd two mighty Monarchs to her Bed?

Had'st thou been born a Man, thou had'st not err'd,
Thy Fame had liv'd, and Beauty been preferr'd;
But O! what mighty Magick can assuage
A Woman's Envy and a Bigot's Rage?

Love tir'd at length, Love, that delights to smile,
Flying from Scenes of Horror, quits our Isle,
With Charles, the Cupids and the Graces gone,
In Exile live, for Love and Charles were one;
With Charles he wanders, and for Charles he mourns,
But O! how fierce the Joy when Charles returns!
As eager Flames with opposition pent,
Break out impetuous when they find a Vent;
As a fierce Torrent bounded on his Race,
Forcing his way, rolls with redoubled Pace:
From the loud Palace to the silent Grove,
All, by the King's Example, live and love;
The Muses with diviner Voices sing;
And all rejoice to please the God-like King.

Then Waller in immortal Verse proclaims
The shining Court, and all the glittering Dames;
Thy Beauty, Sidney, like Achilles' Sword,
Resistless, stands upon as sure Record;

The fiercest Hero, and the brightest Dame,
Both sung alike, shall have their Fate the same.

And now, my Muse, a nobler Flight prepare,
And sing so loud that Heaven and Earth may hear
Behold from Italy an awful Ray
Of heav'nly Light illuminates the Day,
Northward she bends, majestically bright,
And here she fixes her Imperial Light.
Be bold, be bold, my Muse, nor fear to raise
Thy Voice to her who was thy earliest Praise;
What tho' the sullen Fates refuse to shine,
Or frown severe on thy audacious Line,
Keep thy bright Theme within thy steady Sight,
The Clouds shall fly before the dazling Light,
And everlasting Day direct thy lofty Flight.
Thou who has never yet put on Disguise
To flatter Faction, or descend to Vice;
Let no vain Fear thy generous Ardor tame,
But stand erect, and sound as loud as Fame.

As when our Eyes some Prospect would pursue,
Descending from a Hill, looks round to view,
Passes o'er Lawns and Meadows till it gains
Some fav'rite Spot, and fixing there, remains:
With equal Rapture my transported Muse
Flies other Objects, this bright Theme to choose.

Queen of our Hearts, and Charmer of our Sight,
A Monarch's Pride, his Glory and Delight,
Princess ador'd and lov'd! If Verse can give
A deathless Name, thine shall for ever live;
Invok'd where'er the British Lion roars,
Extended as the Seas that gird the British Shores.
The wise Immortals in their Seats above,
To crown their Labours, still appointed Love;
Phoebus enjoy'd the Goddess of the Sea,
Alcides had Omphale, James has Thee.
O happy James! content thy mighty Mind,
Grudge not the World, for still thy Queen is kind,
To lie but at whose Feet more Glory brings
Than 'tis to tread on Scepters, and on Kings:
Secure of Empire in that beauteous Breast,
Who would not give their Crowns to be so blest?
Was Helen half so fair, so form'd for Joy,
Well chose the Trojan, and well burnt was Troy.
But ah! what strange Vicissitudes of Fate,
What Chance attends on ev'ry worldly State?
As when the Skies were sack'd, the conquer'd Gods
Compell'd from Heav'n, forsook their blest Abodes;
Wand'ring in Woods, they hid from Den to Den,
And sought their Safety in the Shapes of Men.
As when the Winds with kindling Flames conspire,
The Blaze encreases, as they fan the Fire;

From Roof to Roof the burning Torrent pours,
Nor spares the Palace, nor the loftiest Tow'rs:
Or, as the stately Pine, erecting high
Her lofty Branches, shooting to the Sky,
If riven by the Thunderbolt of Jove,
Down falls at once the Pride of all the Grove,
Level with lowest Shrubs lies the tall Head
That rear'd aloft, as to the Clouds was spread.
So ------
But cease, my Muse, thy Colours are too faint,
Hide with a Veil those Griefs which none can paint;
This Sun is set.—But see in bright Array
What Hosts of heavenly Light recruit the Day.
Love, in a shining Galaxy, appears
Triumphant still, and Grafton leads the Stars.
Ten thousand Loves, ten thousand several ways
Invade adoring Crowds, who die to gaze;
Her Eyes resistless as the Sirens Voice,
So sweet's the Charm, we make our Fate our Choice.
Who most resembles her let next be nam'd,
Villiers for Wisdom and deep Judgment fam'd,
Of a high Race, victorious Beauty brings
To grace our Courts, and captivate our Kings.

With what Delight my Muse to Sandwich flies!
Whose Wit is piercing as her sparkling Eyes:
Ah! how she mounts, and spreads her airy Wings,
And tunes her Voice, when she of Ormond sings!
Of radiant Ormond, only fit to be
The Successor of beauteous Ossory.

Richmond's a Title, that but nam'd, implies
Majestick Graces, and victorious Eyes;
Fair Villiers first, then haughty Stuart came,
And Brudenal now no less adorns the Name.
Dorset already is immortal made
In Prior's Verse, nor needs a second Aid.

By Bentinck and fair Rutenberg we find,
That Beauty to no Climate is confin'd.

Rupert of Royal Blood, with modest Grace,
Blushes to hear the Triumphs of her Face.

Not Helen with St. Alban's might compare:
Nor let the Muse omit Scroop, Holms, and Hare;
Hyde, Venus is; the Graces are Kildare.

Soft and delicious as a Southern Sky,
Are Dashwood's Smiles; when Darnley frowns we die.
Careless, but yet secure of Conquest still,
Lu'son unaiming, never fails to kill;

Guiltless of Pride to captivate, or shine,
Bright without Art, she wounds without Design:
But Wyndham like a Tyrant throws the Dart,
And takes a cruel Pleasure in the Smart,
Proud of the Ravage that her Beauties make,
Delights in Wounds, and kills for killing sake;
Asserting the Dominion of her Eyes,
As Heroes fight for Glory, not for Prize.

The skilful Muses earliest Care has been
The Praise of never-fading Mazarine;
The Poet and his Theme, in spight of Time,
For ever young, enjoy an endless Prime.
With Charms so num'rous Mira does surprize,
The Lover knows not by which Dart he dies;
So thick the Volley, and the Wound so sure,
No Flight can save, no Remedy can cure.

Yet dawning in her Infancy of Light,
O see! another Brudenel heav'nly bright,
Born to fulfil the Glories of her Line,
And fix Love's Empire in that Race Divine.

Fain wou'd my Muse to Cecil bend her Sight,
But turns astonish'd from the dazzling Light,
Nor dares attempt to climb the steepy Flight.

O Kneller! like thy Pictures were my Song,
Clear like thy Paint, and like thy Pencil strong;
These matchless Beauties should recorded be,
Immortal in my Verse, as in thy Gallery.

All for Love; or, The World well lost; written by Mr. Dryden.

The Conquest of Granada; written by Mr. Dryden.

The Part of Almahide, perform'd by Mrs. Eleanor Gwin, Mistress to King Charles II.

A famous Actress.

Mary Queen of Scots, beheaded by Queen Elizabeth.

The Rebellion; And Death of King Charles I.

The Lady Dorothy Sidney, celebrated by Mr. Waller under the Name of Sacharissa.

Countess of Orkney.

Lady Catherine Darnley, Dutchess of Buckingham.

Lady Gower.

Monsieur St. Evremont.

Lady Molyneux.

Lady Ranelaugh.

The Gallery of Beauties in Hampton-Court, drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller.

TO THE COUNTESS of NEWBOURG,

Insisting earnestly to be told who I meant by MIRA.

With Mira's Charms, and my extreme Despair,
Long had my Muse amaz'd the Reader's Ear,
My Friends, with Pity, heard the mournful Sound,
And all enquir'd from whence the fatal Wound;
Th'astonish'd World beheld an endless Flame,
Ne'er to be quench'd, unknowing whence it came:
So scatter'd Fire from scorch'd Vesuvius flies,
Unknown the Source from whence those Flames arise:

Ægyptian Nile so spreads its Waters round,
O'erflowing far and near, its Head unfound.

Mira herself, touch'd with the moving Song,
Would needs be told to whom those Plaints belong;
My timorous Tongue not daring to confess,
Trembling to name, would fain have had her guess;
Impatient of Excuse, she urges still,
Persists in her Demand, she must, she will;
If silent, I am threaten'd with her Hate;
If I obey—Ah! what may be my Fate?
Uncertain to conceal, or to unfold,
She smiles—the Goddess smiles—and I grow bold.

My Vows to Mira, all were meant to thee,
The Praise, the Love, the matchless Constancy.
'Twas thus of old, when all th'immortal Dames
Were grac'd by Poets, each with several Names;
For Venus, Cytherea was invok'd;
Altars for Pallas, to Tritonia smok'd.
Such Names were theirs; and thou the most divine,
Most lov'd of heav'nly Beauties—Mira's thine.

To MIRA.

[So calm, and so serene, but now]

I

So calm, and so serene, but now,
What means this Change on Mira's brow?
Her aguish Love now glows and burns,
Then chills and shakes, and the cold Fit returns.

II

Mock'd with deluding Looks and Smiles,
When on her Pity I depend,
My airy Hope she soon beguiles,
And laughs to see my Torments never end.

III

So up the steepy Hill, with Pain,
The weighty Stone is roll'd in vain,
Which having touch'd the top, recoils,
And leaves the Lab'rer to renew his Toils.

To MIRA.

[Lost in a Labyrinth of Doubts and Joys]

Lost in a Labyrinth of Doubts and Joys,
Whom now her Smiles reviv'd, her Scorn destroys:
She will, and she will not, she grants, denies,
Consents, retracts, advances, and then flies,

Approving, and rejecting in a Breath,
Now proff'ring Mercy, now presenting Death.
Thus hoping, thus despairing, never sure,
How various are the Torments I endure!
Cruel Estate of Doubt! Ah, Mira, try
Once to resolve—or let me live, or die.

To MIRA.

[Thoughtful Nights, and restless Waking]

I

Thoughtful Nights, and restless Waking,
Oh, the Pains that we endure!
Broken Faith, unkind Forsaking,
Ever doubting, never sure.

II

Hopes deceiving, vain Endeavours,
What a Race has Love to run!
False protesting, fleeting Favours,
Ev'ry, ev'ry way undone.

III

Still complaining, and defending,
Both to love, yet not agree,
Fears tormenting, Passion rending,
Oh! the Pangs of Jealousy!

IV

From such painful ways of living,
Ah! how sweet could Love be free!
Still presenting, still receiving,
Fierce, immortal Ecstasy.

SONG to MIRA.

[Why should a Heart so tender, break?]

Why should a Heart so tender, break?
O Mira! give its Anguish Ease;
The Use of Beauty you mistake,
Not meant to vex, but please.

Those Lips for Smiling were design'd;
That Bosom to be prest;
Your Eyes to languish, and look kind;
For amorous Arms, your Waist.

Each thing has its appointed Right,
Establish'd by the Pow'rs above,
The Sun to give us Warmth, and Light,
Mira to kindle Love.

To MIRA.

[Since Truth and Constancy are vain]

Since Truth and Constancy are vain,
Since neither Love nor Sense of Pain,
Nor Force of Reason, can persuade,
Then let Example be obey'd.

In Courts and Cities, could you see
How well the wanton Fools agree;
Were all the Curtains drawn, you'd find
Not one, perhaps, but who is kind.

Minerva, naked from above,
With Venus, and the Wife of Jove,
Exposing ev'ry Beauty bare,
Descending to the Trojan Heir;
Yet this was she whom Poets name
Goddess of Chastity and Fame.

Penelope, her Lord away,
Gave am'rous Audiences all Day;
Now round the Bowl the Suitors sit,
With Wine, provoking Mirth and Wit,
Then down they take the stubborn Bow,
Their Strength, it seems, she needs must know.
Thus twenty chearful Winters past,
She's yet immortaliz'd for chaste.

Smile Mira, then, reward my Flame,
And be as much secure of Fame;
By all those matchless Beauties fir'd,
By my own matchless Love inspir'd;
So will I sing, such Wonders write,
That when th'astonish'd World shall cite
A Nymph of spotless Worth and Fame,
Mira shall be th'immortal Name.

SONG to MIRA.

Ye Pow'rs, take pity of my Pain,
This, only this is my Desire;
Ah! take from Mira her Disdain,
Or let me with this Sigh expire.

To MIRA.

[When wilt thou break, my stubborn Heart?]

I

When wilt thou break, my stubborn Heart?
O Death! how slow to take my part!
Whatever I pursue, denies,
Death, Death itself, like Mira, flies.

II

Love and Despair, like Twins, possest
At the same fatal Birth my Breast;
No Hope could be, her Scorn was all
That to my destin'd Lot could fall.

III

I thought, alas! that Love could dwell
But in warm Climes, where no Snow fell;
Like Plants, that kindly Heat require,
To be maintain'd by constant Fire.

IV

That without Hope, 'twou'd die as soon,
A little Hope—but I have none:

On Air the poor Camelions thrive,
Deny'd e'en that, my Love can live.

V

As toughest Trees in Storms are bred,
And grow in spight of Winds and spread,
The more the Tempest tears and shakes
My Love, the deeper Root it takes.

VI

Despair, that Aconite does prove,
And certain Death to others Love;
That Poison, never yet withstood,
Does nourish mine, and turns to Food.

VII

O! for what Crime is my torn Heart
Condemn'd to suffer deathless Smart?
Like sad Prometheus, thus to lie
In endless Pain, and never die.

Phyllis drinking.

I

While Phyllis is drinking, Love and Wine in Alliance,
With Forces united, bid resistless Defiance,
By the Touch of her Lips the Wine sparkles higher,
And her Eyes, by her drinking, redouble their Fire.

II

Her Cheeks glow the brighter, recruiting their colour,
As Flowers by Sprinkling revive with fresh Odour;
Each Dart dipt in Wine, gives a Wound beyond curing,
And the Liquor, like Oil, makes the Flame more enduring.

III

Then Phyllis, begin, let our Raptures abound,
And a Kiss, and a Glass, be still going round,
Relieving each other, our Pleasures are lasting,
And we never are cloy'd, yet are ever a tasting.

To MIRA.

[Prepar'd to rail, resolv'd to part]

I

Prepar'd to rail, resolv'd to part,
When I approach the perjur'd Fair,
What is it awes my timorous Heart?
Why do's my Tongue forbear?

II

With the least Glance, a little kind,
Such wond'rous Pow'r have Mira's Charms,
She calms my Doubts, enslaves my Mind,
And all my Rage disarms.

III

Forgetful of her broken Vows,
When gazing on that Form Divine,
Her injur'd Vassal trembling bows,
Nor dares her Slave repine.

The ENCHANTMENT.

In Imitation of Theocritus.

Mix, mix the Philters, quick—she flies, she flies,
Deaf to my Call, regardless of my Cries.

Are Vows so vain? Could Oaths so feeble prove?
Ah! with what Ease she breaks those Chains of Love!
Whom Love with all his Force had bound in vain,
Let Charms compel, and magick Rites regain.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
Queen of the Night, bright Empress of the Stars,
The Friend of Love, assist a Lover's Cares;
And thou, infernal Hecate, be nigh,
At whose Approach fierce Wolves affrighted fly:
Dark Tombs disclose their Dead, and hollow Cries
Echo from under ground—Arise, arise.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
As crackling in the Fire this Laurel lies,
So, strugling in Love's Flame, her Lover dies;
It bursts, and in a Blaze of Light expires,
So may she burn, but with more lasting Fires.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spells prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
As the Wax melts, which to the Flame I hold,
So may she melt, and never more grow cold.
Tough Iron will yield, and stubborn Marble run,
And hardest Hearts by Love are melted down.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.

As with impetuous Motion, whirling round,
This magick Wheel still moves, yet keeps its Ground,
Ever returning, so may she come back,
And never more th'appointed Round forsake.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
Diana, hail! all hail! most welcome thou,
To whom th'infernal King and Judges bow;
O thou, whose Art the Power of Hell disarms,
Upon a faithless Woman try thy Charms.
Hark! the Dogs howl, she comes, the Goddess comes,
Sound the loud Trump, and beat our brazen Drums,
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare.
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
How calm's the Sky! how undisturb'd the Deep!
Nature is husht, the very Tempests sleep;
The drowsy Winds breathe gently thro' the Trees,
And silent on the Beach, repose the Seas:
Love only wakes; the Storm that tears my Breast
For ever rages, and distracts my Rest:
O Love! relentless Love! Tyrant accurst,
In Desarts bred, by cruel Tygers nurs'd!
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
This Ribbon, that once bound her lovely Waiste,
O that my Arms might gird her there as fast!

Smiling she gave it, and I priz'd it more
Than the rich Zone th'Idalian Goddess wore:
This Ribbon, this lov'd Relict of the Fair,
So kist, and so preserv'd—thus—thus I tear.
O Love! why dost thou thus delight to rend
My Soul with Pain? Ah! why torment thy Friend?
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
Thrice have I sacrific'd, and prostrate thrice
Ador'd: Assist, ye Powers, the Sacrifice.
Whoe'er he is whom now the Fair beguiles
With guilty Glances, and with perjur'd Smiles,
Malignant Vapours blast his impious Head,
Ye Lightnings scorch him, Thunder strike him dead;
Horror of Conscience all his Slumbers break,
Distract his Rest, as Love keeps me awake;
If marry'd, may his Wife a Helen be,
And curs'd, and scorn'd, like Menelaus, He.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spels prepare,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
These pow'rful Drops, thrice on the Threshold pour,
And bathe with this enchanted Juice, her Door,
That Door where no Admittance now is found,
But where my Soul is ever hovering round.
Haste, and obey; and binding be the Spell:
Here ends my Charm; O Love! succeed it well:

By force of Magick, stop the flying Fair,
Bring Mira back, my perjur'd Wanderer.
Thou'rt now alone, and painful is Restraint,
Ease thy prest Heart, and give thy Sorrows vent;
Whence sprang, and how began these Griefs, declare;
How much thy Love, how cruel thy Despair.
Ye Moon and Stars, by whose auspicious Light
I haunt these Groves, and waste the tedious Night!
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
Too late for Hope, for my Repose too soon
I saw, and lov'd: Her Heart engag'd, was gone;
A happier Man possess'd whom I adore;
O! I should ne'er have seen, or seen before.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
What shall I do? Shall I in Silence bear,
Destroy my self, or kill the Ravisher?
Die, wretched Lover, die; but O! beware,
Hurt not the Man who is belov'd by her;
Wait for a better Hour, and trust thy Fate,
Thou seek'st her Love, beget not then her Hate.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
My Life consuming with eternal Grief,
From Herbs, and Spells, I seek a vain Relief;

To every wise Magician I repair
In vain, for still I love, and I despair.
Circe, Medea, and the Sibyls' Books,
Contain not half th'Enchantment of her Looks.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
As melted Gold preserves its Weight the same,
So burnt my Love, nor wasted in the Flame.
And now, unable to support the Strife,
A glimmering Hope recalls departing Life.
My Rival dying, I no longer grieve,
Since I may ask, and she with Honour give.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
Witness, ye Hours, with what unwearied Care,
From Place to Place I still pursu'd the Fair;
Nor was Occasion to reveal my Flame,
Slow to my Succour, for it kindly came,
It came, it came, that Moment of Delight,
O Gods! and how I trembled at the Sight!
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
Dismay'd, and motionless, confus'd, amaz'd,
Trembling I stood, and terrify'd I gaz'd;
My fault'ring Tongue in vain for Utterance try'd,
Faint was my Voice, my Thoughts abortive dy'd,

Or in weak Sounds, and broken Accents came,
Imperfect, as Discourses in a Dream.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
Soon she divin'd what this Confusion meant,
And guest with ease the Cause of my Complaint.
My Tongue emboldning as her Looks were mild,
At length I told my Griefs—and still she smil'd.
O Siren! Siren! fair Deluder, say,
Why would you tempt to trust, and then betray?
So faithless now, why gave you Hopes before?
Alas! you should have been less kind, or more.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.
Secure of Innocence, I seek to know
From whence this Change, and my Misfortunes grow,
Rumour is loud, and every Voice proclaims
Her violated Faith, and conscious Flames:
Can this be true? Ah! flattering Mischief speak;
Could you make Vows, and in a Moment break?
And can the Space so very narrow be
Betwixt a Woman's Oath, and Perjury?
O Jealousy! all other Ills at first
My Love essay'd, but thou art sure the worst.
Tell, for you know the Burthen of my Heart,
Its killing Anguish, and its secret Smart.

Ungrateful Mira! urge me thus no more,
Nor think me tame, that once so long I bore;
If Passion, dire Revenge, or black Despair,
Should once prevail beyond what Man can bear,
Who knows what I? Ah! feeble Rage, and vain!
With how secure a Brow she mocks my Pain:
Thy Heart, fond Lover, does thy Threats belye,
Can'st thou hurt her, for whom thou yet would'st die?
Nor durst she thus thy just Resentment brave,
But that she knows how much thy Soul's her Slave.
But see! Aurora rising with the Sun,
Dissolves my Charm, and frees th'enchanted Moon;
My Spells no longer bind at Sight of Day,
And young Endymion calls his Love away:
Love's the Reward of all, on Earth, in Heaven,
And for a Plague to me alone was given:
But Ills not to be shun'd, we must endure,
Death, and a broken Heart's a ready Cure.
Cynthia, farewel, go rest thy wearied Light,
I must for ever wake—We'll meet again at Night.

The VISION.

In lonely Walks, distracted by Despair,
Shunning Mankind, and torn with killing Care,

My Eyes o'erflowing, and my frantick Mind
Rack'd with wild Thoughts, swelling with Sighs the Wind;
Thro' Paths untrodden, Day and Night I rove,
Mourning the Fate of my successless Love.
Who most desire to live, untimely fall,
But when we beg to die, Death flies our Call;
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd Breast
In midst of Joy, where Venus wont to rest;
That Fate, which cruel seem'd to him, would be
Pity, Relief, and Happiness to me.
When will my Sorrows end? In vain, in vain
I call to Heaven, and tell the Gods my Pain;
The Gods averse, like Mira, to my Pray'r,
Consent to doom, whom she denies to spare.
Why do I seek for foreign Aids, when I
Bear ready by my Side the Pow'r to die?
Be keen, my Sword, and serve thy Master well,
Heal Wounds with Wounds, and Love with Death repel.
Straight up I rose, and to my aking Breast,
My Bosom bare, the ready Point I prest,
When lo! astonish'd, an unusual Light
Pierc'd the thick Shade, and all around grew bright;
My dazled Eyes a radiant Form behold,
Splendid with Light, like Beams of burning Gold;

Eternal Rays his shining Temples grace;
Eternal Youth sat blooming on his Face.
Trembling I listen, prostrate on the Ground,
His Breath perfumes the Grove, and Musick's in the Sound.

Cease, Lover, cease, thy tender Heart to vex,
In fruitless Plaints of an ungrateful Sex.
In Fate's eternal Volumes it is writ,
That Women ever shall be Foes to Wit.
With proper Arts their sickly Minds command,
And please 'em with the things they understand;
With noisy Fopperies their Hearts assail,
Renounce all Sense; how should thy Songs prevail,
When I, the God of Wit, so oft could fail?
Remember me, and in my Story find
How vainly Merit pleads to Womankind:
I, by whom all things shine, who tune the Spheres,
Create the Day, and gild the Night with Stars;
Whose Youth and Beauty, from all Ages past,
Sprang with the World, and with the World shall last.
How oft with fruitless Tears have I implor'd
Ungrateful Nymphs, and tho' a God, ador'd?
When could my Wit, my Beauty, or my Youth,
Move a hard Heart? or, mov'd, secure its Truth?

Here a proud Nymph, with painful Steps I chace,
The Winds out-flying in our nimble Race;
Stay, Daphne, stay—In vain, in vain I try
To stop her Speed, redoubling at my cry,
O'er craggy Rocks, and rugged Hills she climbs,
And tears on pointed Flints her tender Limbs:
'Till caught at length, just as my Arms I fold,
Turn'd to a Tree she yet escapes my Hold.

In my next Love, a diff'rent Fate I find,
Ah! which is worse, the False, or the Unkind?
Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis chose,
A kinder Nymph—too kind for my Repose:
The Joys I give, but more provoke her Breast,
She keeps a private Drudge to quench the rest;
How, and with whom, the very Birds proclaim
Her black Pollution, and reveal my Shame.
Hard Lot of Beauty! fatally bestow'd,
Or given to the False, or to the Proud;
By different ways they bring us equal Pain,
The False betray us, and the Proud disdain.
Scorn'd and abus'd, from mortal Loves I fly,
To seek more Truth in my own native Sky.

Venus, the fairest of immortal Loves,
Bright as my Beams, and gentle as her Doves,
With glowing Eyes, confessing warm Desires,
She summons Heaven and Earth to quench her Fires,
Me she excludes; and I in vain adore,
Who neither God nor Man refus'd before;
Vulcan, the very Monster of the Skies,
Vulcan she takes, the God of Wit denies.

Then cease to murmur at thy Mira's Pride,
Whimsy, not Reason, is the female Guide:
The Fate, of which their Master does complain,
Is of bad Omen to th'inspired Train.
What Vows have fail'd? Hark how Catullus mourns,
How Ovid weeps, and slighted Gallus burns;
In melting Strains see gentle Waller bleed,
Unmov'd she hear'd, what none unmov'd can read.
And thou, who oft with such ambitious Choice,
Hast rais'd to Mira thy aspiring Voice,
What Profit thy neglected Zeal repays?
Ah what Return? Ungrateful to thy Praise!

Change, change thy Style, with mortal Rage return
Unjust Disdain, and Pride oppose to Scorn;
Search all the Secrets of the Fair and Young,
And then proclaim, soon shall they bribe thy Tongue;
The sharp Detractor with Success assails,
Sure to be gentle to the Man that rails;

Women, like Cowards, tame to the Severe,
Are only fierce when they discover Fear.

Thus spake the God; and upward mounts in Air,
In just Resentment of his past Despair.
Provok'd to Vengeance, to my Aid I call
The Furies round, and dip my Pen in Gall:
Not one shall 'scape of all the cozening Sex,
Vext shall they be, who so delight to vex.
In vain I try, in vain to Vengeance move
My gentle Muse, so us'd to tender Love;
Such Magick rules my Heart, whate'er I write
Turns all to soft Complaint, and am'rous Flight.
Be gone, fond Thoughts, be gone, be bold, said I,
Satyr's thy Theme—In vain again I try,
So charming Mira to each Sence appears,
My Soul adores, my Rage dissolves in Tears.

So the gall'd Lion, smarting with his Wound,
Threatens his Foes, and makes the Forest sound,
With his strong Teeth he bites the bloody Dart,
And tares his Side with more provoking Smart,
Till having spent his Voice in fruitless Cries,
He lays him down, breaks his proud Heart, and dies.

Apollo.

A Nymph belov'd by Apollo, but at the same time had a private Intrigue with one Ischis, which was discover'd by a Crow.

Adieu L'AMOUR.

Here end my Chains, and Thraldom cease,
If not in Joy, I'll live at least in Peace:
Since for the Pleasures of an Hour,
We must endure an Age of Pain,
I'll be this abject thing no more,
Love, give me back my Heart again.

Despair tormented first my Breast,
Now Falshood, a more cruel Guest:
O! for the Peace of Humankind.
Make Women longer true, or sooner kind;
With Justice, or with Mercy reign,
O Love! or give me back my Heart again.

LOVE.

To love, is to be doom'd on Earth to feel
What after Death the tortur'd meet in Hell
The Vulture dipping in Prometheus' Side
His bloody Beak, with his torn Liver dy'd,
Is Love: The Stone that labours up the Hill,
Mocking the Lab'rer's Toil, returning still,

Is Love: Those Streams where Tantalus is curst
To sit, and never drink, with endless Thirst:
Those loaden Boughs that with their Burthen bend
To court his Taste, and yet escape his Hand,
All this is Love, that to dissembled Joys
Invites vain Men, with real Grief destroys.

MEDITATION on DEATH.

I.

Enough, enough, my Soul, of worldly Noise,
Of aëry Pomps, and fleeting Joys;
What does this busy World provide at best,
But brittle Goods that break like Glass,
But poison'd Sweets, a troubled Feast,
And Pleasures like the Winds, that in a Moment pass?
Thy Thoughts to nobler Meditations give,
And study how to die, not how to live.

II.

How frail is Beauty? Ah! how vain,
And how short-liv'd those Glories are,
That vex our Nights and Days with Pain,
And break our Hearts with Care!
In Dust we no Distinction see,
Such Helen is, such, Mira, thou must be.

III.

How short is Life! why will vain Courtiers toil,
And croud a vainer Monarch, for a Smile?
What is that Monarch, but a mortal Man,
His Crown a Pageant, and his Life a Span?
With all his Guards and his Dominions, He
Must sicken too, and die as well as We.

IV.

Those boasted Names of Conquerors and Kings
Are swallow'd, and become forgotten things:
One destin'd Period Men in common have,
The Great, the Base, the Coward, and the Brave,
All Food alike for Worms, Companions in the Grave.
The Prince and Parasite together lie,
No Fortune can exalt, but Death will climb as high.

ESSAY.

Upon unnatural Flights in Poetry.

As when some Image of a charming Face
In living Paint, an Artist tries to trace,
He carefully consults each beauteous Line,
Adjusting to his Object, his Design,

We praise the Piece, and give the Painter Fame,
But as the just Resemblance speaks the Dame.
Poets are Limners of another kind,
To copy out Ideas in the Mind;
Words are the Paint by which their Thoughts are shown,
And Nature sits, the Object to be drawn;
The written Picture we applaud, or blame,
But as the due Proportions are the same.

Who driven with ungovernable Fire,
Or void of Art, beyond these Bounds aspire,
Gigantick Forms, and monstrous Births alone
Produce, which Nature shockt, disdains to own.
By true Reflexion I would see my Face,
Why brings the Fool a Magnifying-Glass?
“But Poetry in Fiction takes delight,
“And mounting in bold Figures out of sight,
“Leaves Truth behind, in her audacious Flight:
“Fables and Metaphors that always lye,
“And rash Hyperboles that soar so high,
“And every Ornament of Verse must die.
Mistake me not: No Figures I exclude,
And but forbid Intemperance, not Food.
Who would with care some happy Fiction frame,
So mimicks Truth, it looks the very same;
Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's Scorn,
But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn.

Important Truths still let your Fables hold,
And moral Mysteries with Art unfold.
Ladies and Beaux to please, is all the Task,
But the sharp Critick will Instruction ask.

As Veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such Metaphors appear when right apply'd;
When thro' the Phrase we plainly see the Sense,
Truth, where the Meaning's obvious, will dispense;
The Reader what in Reason's due, believes,
Nor can we call that false, which not deceives.

Hyperboles, so daring and so bold,
Disdaining Bounds, are yet by Rules control'd;
Above the Clouds, but still within our Sight,
They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring Flight,
Presenting things impossible to view,
They wander thro' incredible to True:
Falshoods thus mix'd, like Metals are refin'd,
And Truth, like Silver, leaves the Dross behind.

Thus Poetry has ample Space to soar,
Nor needs forbidden Regions to explore:
Such Vaunts as his, who can with Patience read,
Who thus describes his Hero slain and dead:
“Kill'd as he was, insensible of Death,
“He still fights on, and scorns to yield his Breath.

The noisy Culverin o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And burst unaiming in the rended Sky:
Such frantick Flights are like a Mad-man's Dream,
And Nature suffers in the wild Extreme.

The captive Canibal weigh'd down with Chains,
Yet braves his Foes, reviles, provokes, disdains,
Of Nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He grins Defiance at the gaping Croud,
And spent at last, and speechless as he lies,
With Looks still threatning, mocks their Rage, and dies.
This is the utmost Stretch that Nature can,
And all beyond is fulsom, false, and vain.

Beauty's the Theme; some Nymph divinely fair
Excites the Muse: Let Truth be even there:
As Painters flatter, so may Poets too,
But to Resemblance must be ever true.
“The Day that she was born, the Cyprian Queen
“Had like t'have dy'd thro' Envy and thro' Spleen;
“The Graces in a hurry left the Skies
“To have the Honour to attend her Eyes;
“And Love, despairing in her Heart a Place,
“Would needs take up his Lodging in her Face.
Tho' wrote by great Corneille, such Lines as these,
Such civil Nonsense sure could never please.

Waller, the best of all th'inspir'd Train,
To melt the Fair, instructs the dying Swain.

The Roman Wit, who impiously divides
His Hero, and his Gods to diff'rent Sides,
I would condemn, but that, in spight of Sense
Th'admiring World still stands in his Defence.
How oft, alas! the best of Men in vain
Contend for Blessings which the worst obtain!
The Gods, permitting Traitors to succeed,
Become not Parties in an impious Deed:
And by the Tyrant's Murder, we may find
That Cato and the Gods were of a Mind.

Thus forcing Truth with such prepost'rous Praise,
Our Characters we lessen, when we'd raise:
Like Castles built by magick Art in Air,
That vanish at Approach, such Thoughts appear;
But rais'd on Truth, by some judicious Hand,
As on a Rock they shall for Ages stand.

Our King return'd, and banish'd Peace restor'd,
The Muse ran mad to see her exil'd Lord;
On the crack'd Stage the Bedlam Heroes roar'd.
And scarce could speak one reasonable Word;

Dryden himself, to please a frantick Age,
Was forc'd to let his Judgment stoop to Rage,
To a wild Audience he conform'd his Voice,
Comply'd to Custom, but not err'd by Choice:
Deem then the Peoples, not the Writer's Sin,
Almansor's Rage, and Rants of Maximin;
That Fury spent in each elaborate Piece,
He vies for Fame with ancient Rome and Greece.

First Mulgrave rose, Roscommon next, like Light,
To clear our Darkness, and to guide our Flight;
With steady Judgment, and in lofty Sounds,
They gave us Patterns, and they set us Bounds;
The Stagirite and Horace laid aside,
Inform'd by them, we need no foreign Guide:
Who seek from Poetry a lasting Name,
May in their Lessons learn the Road to Fame:
But let the bold Adventurer be sure
That every Line the Test of Truth endure;
On this Foundation may the Fabrick rise,
Firm and unshaken, till it touch the Skies.

From Pulpits banish'd, from the Court, from Love,
Forsaken Truth seeks Shelter in the Grove;
Cherish, ye Muses! the neglected Fair,
And take into your Train th'abandon'd Wanderer.

Ariosto.

Corneille.

Lucan.

King Charles II.

Earl of Mulgrave's Essay upon Poetry; and Lord Roscommon's upon Translated Verse.

104

Epigrams and Characters, &c.

Inscription for a Figure representing the GOD of LOVE.

Whoe'er thou art, thy Lord and Master see,
Thou wast my Slave, thou art, or thou shalt be.

Definition of Love.

Love is begot by Fancy, bred
By Ignorance, by Expectation fed,
Destroy'd by Knowledge, and at best,
Lost in the Moment 'tis possess'd.

WOMEN.

Women to Cards may be compar'd; we play
A Round or two, when us'd, we throw away,

105

Take a fresh Pack; nor is it worth our grieving,
Who cuts or shuffles with our dirty Leaving.

The RELIEF.

Of two Reliefs to ease a love-sick Mind,
Flavia prescribes Despair; I urge, be kind:
Flavia, be kind, the Remedy's as sure,
'Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest Cure.

Sent to Clarinda with a Novel, entitled, Les malheurs de l'Amour.

Haste to Clarinda, and reveal
Whatever Pains poor Lovers feel;
When that is done, then tell the Fair
That I endure much more for her:
Who'd truly know Love's Pow'r or Smart,
Must view her Eyes, and read my Heart.

Written in her Prayer-Book.

In vain, Clarinda, Night and Day
For Pity to the Gods you pray;
What Arrogance on Heav'n to call
For that which you deny to all!

106

SONG to the Same.

In vain a thousand Slaves have try'd
To overcome Clarinda's Pride:
Pity pleading,
Love persuading,
When her Icy Heart is thaw'd,
Honour chides, and straight she's aw'd.

Foolish Creature,
Follow Nature,
Waste not thus your Prime;
Youth's a Treasure,
Love's a Pleasure,
Both destroy'd by Time.

On the same.

Clarinda, with a haughty Grace,
In scornful Postures sets her Face,
And looks as she were born alone
To give us Love, and take from none.
Tho' I adore to that degree,
Clarinda, I would die for thee,

107

If you're too proud to ease my Pain,
I am too proud for your Disdain.

Her NAME.

GUESS, and I'll frankly own her Name
Whose Eyes have kindled such a Flame;
The Spartan or the Cyprian Queen
Had ne'er been sung, had she been seen.
Who set the very Gods at War,
Were but faint Images of her.
Believe me, for by Heav'ns 'tis true!
The Sun in all his ample View
Sees nothing half so fair or bright,
Not ev'n his own reflected Light.
So sweet a Face! such graceful Mien!
Who can this be?—'Tis Howard—or Ballenden.

CLEORA.

Cleora has her Wish, she weds a Peer,
Her weighty Train two Pages scarce can bear;
Persia, and both the Indies must provide,
To grace her Pomp, and gratify her Pride;

108

Of rich Brocade a shining Robe she wears,
And Gems surround her lovely Neck, like Stars;
Drawn by six Greys of the proud Belgian kind,
With a long Train of Livery Beaux behind,
She charms the Park, and sets all Hearts on fire,
The Lady's Envy, and the Mens Desire.
Beholding thus, O happy as a Queen!
We cry; but shift the gaudy flattering Scene;
View her at home, in her Domestick Light;
For thither she must come, at least at Night;
What has she there? A surly ill-bred Lord,
Who chides, and snaps her up at every Word;
A brutal Sot, who while she holds his Head,
With drunken Filth bedawbs the nuptial Bed;
Sick to the Heart, she breathes the nauseous Fume
Of odious Steams, that poison all the Room;
Weeping all Night the trembling Creature lies,
And counts the tedious Hours when she may rise:
But most she fears, lest waking she should find,
To make amends, the Monster would be kind;
Those matchless Beauties, worthy of a God,
Must bear, tho' much averse, the loathsome Load:
What then may be the Chance that next ensues?
Some vile Disease, fresh reeking from the Stews;
The secret Venom circling in her Veins,
Works thro' her Skin, and bursts in bloating Stains;

109

Her Cheeks their Freshness lose, and wonted Grace,
And an unusal Paleness spreads her Face;
Her Eyes grow dim, and her corrupted Breath
Tainting her Gums, infects her Iv'ry Teeth;
Of sharp, nocturnal Anguish she complains,
And, guiltless of the Cause, relates her Pains.
The conscious Husband, whom like Symptoms seize,
Charges on her the Guilt of their Disease;
Affecting Fury acts a Madman's Part,
He'll rip the fatal Secret from her Heart;
Bids her confess, calls her ten thousand Names;
In vain she kneels, she weeps, protests, exclaims;
Scarce with her Life she 'scapes, expos'd to Shame,
In Body tortur'd, murder'd in her Fame,
Rots with a vile Adulteress's Name.
Abandon'd by her Friends, without Defence,
And happy only in her Innocence.

Such is the Vengeance the just Gods provide
For those who barter Liberty for Pride,
Who impiously invoke the Pow'rs above
To witness to false Vows of mutual Love.
Thousands of poor Cleora's may be found,
Such Husbands, and such wretched Wives abound.

Ye guardian Pow'rs! the Arbiters of Bliss,
Preserve Clarinda from a Fate like this;

110

You form'd her fair, not any Grace deny'd,
But gave, alas! a Spark too much of Pride.
Reform that Failing, and protect her still;
O save her from the Curse of choosing ill!
Deem it not Envy, or a jealous Care,
That moves these Wishes, or provokes this Pray'r;
Tho' worse than Death I dread to see those Charms
Allotted to some happier Mortals Arms,
Tormenting Thought! yet could I bear that Pain,
Or any Ill, but hearing her complain;
Intent on her, my Love forgets his own,
Nor frames one Wish, but for her sake alone;
Whome'er the Gods have destin'd to prefer,
They cannot make me wretched, blessing her.

CLOE.

Impatient with Desire, at last
I ventur'd to lay Forms aside;
'Twas I was modest, not She chaste,
Cloe, so gently press'd, comply'd.

With idle Awe, an am'rous Fool,
I gaz'd upon her Eyes with Fear;

111

Say, Love, how came your Slave so dull,
To read no better there?

Thus to our selves the greatest Foes,
Altho' the Nymph be well inclin'd;
For want of Courage to propose,
By our own Folly she's unkind.

Mrs. CLAVERING, singing.

When we behold her Angel Face;
Or when she sings with heavenly grace,
In what we hear, or what we see,
So ravishing's the Harmony,
The melting Soul in Rapture lost,
Knows not which Charm enchants it most.

Sounds that made Hills and Rocks rejoice,
Amphion's Lute, the Siren's Voice,
Wonders with Pain receiv'd for true,
At once find Credit, and renew;
No Charms like Clavering's Voice surprize,
Except the Magick of her Eyes.

Afterwards Lady Cowper.

112

SONG

[The happiest Mortals once were we]

The happiest Mortals once were we,
I lov'd Mira, Mira me;
Each desirous of the Blessing,
Nothing wanting but possessing;
I lov'd Mira, Mira me,
The happiest Mortals once were we.

But since cruel Fates dissever,
Torn from Love, and torn for ever,
Tortures end me,
Death befriend me;
Of all Pains, the greatest Pain,
Is to love, and love in vain.

The WILD BOAR's Defence.

A boar who had enjoy'd a happy Reign
For many a Year, and fed on many a Man,
Call'd to account, soft'ning his savage Eyes,
Thus suppliant, pleads his Cause before he dies.

For what am I condemn'd? My Crime's no more
To eat a Man, than yours to eat a Boar:

113

We seek not you, but take what Chance provides,
Nature, and meer Necessity our Guides.
You murder us in Sport, then dish us up
For drunken Feasts, a Relish for the Cup:
We lengthen not our Meals; But you must feast,
Gorge till your Bellies burst—pray who's the Beast?
With your Humanity you keep a Fuss,
But are in truth worse Brutes than all of us:
We prey not on our Kind, but you, dear Brother,
Most beastly of all Beasts, devour each other:
Kings worry Kings, Neighbour with Neighbour strives,
Fathers and Sons, Friends, Brothers, Husbands, Wives,
By Fraud or Force, by Poison, Sword, or Gun,
Destroy each other, every Mother's Son.

For LIBERALITY.

Tho' safe thou think'st thy Treasure lies,
Hidden in Chests from Human Eyes,
A Fire may come, and it may be
Bury'd, my Friend, as far from thee.
Thy Vessel that yon Ocean stems,
Loaded with golden Dust, and Gems.
Purchas'd with so much Pains and Cost,
Yet in a Tempest may be lost

114

Pimps, Whores, and Bawds, a thankless Crew,
Priests, Pick-pockets, and Lawyers too,
All help by several ways to drain,
Thanking themselves for what they gain:
The Liberal are secure alone,
For what we frankly give, for ever is our own.

CORINNA.

Corinna, in the Bloom of Youth
Was coy to ev'ry Lover,
Regardless of the tend'rest Truth,
No soft Complaint could move her.

Mankind was hers, all at her Feet
Lay prostrate and adoring;
The Witty, Handsome, Rich, and Great,
In vain alike imploring.

But now grown old, she would repair
Her Loss of Time, and Pleasure;
With willing Eyes, and wanton Air,
Inviting every Gazer.

115

But Love's a Summer Flow'r, that dies
With the first Weather's changing,
The Lover, like the Swallow, flies
From Sun to Sun, still ranging.

Mira, let this Example move
Your foolish Heart to Reason;
Youth is the proper Time for Love,
And Age is Virtue's Season.

CLOE.

BRIGHT as the Day, and like the Morning, fair,
Such Cloe is—and common as the Air.

A RECEIPT for VAPOURS.

Why pines my Dear? To Fulvia his young Bride,
Who weeping sat, thus aged Cornus cry'd
Alas! said she, such Visions break my Rest,
The strangest Thoughts! I think I am possest:
My Symptoms I have told to Men of Skill,
And if I would—they say—I might be well.

116

Take their Advice, said he, my poor dear Wife,
I'll buy at any Rate thy precious Life.
Blushing, she would excuse, but all in vain,
A Doctor must be fetch'd to ease her Pain.
Hard press'd, she yields: From White's, or Will's, or Tom's,
No matter which, he's summon'd, and he comes.
The careful Husband, with a kind Embrace
Entreats his Care: Then bows, and quits the Place;
For little Ailments oft attend the Fair,
Not decent for a Husband's Eye, or Ear.
Something the Dame would say: The ready Knight
Prevents her Speech—Here's that shall set you right,
Madam, said he—with that the Doors made close,
He gives deliciously the Healing Dose.
Alas! she cries; Ah me! O cruel Cure!
Did ever Woman yet like me endure?
The Work perform'd, up rising gay and light,
Old Cornus is call'd in to see the Sight;
A sprightly Red vermilions all her Face,
And her Eyes languish with unusual Grace:
With Tears of Joy fresh gushing from his Eyes,
O wound'rous Pow'r of Art! old Cornus cries;
Amazing Change! astonishing Success!
Thrice happy I! What a brave Doctor's this!

117

Maids, Wives, and Widows, with such Whims opprest,
May thus find certain Ease.—Probatum est.

On an Ill-favour'd Lord.

That Macro's Looks are good, let no Man doubt,
Which I, his Friend and Servant—thus make out.
In every Line of his persidious Face,
The secret Malice of his Heart we trace;
So fair the Warning, and so plainly writ.
Let none condemn the Light that shows a pit.
Cocles, whose Face finds Credit for his Heart,
Who can escape so smooth a Villain's Art?
Adorn'd with ev'ry Grace that can persuade,
Seeing we trust, tho' sure to be betray'd;
His Looks are Snares: But Macro's, cry Beware,
Believe not, tho' ten thousand Oaths he swear;
If thou'rt deceiv'd, observing well this Rule,
Not Macro is the Knave, but thou the Fool.
In this one Point, He and his Looks agree,
As They betray their Master—so did He.

118

CLOE.

Cloe's the Wonder of her Sex,
'Tis well her Heart is tender,
How might such killing Eyes perplex,
With Virtue to defend her?

But Nature graciously inclin'd
With lib'ral Hand to please us,
Has to her boundless Beauty join'd
A boundless Bent to ease us.

On the same.

OF injur'd Fame, and mighty Wrongs receiv'd,
Cloe complains, and wond'rously's aggriev'd:
That free, and lavish of a beauteous Face,
The fairest, and the foulest of her Race;
She's mine, or thine, and stroling up and down,
Sucks in more Filth, than any Sink in Town,
I not deny: This I have said, 'tis true;
What Wrong! to give so bright a Nymph her due.

119

CORINNA.

So well Corinna likes the Joy,
She vows she'll never more be coy,
She drinks eternal Draughts of Pleasure;
Eternal Draughts do not suffice,
O! give me, give me more she cries,
Tis all too little, little Measure.

Thus wisely she makes up for Time
Mispent, while Youth was in its Prime:
So Travellers who waste the Day,
Careful and cautious of their Way.
Noting at length the setting Sun,
They mend their Pace as Night comes on,
Double their Speed to reach their Inn,
And whip and spur thro' thick and thin.

CLOE perfuming herself.

Believe me, Cloe, those perfumes that cost
Such Sums to sweeten thee, is Treasure lost;
Not all Arabia would sufficient be,
Thou smell'st not of thy Sweets, they stink of thee.

120

BELINDA.

Belinda's Pride's an errant Cheat,
A foolish Artifice to blind;
Some honest Glance that scorns Deceit
Does still reveal her native Mind.

With Look demure, and forc'd Disdain,
She idly acts the Saint;
We see thro' this Disguise as plain
As we distinguish Paint.

So have I seen grave Fools design,
With formal Looks to pass for wise;
But Nature is a Light will shine,
And break thro' all Disguise.

Im Promptu.

Written under a Picture of the Countess of Sandwich, drawn in Man's Habit.

When Sandwich in her Sex's Garb we see,
The Queen of Beauty then she seems to be:

121

Now fair Addonis in this Male Disguise,
Or little Cupid with his Mother's Eyes.
No Style of Empire chang'd by this Remove,
Who seem'd the Goddess, seems the God of Love.

To my Friend. Mr. JOHN DRYDEN,

On his several excellent Translations of the ancient Poets.

As Flow'rs transplanted from a Southern Sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raising die,
Missing their native Sun, at best retain
But a faint Odour, and survive with Pain:
Thus ancient Wit, in modern Numbers taught,
Wanting the Warmth with which its Author wrote,
Is a dead Image, and a senseless Draught.
While we transfuse the nimble Spirit flies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman Wit desire,
Must imitate with Roman Force and Fire,

122

In Elegance of Stile, and Phrase the same,
And in the sparkling Genius, and the Flame;
Whence we conclude from thy translated Song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong;
Celestial Poet! Soul of Harmony!
That ev'ry Genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy Trumpet sounds, the Dead are rais'd to Light,
Never to die, and take to Heav'n their Flight;
Deck'd in thy Verse, as clad with Rays they shine,
All glorify'd, immortal, and divine.

As Britain in rich Soil, abounding wide,
Furnish'd for Use, for Luxury, and Pride,
Yet spreads her wanton Sails on ev'ry Shore
For foreign Wealth, insatiate still of more;
To her own Wool the Silks of Asia joins;
And to her plenteous Harvests, Indian Mines:
So Dryden, not contented with the Fame
Of his own Works, tho' an immortal Name,
To lands remote, sends forth his learned Muse,
The noblest Seeds of foreign Wit to choose;
Feasting our Sense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy Bounty? Or thy Thirst of Praise?
That by comparing others, all might see,
Who most excell'd, are yet excell'd by thee.

123

A Morning Hymn to the Dutchess of Hamilton.

Awake, bright Hamilton, arise,
Goddess of Love, and of the Day;
Awake, disclose thy radiant Eyes,
And shew the Sun a brighter Ray.
Phoebus in vain calls forth the blushing Morn,
He but creates the Day which you adorn.
The Lark, that wont with warbling Throat
Early to salute the Skies,
Or sleeps, or else suspends his Note,
Disclaiming Day till you arise.
Goddess awake, thy Beams display,
Restore the Universe to Light,
When Hamilton appears, then dawns the Day;
And when she disappears, begins the Night.
Lovers, who watchful Vigils keep,
(For Lovers never, never sleep)
Wait for the Rising of the Fair,
To offer Songs and Hymns of Pray'r,
Like Persians to the Sun,
Ev'n Life, and Death, and Fate are there:

124

For in the Rolls of ancient Destiny,
Th'inevitable Book, 'twas noted down,
The Dying should revive, the Living die,
As Hamilton shall smile, as Hamilton shall frown!

Chorus.
Awake bright Hamilton, arise,
Goddess of Love, and of the Day,
Awake, disclose thy radiant Eyes,
And shew the Sun a brighter Ray,
Phoebus in vain calls forth the blushing Morn,
He but creates the Day, which you adorn.

DRINKING SONG to SLEEP.

Great God of Sleep, since it must be,
That we must give some Hours to thee,
Invade me not while the free Bowl
Glows in my Cheeks, and warms my Soul;
That be my only Time to snore.
When I can laugh, and drink no more;
Short, very short be then thy Reign,
For I'm in haste to laugh and drink again.

But O! if melting in my Arms,
In some soft Dream, with all her Charms,

125

The Nymph belov'd should then surprize,
And grant what waking she denies;
Then, gentle Slumber, pr'ythee stay,
Slowly, Ah! slowly bring the Day,
Let no Rude Noise my Bliss destroy,
Such sweet Delusion's real Joy.

Written under Mrs. Hare's Name, upon a Drinking Glass.

The Gods of Wine, and Wit, and Love prepare,
With chearful Bowls to celebrate the Fair:
Love is enjoin'd to name his fav'rite Toast,
And Hare's the Goddess that delights him most;
Phoebus approves, and bids the Trumpet sound,
And Bacchus in a Bumper sends it round.

Under the Dutchess of Bolton's.

Love's keenest Darts are radiant Bolton's Care,
Which the bright Goddess poisons with Despair:
The God of Wine the dire Effect foresees,
And sends the Juice that gives the Lover Ease.

126

Under the Lady Harper's Name.

To Harper, sprightly, young, and gay,
Sweet as the rosy Morn in May,
Fill to the Brim, I'll drink it up
To the last Drop, were poison in the Cup.

Under the Lady Mary Villiers' Name.

If I not love you, Villiers, more
Than ever Mortal lov'd before,
With such a Passion fixt and sure,
As ev'n Possession could not cure,
Never to cease but with my Breath;
May then this Bumper be my Death.

CUPID DISARM'D.

To the Princess D'Auvergne.

Cupid, delighting to be near her,
Charm'd to behold her, charm'd to hear her,
As he stood gazing on her Face,
Enchanted with each matchless Grace,

127

Lost in the Trance, he drops the Dart,
Which never fails to reach the Heart:
She seizes it, and arms her Hand,
“'Tis thus I Love himself command;
“Now tremble, cruel Boy, she said,
“For all the Mischief you have made.”

The God, recovering his Surprize,
Trusts to his Wings, away he flies.
Swift as an Arrow cuts the Wind,
And leaves his whole Artillery behind.
Princess, restore the Boy his useless Darts,
With surer Charms you captivate our Hearts;
Love's Captives oft their Liberty regain,
Death only can release us from your Chain.

128

BACCHUS DISARM'D.

To Mrs. Laura Dillon, now Lady Falkland.

Bacchus to Arms, the Enemy's at hand,
Laura appears; Stand to your Glasses, stand,
The God of Love, the God of Wine defies,
Behold him in full March, in Laura's Eyes:
Bacchus to Arms, and to resist the Dart,
Each with a faithful Brimmer guard his Heart.

129

Fly, Baccchus, fly, there's Treason in the Cup,
For Love comes pouring in with every Drop;
I feel him in my Heart, my Blood, my Brain,
Fly, Bacchus fly, Resistance is in vain,
Or craving Quarter, crown a friendly Bowl
To Laura's Health, and give up all thy Soul.

THYRSIS and DELIA.

SONG in DIALOGUE.

Thyrsis.

Delia, how long must I despair,
And tax you with Disdain;
Still to my tender Love severe,
Untouch'd when I complain?

Delia.

When Men of equal Merit love us,
And do with equal Ardor sue,
Thyrsis, you know but one must move us,
Can I be yours and Strephon's too?

130

My Eyes view both with mighty Pleasure,
Impartial to your high Desert,
To both alike, Esteem I measure,
To one alone can give my Heart.

Thyrsis.

Mysterious Guide of Inclination,
Tell me, Tyrant, why am I
With equal Merit, equal Passion
Thus the Victim chosen to die?
Why am I
The Victim chosen to die?

Delia.

On Fate alone depends Success,
And Fancy, Reason over-rules,
Or why should Virtue ever miss
Reward, so often giv'n to Fools?

'Tis not the Valiant, nor the Witty,
But who alone is born to please;
Love does predestinate our Pity,
We choose but whom he first decrees.

131

A Latin Inscription on a Medal for Lewis XIV. of France.

English'd, and apply'd to Queen Anne.

Next to the Thunderer let Anna stand,
In Piety Supreme, as in Command;
Fam'd for victorious Arms and generous Aid,
Young Austria's Refuge, and fierce Bourbon's Dread.
Titanian Leagues in vain shall brave the Rhine,
When to the Eagle, you the Thunder join.

132

URGANDA's PROPHECY.

Spoken by way of Epilogue at the first Representation of the British Enchanters.

Prophetick Fury rolls within my Breast,
And as at Delphos, when the foaming Priest
Full of his God, proclaims the distant Doom
Of Kings unborn, and Nations yet to come;
My lab'ring Mind so struggles to unfold
On British Ground a future Age of Gold;
But lest incredulous you hear—behold:

Here a Scene representing the Queen, and the several Triumphs of Her Majesty's Reign.

High on a Throne appears the martial Queen,
With Grace sublime, and with imperial Mien;
Surveying round her, with impartial Eyes,
Whom to protect, or whom she shall chastise.
Next to her side, victorious Marlbro' stands,
Waiting, observant of her dread Commands;
The Queen ordains, and like Alcides, He
Obeys, and executes her high Decree.

133

In ev'ry Line of her auspicious Face
Soft Mercy smiles, adorn'd with ev'ry Grace;
So Angels look, and so when Heav'n decrees,
They scourge the World to Piety and Peace.

Empress and Conqu'rer, Hail! thee Fates ordain
O'er all the willing World sole Arbitress to reign;
To no one People are thy Laws confin'd,
Great Britain's Queen, but Guardian of Mankind;
Sure Hope of all who dire Oppression bear,
For all th'Opprest become thy instant Care.
Nations of Conquest proud, thou tam'st to free,
Denouncing War, presenting Liberty;
The Victor to the vanquish'd yields a Prize,
For in thy Triumph their Redemption lies;
Freedom and Peace, for ravish'd Fame you give,
Invade to bless, and conquer to relieve.
So the Sun scorches, and revives by turns,
Requiting with rich Metals where he burns.

Taught by this great Example to be just,
Succeeding Kings shall well fulfil their Trust;
Discord, and War, and Tyranny shall cease,
And jarring Nations be compell'd to Peace;
Princes and States, like Subjects shall agree
To trust her Pow'r, safe in her Piety.

134

Prologue to the British Enchanters.

Poets by Observation find it true,
'Tis harder much to please themselves than you;
To weave a Plot, to work and to refine
A labour'd Scene; to polish ev'ry Line
Judgment must sweat, and feel a Mother's Pains:
Vain Fools! thus to disturb and rack their Brains,
When more indulgent to the Writer's Ease,
You are too good to be so hard to please;
No such convulsive Pangs it will require
To write the pretty things which you admire.

Our Author then, to please you, in your way,
Presents you now a Bauble of a Play;
In jingling Rhyme, well fortify'd and strong,
He fights entrench'd o'er Head and Ears in Song.
If here and there some evil-fated Line,
Should chance thro' Inadvertancy to shine,
Forgive him, Beaux, he means you no Offence,
But begs you for the love of Song and Dance,
To pardon all the Poetry and Sense.

135

Another Epilogue designed for the same.

Wit once, like Beauty, without Art or Dress,
Naked, and unadorn'd, could find Success,
Till by Fruition, Novelty destroy'd,
The Nymph must find new Charms to be enjoy'd.
As by his Equipage the Man you prize,
And Ladies must have Gems beside their Eyes:
So fares it too with Plays; in vain we write,
Unless the Musick and the Dance invite,
Scarce Hamlet clears the Charges of the Night.
Would you but fix some Standard how to move,
We would transform to any thing you love;
Judge our Desire by our Cost and Pains,
Sure the Expence, uncertain are the Gains.
But tho' we fetch from Italy and France
Our Fopperies of Tune, and Mode of Dance,
Our sturdy Britons scorn to borrow Sense:
Howe'er to foreign Fashions we submit,
Still every Fop prefers his Mother Wit.
In only Wit this Constancy is shown,
For never was that errant Changling known,
Who for another's Sense would quit his own.

Our Author would excuse these youthful Scenes,
Begotten at his Entrance in his Teens;

136

Some childish Fancies may approve the Toy,
Some like the Muse the more for being a Boy;
And Ladies should be pleas'd, if not content,
To find so young a thing, not wholly impotent,
Our Stage-Reformers too he would disarm,
In Charity so cold, in Zeal so warm;
And therefore to atone for Stage Abuses,
And gain the Church-Indulgence for the Muses,
He gives his Thirds—to charitable Uses.

Prologue to Mr. Bevil Higgons' excellent Tragedy, call'd, The Generous Conqueror

Your Comick Writer is a common Foe,
None can intrigue in Peace, or be a Beau,
Nor wanton Wife, nor Widow can be sped,
Not even Russel can inter the Dead,
But straight this Censor, in his Whim of Wit,
Strips, and presents you naked to the Pit.
Thus Criticks should, like these, be branded Foes,
Who for the Poison only, suck the Rose;

137

Snarling and carping, without Wit or Sense;
Impeach Mistakes, o'erlooking Excellence,
As if to ev'ry Fop it might belong,
Like Senators to censure, right or wrong.

But generous Minds have more heroick Views,
And Love and Honour are the Theams they choose,
From yon bright Heav'n our Author fetch'd his Fire,
And paints the Passions that your Eyes inspire:
Full of that Flame, his tender Scenes he warms,
And frames his Goddess by your matchless Charms.

Russel, a famous Undertaker for Funerals, Alluding to a Comedy written by Sir Richard Steele, entitled, The Funeral.

To the Ladies.

EPILOGUE to the Jew of Venice.

Each in his Turn, the Poet , and the Priest ,
Have view'd the Stage, but like false Prophets guest,
The Man of Zeal, in his religious Rage,
Would silence Poets, and reduce the Stage;
The Poet, rashly to get clear, retorts
On Kings the Scandal, and bespatters Courts.
Both err: For without mincing, to be plain,
The Guilt's your own of ev'ry odious Scene:

138

The present Time still gives the Stage its Mode,
The Vices that you practise, we explode;
We hold the Glass, and but reflect your Shame,
Like Spartans, by exposing, to reclaim.
The Scribler, pinch'd with Hunger, writes to dine,
And to your Genius must conform his Line;
Not lewd by Choice, but meerly to submit:
Would you encourage Sense, Sense would be Writ.
Good Plays we try, which after the first Day,
Unseen we act, and to bare Benches play;
Plain Sense, which pleas'd your Sires an Age ago,
Is lost, without the Garniture of Show:
At vast Expence we labour to our Ruin,
And court your Favour with our own Undoing;
A War of Profit mitigates the Evil,
But to be tax'd and beaten—is the Devil.
How was the Scene forlorn, and how despis'd,
When Timon, without Musick, moraliz'd?
Shakespeare's Sublime in vain entic'd the Throng,
Without the Aid of Purcel's Siren Song.

In the same antique Loom these Scenes were wrought,
Embellish'd with good Morals, and just Thought;
True Nature in her noblest Light you see,
Ere yet debauch'd by modern Gallantry,
To trifling Jests, and fulsome Ribaldry.

139

What Rust remains upon the shining Mass,
Antiquity must privilege to pass.
'Tis Shakespeare's Play, and if these Scenes miscarry,
Let Gormon take the Stage—or Lady Mary .

Mr. Dryden's Prologue to the Pilgrim.

Mr. Collier's View of the Stage.

A famous Prize Fighter.

A famous Rope-dancer so call'd.

PROLOGUE to the She-Gallants; Or, Once a Lover and always a Lover.

As quiet Monarchs that on peaceful Thrones,
In Sports and Revels, long had reign'd like Drones,
Rouzing at length, reflect with Guilt and Shame,
That not one Stroke had yet been giv'n for Fame;
Wars they denounce, and to redeem the past,
To bold Attempts, and rugged Labours haste:
Our Poet so, with like concern reviews
The youthful Follies of a lovesick Muse;
To am'rous Toils, and to the silent Grove,
To Beauty's Snares, and to deceitful Love
He bids farewell; His Shield and Lance prepares,
And mounts the Stage, to bid immortal Wars.

Vice, like some Monster, suff'ring none t'escape,
Has seiz'd the Town, and varies still her Shape:

140

Here, like some General, she struts in State,
While Crouds in red and blue her Orders wait;
There, like some pensive Statesman treads demure,
And smiles and hugs, to make Destruction sure:
Now under high Commodes, with Looks erect,
Barefac'd devours, in gaudy Colours deck'd;
Then in a Vizard, to avoid Grimace,
Allows all Freedom, but to see the Face.
In Pulpits and at Bar she wears a Gown,
In Camps a Sword, in Palaces a Crown.
Resolv'd to combat with this motley Beast
Our Poet comes to strike one Stroke at least.

His Glass he means not for this Jilt or Beau,
Some Features of you all he means to show,
On chosen Heads, nor lets the Thunder fall,
But scatters his Artillery—at all.

Yet to the Fair he fain would Quarter show,
His tender Heart recoils at ev'ry Blow;
If unawares he gives too smart a Stroke,
He means but to correct, and not provoke.

141

ODE On the present Corruption of Mankind.

Inscrib'd to the Lord FALKLAND.

I

O Falkland! Offspring of a gen'rous Race,
Renown'd for Arms and Arts, in War and Peace.
My Kinsman, and my Friend! From whence this Curse
Entail'd on Man, still to grow worse and worse?

II

Each Age industrious to invent new Crimes,
Strives to outdo in Guilt preceeding Times;
But now we'er so improv'd in all that's bad,
We shall leave nothing for our Sons to add.

III

That Idol, Gold, possesses ev'ry Heart,
To cheat, defraud, and undermine, is Art;
Virtue is Folly; Conscience is a Jest;
Religion Gain, or Priestcraft at the best.

IV

Friendship's a Cloak to hide some treach'rous End,
Your greatest Foe, is your professing Friend;

142

The Soul resign'd, unguarded, and secure,
The Wound is deepest, and the Stroke most sure.

V

Justice is bought and sold; the Bench, the Bar
Plead and decide, but Gold's th'Interpreter.
Pernicious Metal! thrice accurst be he
Who found thee first; all Evils spring from thee.

VI

Sires sell their Sons, and Sons their Sires betray:
And Senates vote, as Armies fight, for Pay;
The Wife no longer is restrain'd by Shame,
But has the Husband's Leave to play the Game.

VII

Diseas'd, decrepit, from the mixt Embrace
Succeeds, of spurious Mold, a puny Race;
From such Defenders what can Britain hope?
And where, O Liberty! is now thy Prop?

VIII

Not such the Men who bent the stubborn Bow,
And learnt in rugged Sports to dare a Foe:
Not such the Men who fill'd with Heaps of Slain
Fam'd Agincourt and Cressy's bloody Plain.

IX

Haughty Britannia then, inur'd to Toil,
Spread far and near the Terrors of her Isle;

143

True to herself, and to the publick Weal,
No Gallic Gold could blunt the British Steel.

X

Not much unlike, when thou in Arms wer't seen,
Eager for Glory on th'embattled Green,
When Stanhope led thee thro' the Heats of Spain,
To die in Purple Almanara's Plain.

XI

The rescued Empire, and the Gaul subdu'd,
In Anna's Reign, our ancient Fame renew'd:
What Britons cou'd, when justly rous'd to War,
Let Blenheim speak, and witness Gibraltar.

FORTUNE.

Epigram.

When Fortune seems to smile, 'tis then I fear
Some lurking Ill, and hidden Mischief near:
Us'd to her Frowns, I stand upon my Guard,
And arm'd in Virtue, keep my Soul prepar'd.
Fickle and false to others she may be,
I can complain, but of her Constancy.

145

PELEUS and THETIS.

A MASQUE, Set to MUSICK.

147

PELEUS and THETIS.

A MASQUE, Set to MUSICK.

Persons in the Masque.

Jupiter.
Peleus.
Prometheus.
Thetis.

The SCENE represents Mount Caucasus; Prometheus appears chain'd to a Rock, a Vulture gnawing his Breast. Peleus enters, addressing himself to Prometheus.

The Argument.

Peleus, in love with Thetis, by the Assistance of Proteus obtains her Favour; but Jupiter interposing, Peleus in Despair consults Prometheus, famous for his Skill in Astrology; upon whose Prophecy, that the Son born of Thetis should prove greater than his Father, Jupiter desists. The Prophecy was afterwards verify'd in the Birth of Achilles, the Son of Peleus.

Peleus.

Condemn'd on Caucasus to lie,
Still to be dying, not to die,
With certain Pain, uncertain of Relief,
True Emblem of a wretched Lover's Grief!
To whose inspecting Eye 'tis given
To view the Planetary Way,
To penetrate eternal Day,
And to revolve the Starry Heaven.
To thee, Prometheus, I complain,
And bring a Heart as full of Pain.

Prometheus.

From Jupiter spring all our Woes,
Thetis is Jove's, who once was thine:
'Tis vain, O Peleus, to oppose
Thy Torturer, and mine.

148

Contented with Despair,
Resign the Fair,
Resign, Resign,
Or wretched Man, prepare
For change of Torments, great as mine.

Peleus.

In change of Torment would be Ease;
Could you divine what Lover's bear,
Ev'n you, Prometheus, wou'd confess
There is no Vulture like Despair.

Prometheus.
Cease, cruel Vulture, to devour,

Peleus.
Cease, cruel Thetis, to disdain.
Thetis entring, they repeat together.

Cease, cruel Vulture, to devour,
Cease, cruel Thetis, to disdain.

Thetis.
Peleus, unjustly you complain.

Prometheus and Peleus.

Cease, cruel Vulture, to devour,
Cease, cruel Thetis, to disdain.

Thetis.

Peleus, unjustly you complain.
The Gods, alas! no Refuge find
From Ills resistless Fates ordain:
I still am true—and would be kind.

149

Peleus.

To love and to languish
To sigh and complain,
How cruel's the Anguish!
How tormenting the Pain!
Suing,
Pursuing,
Flying,
Denying,
O the Curse of Disdain,
How tormenting's the Pain!
To love, &c.

Thetis.

Accursed Jealousy!
Thou Jaundice in the Lover's Eye,
Thro' which all Objects false we see,
Accursed Jealousy!
Thy Rival, Peleus, rules the Sky,
Yet I so prize thy Love,
With Peleus I wou'd choose to die,
Rather than reign with Jove. A Clap of Thunder; Jupiter appears; descending upon his Eagle.

But see, the mighty Thunderer's here;
Tremble Peleus, tremble, fly;
The Thunderer! the mighty Thunderer!
Tremble, Peleus, tremble fly.

150

A full Chorus of Voices and Instruments as Jupiter is descending.
CHORUS.

But see, the mighty Thund'rer's here;
Tremble, Peleus, tremble fly;
The Thunderer! the mighty Thunderer!
Tremble, Peleus, tremble, fly.

[Jupiter being descended.]
Jupiter.

Presumptuous Slave, Rival to Jove,
How dar'st thou, Mortal, thus defy
A Goddess with audacious Love,
And irritate a God with Jealousy?
Presumptuous Mortal—hence—
Tremble at Omnipotence.

Peleus.

Arm'd with Love and Thetis by,
I fear no Odds
Of Men or Gods,
But Jove himself defy.
Jove, lay thy Thunder down;
Arm'd with Love, and Thetis by,
There is more Terror in her Frown,
And fiercer Light'ning in her Eye:
I fear no Odds
Of Men or Gods,
But Jove himself defy.

151

Jupiter.

Bring me Light'ning, give me Thunder,
Haste, ye Cyclops, with your forked Rods,
This Rebel Love braves all the Gods.
Bring me Light'ning, give me Thunder. Peleus and Thetis, holding fast by one another.

Jove may kill, but ne'er shall sunder.

Jupiter.
Bring me Light'ning, give me Thunder.

Peleus and Thetis.
Jove may kill, but ne'er shall sunder.

Thetis to Jupiter.

Thy Love still arm'd with Fate,
Is dreadful as thy Hate:
O might it prove to me,
So gentle Peleus were but free;
O might it prove to me
As fatal as to lost consuming Semele!
Thy Love still arm'd with Fate,
Is dreadful as thy Hate.

Prometheus to Jupiter.

Son of Saturn, take Advice
From one whom thy severe Decree
Has furnish'd Leisure to grow wise:
Thou rul'st the God's, but Fate rules thee.

152

[The Prophecy.]

Whoe'er th'immortal Maid compressing,
Shall taste Joy, and reap the Blessing,
Thus th'unerring Stars advise:
From that auspicious Night an Heir shall rise,
Paternal Glories to efface
The most illustrious of his Race,
Tho' sprang from him who rules the Skies.

Jupiter
[Apart.]

Shall then the Son of Saturn be undone,
Like Saturn, by an impious Son?
Justly th'impartial Fates conspire,
Dooming that Son to be the Sire
Of such another Son.
Conscious of Ills that I have done,
My Fears to Prudence shall advise;
And Guilt that made me great, shall make me wise.
The fatal Blessing I resign;
Peleus, take the Maid divine: [Giving her to Peleus.

Jove consenting she is thine;
The fatal Blessing I resign.

[Joins their Hands.
Peleus.

Heav'n had been lost, had I been Jove,
There is no Heav'n, there is no Heav'n but Love.

153

Peleus and Thetis,
together.

There is no Heav'n but Love,
No, no, no,
There is no Heav'n but Love.

Jupiter to Prometheus.

And thou, the Stars Interpreter,
'Tis just I set thee free,
Who giv'st me Liberty:
Arise, and be thy self a Star.
'Tis just I set thee free,
Who giv'st me Liberty.

[The Vulture drops dead at the Feet of Prometheus, his Chains fall off, and he is borne up to Heaven with Jupiter to a loud Flourish of all the Instruments.
Peleus and Thetis run into each others Arms.
Peleus.

Fly, fly to my Arms, to my Arms,
Goddess of immortal Charms!
To my Arms, to my Arms, fly, fly,
Goddess of transporting Joy!
But to gaze
On thy Face,
Thy gentle Hand thus pressing,
Is heav'nly, heavenly Blessing.

154

O my Soul!
Whither, whither art thou flying?
Lost in sweet tumultuous Dying,
Whither, whither art thou flying,
O my Soul!

Thetis.

You tremble, Peleus—So do I—
Ah stay! and we'll together die.
Immortal, and of Race divine.
My Soul shall take its Flight with thine:
Life dissolving in Delight,
Heaving Breasts, and swimming Sight,
Falt'ring Speech, and gasping Breath,
Symptoms of delicious Death,
Life dissolving in Delight,
My Soul is ready for the Flight.
O my Soul,
Whither, whither art thou flying?
Lost in sweet tumultuous Dying,
Whither, whither art thou flying,
O my Soul!

Peleus and Thetis,
Both together repeat,

O my Soul!
Whither, whither art thou flying?
Lost in sweet tumultuous Dying,
Whither, whither art thou flying,
O my Soul!

155

Chorus of all the Voices and Instruments Singing and Dancing.

When the Storm is blown over,
How blest is the Swain,
Who begins to discover
An End of his Pain!
When the Storm, &c.

The Mask concludes with Variety of Dances.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

TO THE Earl of Peterborough,

ON HIS Happy Accomplishment of the Marriage between His Royal Highness and the Princess Mary D'Este of Modena. Written several Years after in Imitation of the Style of Mr. Waller.

Spoken by the Author, being then not Twelve Years of Age, to her Royal Highness the Dutchess of York, at Trinity-College in Cambridge.

To the KING. In the First Year of His Majesty's Reign.

To the KING.

[Tho' train'd in Arms, and learn'd in martial Arts]

To the KING.

[Heroes of old, by Rapine, and by Spoil]

To the Author, on his foregoing Verses to the KING. By Mr. Edmund Waller.

Answer. To Mr. Waller.

To the Immortal Memory of Mr. EDMUND WALLER,

Upon his Death.

To MYRA. Loving at first Sight.

To MYRA.

[Warn'd, and made wise by others Flame]

SONG. To MYRA.

An Imitation of the Second Chorus in the Second Act of Seneca's Thyestes.

A Loyal Exhortation. Written in the Year 1688.

Verses sent to the Author in his Retirement. Written by Mrs. Elizabeth Higgons.

I

II

III

Occasion'd by the foregoing Verses. Written in the Year 1690.

SONG.

[Love is by Fancy led about]

Beauty and Law.

A Poetical Pleading.

LADY HYDE.

Lady Hyde having the Small-Pox, soon after the Recovery of Mrs. Mohun

The Dutchess of ---, unseasonably surpriz'd in the Embraces of her Lord.

To FLAVIA.

Written on her Garden in the North, &c.

To the same. Her Gardens having escap'd a Flood that had laid all the Country round under Water.

To my Friend Dr. Garth. In his Sickness.

To my dear Kinsman CHARLES Lord LANSDOWNE,

Upon the Bombardment of the Town of Granville in Normandy, by the English Fleet.

LADY HYDE

Sitting at Sir Godfrey Kneller's for her Picture.

To Mrs. Granville of Wotton in Buckinghamshire; afterwards Lady Conway.

To Mrs. Afra Behn.

The Desertion.

SONG.

[I'll tell her the next time, said I]

In PRAISE of MIRA.

SONG to MIRA.

[Why, cruel Creature, why so bent]

I

II

III

IV

Mira singing.

MIRA. At a Review of the Guards in Hyde-Park.

To MIRA.

[Nature indulgent, provident and kind]

THE PROGRESS of BEAUTY.

TO THE COUNTESS of NEWBOURG,

Insisting earnestly to be told who I meant by MIRA.

To MIRA.

[So calm, and so serene, but now]

I

II

III

To MIRA.

[Lost in a Labyrinth of Doubts and Joys]

To MIRA.

[Thoughtful Nights, and restless Waking]

I

II

III

IV

SONG to MIRA.

[Why should a Heart so tender, break?]

To MIRA.

[Since Truth and Constancy are vain]

SONG to MIRA.

[Forsaken of my kindly Stars]

To MIRA.

[When wilt thou break, my stubborn Heart?]