PSALM the CXXXIX. Paraphras'd from Verse the 7. to Verse the 13.
WHere shall I •ind a close conceal'd Abode?
Or how avoid an Everlasting God!
Whither, O whither, can a Sinner flee,
Almighty Lord, from thy Ubiquitie!
How from thy Omnipresence can he hide,
Since ev'ry-where thy Spirit do's reside?
Would I ascend to Heaven, ev'n there
Do's thy Refulgent Glory most appear;
Thy Light do's there •ill the unbounded space,
And there dost thou thy bright Pavilion place;
At thy right hand, thy dear, thy darling Son
Sits, and thy Spirit hovers o'er the Throne;
to their God, and King,
Myriads of Blessed Saints and Angels sing.
Would I, to shun thee, dive to deepest Hell,
Ev'n there thy Horrours, and thy Iudgments dwell;
Thy Terrours there the wretched Damn'd invade,
No Bed of Rest or Refuge there is made;
For ever there thy Triumphs do remain,
(Which, Satan to forget, still strives in vain)
E'er since for Man thou didst Redemption gain,
And by thy Death both Death and Hell were slain.
Cou'd I with wings fly to the utmost Sea,
Swift as the Light, which brings approaching day;
Swift as the Dawn, which do's it self disperse,
In half a Day, through half the Universe.
Ev'n this a vain and fond Design would prove,
Nor from thy just Protection could I move;
For the wide World's most large circumference,
Is circumscrib'd by thy vast Providence.
Thy Goodness me from dang'rous Ills would save,
And lead me safely o'er each angry Wave.
Thy right hand would conduct me through all harms,
Thou wouldst protect me in thy mighty Arms.
Under thy Wings
I should in quiet sleep,
Though toss'd and threaten'd by the dreadfull Deep.
Would I propose to hide me from thy sight,
In an Egyptian Darkness, and thick Night?
A glorious Splendour, and a Light divine,
From out of that thou wouldst command to shine;
Thou wouldst that blackest Cov'ring make as bright
As the gay Beams of the Sun's dazling Light;
From thee the Night can no concealment be,
For Night and Day are still the same to thee:
Therefore in vain fond Men attempt to run
From thee, and thy Eternal Presence shun.
Thou unconfin'd thy self, do'st all confine;
For all is full of thee, and all is thine.
A PASTORAL, In Imitation of VIRGIL's Second ECLOGUE.
A Lowly Swain lov'd a proud Nymph in vain,
Who did the Country and the Fields disdain,
Because the fairest of the City Train.
The haughty She despis'd his humble Flame,
And, soaring, flew at a more noble Game.
Unheard, unseen, he daily came to mourn
Near lonesome streams, and shades, her cruel scorn:
And, while alone, he moan'd his luckless Love,
His griefs ev'n senceless Trees and Rocks did move.
The neighb'ring Hills with horrour seem'd to shake,
While to himself •hese raving words he spake:
Shall I, as others, to my Flocks complain,
That I a cruel Beauty love in vain?
Shall I, with fruitless cries, disturb my Lambs,
Or, with my quer'lous groans, a••right their Dams?
Their Dams, that strangers are to Lover's cares,
And can enjoy their Loves without their Fears!
No, let me here in secret pine away,
And in sad objects read my Doom each day.
Lo, through these Clifts a trav'lling Current glides,
And little Rocks the purling streams divides.
Ah! how well this resembles my sad Fate!
My fruitless tears, and her unsoft'ning hate:
For as these Rocks hard and unmov'd remain,
And the clear stream but washes 'em in vain;
So fall my Tears as unsuccessfully,
Nor her hard stony Heart can mollifie:
For still they run, unheeded as this Brook,
Nor will she stop 'em by one pleasing look.
Oh, cruel Nymph! why do'st thou thus delight
To torture me? why thus my suff'rings •light?
My mournfull Songs neglected are by thee,
Thou art regardless of my Verse, and me.
Thou canst behold, with an unpittying Eye,
My sorrows, and art pleas'd to see me dye.
Lo, now each Creature either rests, or feeds,
And spotted Lyzards dance in shady weeds;
All are imploy'd, and bonny Mall takes care,
Dinners for weary Reapers to prepare:
But I, by sa• complaints, at noon am found,
Making, with Grashoppers, the Shrubs resound.
And while I trace thy wand'ring s•eps all day,
Oppress'd wi•h heat of Love, my spirits decay,
And by the Sun scorch't up I faint away.
Had I not better far, contented, born
Brown Amaryllis little peevish scorn,
Whose lofty Soul, high Parents, and Descent,
Against my Love had been no Argument?
Or I had better far have lov'd black Bess,
What though her Wealth and Beauty had been less;
What though her Skin was of a tawny hew,
And though as fair as whitest Lillies you.
With her so long in vain I had not strove,
But she would have rewarded Love with Love.
Oh, beauteous Nymph, do not so much delight,
Nor pride thy self that thou art sair and white;
For whitest Blossoms most neglected fall,
While the ripe Blackberry is pluck't by all:
But I am so despis'd, so scorn'd by thee,
Thou dost not ev'n so much as ask of me,
What stock I do of larger Cattel keep,
How stor'd with Milk, or how inrich't with Sheep.
My thousand Lambs wander on yonder Hills,
'Tis my large Flock th' adjacent Valley fills;
Summer nor Winter my Kine ne'er are dry,
But with new Milk my little House supply.
If or my Verse or Musick could but prove,
Of force enough to make my fair one love;
I would oblige her with such Songs, such lays,
As those with which Amphion in pristine days,
Himself of old the Theban Walls did raise.
Nor am I so deform'd to be despis'd,
For I but lately with the Sea advis'd.
When the still Winds did undisturbed sleep,
Nor with their Rage wrinkled the smooth-fac'd Deep.
And if that Image did not flatter me,
I need not fear, though to be judg'd by thee,
That I less handsome to your sight should prove,
Then happy Citizens whom you so lov•.
Oh that it necessary were for thee,
To live in humble Cottages with me;
To hunt swift Deer,
and with a verdant twig,
To drive my Ewes, which with their young are big.
And while my pretty Lambs in Pastures feed,
To imitate our Pan upon a Reed:
Nor let it grieve you that you wear away
Your tender Lips upon my Pipes to play.
This, if he were but half so blest to know,
What would not the oblig'd Amyntas do?
I have that Pipe which was bestow'd on me,
By Swain Dametas; when he dy'd, said he,
Accept this Pipe as the best Legacie.
Dametas said it, but Amyntas griev'd,
That I so great a present had receiv'd.
But in an unsafe Vale I found besides
Two tender Kids with pretty speckled Hides;
They twice a day dreign a full Udder'd Sheep,
And these for you with so much care I keep.
Mall would long since have beg'd 'em both •rom me,
And she shall have 'em, since contemn'd by thee.
Come here, bright Maid, come hither charming fair,
See what for thy reception Nymphs prepare;
See how they do adorn the shady Bow'rs
See how they gather all the sweetest Flow'rs.
To make thee pleasant Garlands, see how they
Prepare to crown thee, the bright Queen of May.
Lo I my self have search't the Orchard round,
To see where the best Apples may be found:
Chesnuts and yellow Plums I've gather'd, such
As once my Amaryllis lov'd so much.
But here's an Apple that can all out-doe,
Which I particularly pluck't for you.
Some twigs of Lawrel from yon Tree I'll take,
And Myrtle mix, the better scents to make;
Which artsully into a Garland wove,
With Flowers sweet shall crown my sweeter Love.
But all thy clownish Gifts unheeded are,
Nor do's the Nymph for such a Bumpkin care.
What Gifts of thine canst thou believe will take,
Since City-Youths can so much richer make?
Thy humble Presents fading are, and poor,
Not lasting as their bright and shining Ore.
Alas, what shall I do? where find out Rest?
Where ease the Burthens of my lab'ring Breast?
I leave expos'd (distracted in my mind)
My choicest Gardens to the Southern Wind.
My clearest Fountains I preserve no more,
From the unruly, and the nasty Boar.
My tender Flocks by me neglected are,
And are no more as once my only care.
While I to Passion am, unguarded they
To the devouring Wolf become a prey.
Each day the Sun rises upon my Love;
And still as that ascends, this do's improve.
But when to Thetis Lap he goes to rest,
I feel no quiet in my Tortur'd Breast.
Unhappy Nymph, whom wouldst thou coyl• shun?
Ah, whither from a wretched Lover run?
The greatest Heroes did of old, nay Gods
Have chose to dwell in Sylvan Shades and Woods.
Dardanian Paris lov'd the Verdant Plains,
And liv'd most happy, while amongst the Swains.
Pallas her self did Fields and Forrests love,
And was delighted with the pleasant Grove;
And there, for her abode, built shady Bow'rs,
And stately Palaces, and lofty Tow'rs.
And therefore I so much prefer above
The smoaky City, the delightfull Grove;
And in these Shades how happy could I be,
Disdainfull Nymph, wer't not for Love of thee:
'Tis that, 'tis that which thus my Rest destroys,
'Tis that that ruins all my rural Ioys;
To thee I am so prone, so bent to thee,
I cannot tast the least felicitie.
Not •lying Wolves by the fierce Lyoness,
Are hotlier pursu'd; nor are Kids less
Follow'd by chasing Wolves, nor can Kids be
More fond of Cytisus than I of thee.
All follow that in which they most delight,
But you alone can my Desires invite.
Ah, foolish Swain, what •renzy haunts thy mind?
Canst thou no ease, no moderation •ind?
Will not thy Love one minutes rest allow?
Behold the lab'ring Ox has left the Plow•
And now the Sun hasts to his Ev'ning bed,
By low degrees still doubling ev'ry shade.
All Creatures now, with the expiring Light,
Cease from their Toil, to sleep away the Night.
Do's Love alone a cruel Master prove?
Is there no end of the hard Tasks of Love?
See how yon Vine untrim'd neglected lyes;
What wilt thou ne'er repent? wilt ne'er be wise?
Apply thy self to some more usefull thing,
Which may a much more certain profit bring.
Shake off for shame at last this fruitless Love,
And wasting Time to better ends improve:
Or if you needs must love, hereafter chuse
Some gentler Nymph, who'll not your Love refuse.
The Fourth ELEGY OF CORNELIUS GALLUS, OF THE Miseries of Old Age. Made English.
The Poet gives an account of his loving a Young Maid very privately in his Youth, but at last how in his sleep he discover'd what so carefully he hid waking; and concludes the Elegy with the consideration of the inconveniences he lyes under by being Old.
YET let me one more Youthfull Tale reherse,
And please my self with my own empty Verse;
For idle Stories very well agree
With antick Dotage, and stupiditie.
And as in changing years, Mankind is found
With various Chances always turning round:
Ev'n so those times which most inverted be,
Seem most obliging to the Memorie.
A Virgin once there was, whom Heav'n design'd,
Both by the Graces of her Face and Mind,
To be adapted, so, that she became
By Nature Candid, as she was by Name.
Her pure white Hair around her shoulders spread,
Fell decently in Ringlets•rom her Head:
But ev'ry Part of her was bright, and fair,
And full as charming as her Flaxen Hair.
The tune•ull Lyre s•e touch't with such a grace,
That it confirm'd the Conquests of her Face;
While from the trembling strings soft Tunes did flow,
With Love and Ioy my Heart did tremble too.
But when she joyn'd thereto some witty Song,
How many Cupids sate upon her Tongue!
Each moving word, each accent sent a Dart,
And ev'ry Note did wound my melting Heart.
But then she Danc'd with such a charming Air,
As made each Part appear more killing fair.
No stratagems of Love by her e'er mist,
Nor had I pow'r my Ruin to resist:
But did with secret Pleasure entertain
The silent and the smooth delightfull pain.
Thus one bright Maid, but yet assisted well
With such Auxiliaries, as nought could quell,
In various ways storm'd my defenceless Mind;
Nor did one Charm the least resistance find.
And when by down-right •orce she was possest,
She ne'er forsook my entertaining Breast.
Once seen, her beauteous form still stay'd with me,
And day and night dwelt in my Memorie.
How o•t has my Imagination brought
Her absent Image present to my Thought.
Fix't, and intent, how oft (though far remov'd)
Have I suppos'd I talk'd with her I lov'd.
How oft with Pleasure would my Fancy bring
Those Songs to mind which she was wont to sing;
And how I strove my Voice, like hers, to frame,
And bin delighted as it were the same.
Thus I my self, against my self took part,
And, like a cheat, play'd booty with my Heart.
How oft, alas, have my own Friends believ'd,
That I of Sense and Reason was depriv'd,
Nor can I think that they were much deceiv'd.
For neither was I perfectly compos'd,
Nor altogether with my Frenzy doz'd.
But 'tis a mighty trying hardship sure,
A stifled secret Passion to endure;
The furious Rage no mortal Breast can bear,
But in the Countenance it will appear,
Though never so reserv'd, though never so severe.
By the alternate change of White and Red,
A true Discovery is quickly made.
Th' affected Face do's the hid thoughts declare,
Blushing bespeaks a shame, and Paleness fear:
But ev'n my Dreams betray'd my Privacie,
My Treach'rous Dreams did faithless prove to me:
They did my sad Anxieties reveal,
Nor cou'd ev'n Death like sleep, my Cares conceal:
For when my Senses all inclin'd to Rest,
And by oblivious slumbers were possest,
Ev'n then my conscious Tongue my Guilt con•est.
As on the Grass, sleeping I once was lay'd,
Close by the Father of my lovely Maid;
And while He thoughtless slumber'd by my side,
Thus, in my Dreams disturb'd, aloud I cry'd,
Hast, hast, my Candida, make no delay,
Our secret Love is ruin'd if you stay:
For see, already peeps the prying Sun,
If w'are discovered we are both undone;
The envious Light will our stol'n Loves betray,
Hast, hast, my Candida, make hast away.
Awak'd at this, and in a strange surprize,
He started up, and scarce believ'd his Eyes:
And for his Daughter, search't the place around,
But only I was sleeping on the ground;
Gasping and panting there he saw me lye,
Transported from my self with Ecstasie.
With what vain Dreams, said he, art thou possest?
Or has a real Love usurp'd thy Breast?
And so thy sleep discovers a true jest.
Some waking Objects, I indeed conclude,
Upon thy gentler slumbers may intrude,
And fleeting Forms thy Wishes do delude.
Astonish't! he my broken Murmurs watch't,
And each imperfect dropping Sentence catch't:
Gently his right hand on my Heart
And, in soft Whispers, more inquiries made:
For so apply'd, the sly Inquirers Hand
From sleeping Breasts can any thing command;
And the loos'd Tongue do's by that Charm impart
The very choicest secrets of the Heart.
Thus I, who did so long my self behave
So well, and seem'd to all so good, so grave;
And had a sober Reputation kept,
My self, at last, discover'd, as I slept.
And now has my whole wretched Life been free
From imipous actions, and impuritie.
Nor can I say I did these Crimes prevent,
So much by Vertue, as by Accident.
But now I'm Old, and want the strength to sin,
It pleases me my Youth hath guiltless been.
Yet what just Praise deserv'dly due can be
To Aged Men, that they from Vice are free,
Since 'tis not choice, but meer necessitie?
Strength only sleeps, but Inclinations wake,
And not they Vice, but Vice do's them forsake:
deserts their unperforming Years,
And leaves them fill'd with painfull toils, and cares:
They are but glad they do no evil fact,
Only because they want the Pow'r to act.
'Tis worth our while, if we consider too,
What penalties in Age we undergo;
How that, with it, a slow repentance brings•
For all our youthfull faults, and riotings;
How many sighs, and groans it pays, and tears,
For dear-bought Luxury of younger years.
But though Mankind will sometimes strive in vain,
Youth's boyling Heats to curb, and to restrain;
Yet oft-times knowingly, and with much skill,
We cunningly persist in doing Ill.
W'are oft industrious, studious, wise, and nice,
In the performance of some witty Vice:
But Vice sometimes bears us by force away,
Yet oft its call more eas'ly we obey.
Oft, though we cannot compass what we will,
We are Well-wishers to some pleasing Ill.
To my MISTRISS.
Translated out of Tibullus.
Nulla tuum nobis subducet foemina lectum, Hoc primum, &c.
MY Love to thee no Beauty shall betray,
For it is firmly •ix't, and cannot stray.
None, none seems fair methinks in all the Town,
But thee; thou pleasest, and delight'st alone.
I wish indeed that none thy Charms could see,
And they were undiscern'd by all, but me;
So might I love with some securitie.
I wish not to be envy'd, nor desire
That any should my blessed state admire.
The Wise-man loves a secret Happiness;
For to be publick, makes it but the less.
"With thee for ever I in Woods would rest,
"Where never humane Foot the ground has prest.
Thou who forbid'st Disquiets to intrude,
"Who from Nights-shades the Darkness canst ex∣clude,
"And from a Desert banish Solitude.
Shou'd Heav'n it self conspire to change my Love,
And send me down a Mistriss from above,
Adorn'd with all the Beauties of the Skies,
In vain she would attempt to charm my Eyes,
Ev'n Venus self I would for thee despise.
This I most solemnly by Iuno swear,
Whom you to all the other Gods prefer.
Hold, Mad-man, hold! what do I do? what say?
But I have sworn, confest, and must obey.
Fool that I was, my Fear has led me on
To this grand senceless indiscretion.
Now thou hast conquer'd, and may'st tyrannize,
With all the Pow'rs of thy resistless Eyes;
While I but dote the more: Yes, brainless Sot,
This by thy foolish babling tongue th'ast got.
But I submit, command me what you will,
I am your most obedient Servant still.
Thy hardest Mandates I will ne'er refuse,
But the delightfull well-known Bondage chuse.
Only to Venus Altars I'll repair,
And there my Love, and there my Faith declare;
She punishes the false, the just do's spare.
CLose by a Silver Rivulet,
Grac'd with rich Willows, mournfull Daphne sate,
Leaning her melancholy Head
On the sad Banks o• an Enamell'd Mead,
O'er-charg'd with Griefs her Heart,
Her Eyes o'er-charg'd with Tears,
For an intolerable smart,
For daily pains, and nightly fears,
For most uncertain hopes, and sure despairs,
'Gainst Tyrant Love a long complaint she made,
Whilst each sad Object did her sorrows aid.
Then Three-heart rending sighs she drew,
Deeper than ever Poet's Fiction knew;
And cruel, cruel Thyrsis said,
Why thus unkind to an enamour'd Maid?
A Maid whose Breast abounds
With kindness, that can move
By dire, and miserable sounds,
Whilst my Heart labours to conceal its Love:
But oh in curst Despair first let me dye,
E'er he, by loving me, •inds misery.
Then three more dismal Groans she took,
Whose cruel noise, like a great Earthquake, shook
The neighbouring Plebean Wood,
Which to commiserate her sorrows stood,
I'll tortur'd be no more,
No more I'll grieve in vain;
Inrag'd with furious Heat, she swore,
These silent streams shall ease my pain,
And I'll no more 'gainst him, and Love complain:
Witness these lonely Fields, how I have lov'd,
And for his sake this fatal Med'cine prov'd.
Iust with thick trouble in her face,
Descending from the miserable place,
Thyrsis, to save the Nymph appears,
His Eyes half drown'd with over-flowing Tears.
The Maid repeat her Woe:
Thyrsis the consequence too fear'd;
Ah, why do'st thou my Passion know?
(Sad Daphne said) loose me, and let me go,
Where at some rest, for ever I may be,
And not despis'd by a Triumphing He.
Ah, Cruel Nymph (griev'd Thyrsis cries
With dolefull Face, and lamentable Eyes)
Cou'd you, O cou'd you thus undo
A Swain, who secretly has burnt for you?
With joy she stops him here,
Brighter her Eyes became,
And her all-clouded Face grew clear,
Then (blushing said) I am to blame,
Since you for Daphne had a private flame:
Pleas'd with this blest discovery, both agree
Their Mutual Love no more conceal'd shou'd be.
DAmon to Sylvia, when alone,
Did thus express his Love;
Fair Nymph, I must a Passion own,
Which, else would fatal prove.
Can you a faithfull Shepherd see,
Who languishes in pain,
And yet so cruel-hearted be,
To let him sue in vain?
Then with his Eyes all full of fire,
And winning phrases, he
Intreated her to ease Desire,
And grant some Remedy.
Allur'd with Am'rous looks, the Maid,
Fearing he might prevail,
Begg'd that he wou'd no more perswade
A Virgin that was frail.
Fear not, dear Nymph, replyes the Swain,
There's none can know our bliss;
None can relate our Loves again,
While this place silent is.
Then Damon, with a lov'd surprize,
Leap't close into her Arms,
With Ravishing delights he dyes,
And melts with thousand charms.
The Innocent Discov'ry.
The Air was calm, the Sky serene and clear,
Kindly the Lamps of Heaven did appear.
Faintly their Light some weak Reflexes made
On the clos'd Casements, which to Eyes betray'd,
Nought, but a dying Tapers glim'ring light,
Befitting well that season of the night.
Sleep having welcom'd ev'ry weary'd limb•
And gentle silence waiting upon him.
's blest Apartment, I
(To ease my never-ceasing Malady)
Took up my well-strung Lute, some Ayrs to play;
Ayrs soft as sleep, and pleasing as the day.
On silence I no sooner made a Breach,
Than the joy'd Sound her sacred Ears did reach;
Willing to know who had disturb'd her Rest,
Came to the Window like Aurora drest,
In splendour; only let this diff'rence be,
That fair Olinda brighter was than she.
Lest I should see her (Ah, dear Innocence)
Puts out the Candle, but th' Impertinence
Of the vain plot did make me wonder more,
For I beheld her plainer than before:
She only had remov'd the Moon away,
That hinder'd me of a more perfect day:
Th' Eclipse, when gone, discover'd to my sight
A better prospect of the Sun's strong light.
FATE. A SONG.
THou know'st (my Fair) how much I love,
And that my flames do still improve;
That they still burn, and still appear,
As bright as thy dear Eyes are clear:
Still they are pure as the first Cause,
Nor swerve they from the very Laws;
That Womens practices impose,
Which •irst their Humors, since their Pride has chose.
No fault in all my Love is found,
And yet you will not heal my Wound;
In vain I tell you how I burn,
You will vouchsafe me no return.
In vain your pity I implore,
You smile to see my bleeding sore;
No, though a Kiss wou'd do the Cure,
Unkind Graciana lets me still endure.
For this what reason can there be,
Why so averse to Love and Me:
Alas, too late, I know too late
The strong necessity of Fate.
No Woman yet was ever made
To Love aright, but be betray'd:
The Men, who dote on them, they shun,
And to the Arms of the indiff'rent run.
ME in the Church, 'tis true, you often see,
But there I come not with intent
To hear a thick-scull'd Parson vent
His phlegmatick Divinitie:
No, my Graciana, 'tis to look on thee;
On thee I gaze, and in thy Eyes find sence,
Beyond the Gown-man's holy Eloquence;
For what has his dull tale of Doom,
And horrid things to come,
To doe with Love, and Thee, which I alone
For my Established Religion own?
The Croud, nay the more Learn'd, and Wise, for this
Perhaps will me an Atheist call,
And say that I believe no God at all:
But oh they judge, they judge amiss,
And wond'rously themselves deceive;
For I a mighty Deity believe,
To whom ten thousand Sighs, as many Tears,
With painfull Groans, and with incessant Pray'rs,
As a due Sacrifice each day I give,
Which, sometimes, she disdains not to receive;
And one kind thing from her weighs more with me,
Than all their Bodies of Divinitie.
With much more sence, indeed they may,
Accuse me of Idolatrie;
That I to you that Worship pay,
Which only Heav'n shou'd have from me:
But let the wisest of them all,
The most precise, and Pharisaical,
Tell me, if my Graciana wou'd be kind;
What holy indignation cou'd they find;
What pious zeal, what sanctity of mind,
To guard them from a sin so charming sweet,
But wou'd fall down, and worship at thy feet;
Striving, like me, in lasting Verse, to raise
Eternal Trophies to thy praise.
For, if to me she once her Love wou'd give,
Graciana's Name shou'd then for ever live,
And in each proud, and swelling line,
Graciana's Name shou'd like rich Iewels shine:
Nor wou'd it less avail, to make
My Verse immortal, as her Fame:
For consecrated with her Name,
All Men wou'd read them for Graciana's sake.
OH, take not this sweet Kiss so soon away,
But on these Lips let me for ever stay,
This Food, Love's Appetite, can ne'er destroy,
'Tis too AEtherial to cloy:
The Manna, from Indulgent Heav'n,
Which to the murm'ring Iews was giv'n,
Did not so many Delicates afford,
As in one Kiss of thine are stor'd:
But it resembles something more Divine,
Like that above, on which bright Angels Dine;
Where, an Eternal Meal
by them's enjoy'd,
And yet, with glutted fullness, never cloy'd.
Me therefore do not you deprive
Of my Lifes chief preservative;
Though I confess that it affords to me
More than a bare subsistencie:
For thy dear Kiss, a kind of tast do's give,
How all the blest above do live;
And I methinks, when e'er I joyn
My happy Lips to sacred thine;
Am with the joy transported so,
That perfectly I do not know,
Whether my ravish'd Soul be fled, or no:
But this I certainly can say, I feel
Pleasures that are unspeakable.
Tell me, Graciana, prit•ee doe,
For only you the truth can know.
If on thy Lips dwell such prevailing Charms,
And in thy Kisses such delights abound;
What Ecstasies, what Raptures will be •ound,
Within the Magick Circle of thy Arms.
TO Mr P. Berault UPON HIS FRENCH GRAMMAR.
WHat equal Thanks? what Gratitude is due,
Industrious Friend from all this Isle to you?
For all your Labour, all your Toil, and Care,
In bringing us, from France, their Language here:
Their Language, which is sure their richest store,
And each Wise man do's prize, and value more,
Than all the Goods that came from thence before.
Their Language, which do's more the Wit re•ine,
Than all their Modes, than all their sparkling Wine
And this thou do'st in such a Method teach,
As ev'n the least Capacity may reach.
By such plain rules, and axiom•
thou dost show
The Pronunciation, none could better know,
Did they to France for their Instruction go.
To us, thou mak'st, by this, their Learning known,
And in th' Original 'tis all our own:
Translators oft unfaithfull, and unjust,
At second-hand we need no longer trust;
But in their prim'tive Beauty we may see
The famous Boileau, and Sieur Scudery;
Now those two mighty Wits we may caress
In their own Elegant, and Native Dress,
And learn from them, bright Ladies how to praise,
In softest Language, and in smoothest Phrase:
For French alone so easie is, and free;
So sweetly gentle, that it seems to be
At •irst design'd for, and contriv'd by Love,
As th' only Charm, a scornfull Nymph to move.
Now sur• our rambling Youth will stay at home,
Nor wantonly so oft to Paris roam,
Under pretext to learn the Language there,
Since you instruct them so much better here.
They need no more tempt the unfaithfull Seas,
For what your Grammar teaches (if they please)
With much less charge at home, & much more ease.
This, therefore, from thy care we hope to gain,
That thy Endeavours may those Sparks detain,
Whose roving Minds lead them to France from hence,
Meerly (forsooth, under the slight pretence
Of Courtly Breeding, Carriage, Wit, and Sence,)
To learn the Affectation of the Proud,
The noise, and nonsence of the Vain, and Loud;
Foisting upon some easie Coxcombs here,
Those cast of Vices which they pickt up there.