Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

POEMS Chiefly consisting of SATYRS AND Satyrical Epistles.

SONG I. Fatal Constancy.

(1.)

CIara charming without Art, The wonder of the Plain, Wounded by Love's resistless Dart, Had over-fondly giv'n her Heart To a regardless Swain: Who, though he well knew Her Passion was true, Her Truth and her Beauty disdain'd;

While thus the fair Maid, By her Folly betray'd, To the rest of the Virgins complain'd.

(2.)

Take heed of Man, and, while you may, Shun Love's Deceitful Snare; For though at first it looks all Gay, 'Tis ten to one y'are made a Prey To Sorrow, Pain and Care: But if you love first Y'are certainly Curst, Despair will insult in your Breast: The Nature of Men Is to slight who love them, And love those that slight 'em, the best.

(3.)

Yet, let the Conq'rour know my mind, Ingrateful Celadon, That he will never, never find One half so true, or half so kind, When I am dead and gone: But, as she thus spoke, Her tender Heart broke; Death spares not the fair nor the Young: So Swans when they dy Make their own Elegy, And breath out their Life in a Song.

SONG II. No Life if no Love.

(1.)

CAelia is Chast, yet her bright Eyes Are Motives to desire, Each Look, each Motion does surprize, And lasting Love inspire: Her smiles wou'd make the Wretch rejoyce, That ne're rejoyc't before; And O! to hear her charming Voice, Is Heav'n, or something more!

(2.)

And thus adorn'd, where e're she turns, Fresh Conquests on her wait; The trembling, Restless Lover burns, Nor can resist his Fate. Ah! Caelia, as thou'rt fair, be kind, Nor this small Grace deny; Though Love for Love I never find, Yet let me Love, or Dy!

SONG III. Pity, if you'd be pity'd.

(1.)

WHY, Caelia, with that coy Behaviour Do you meet Amintor's Flame? Why deny him ev'ry Favour, That so much adores your Name? Adores it, too, with such a Passion, Fervent, lasting and Divine, That wou'd from all Hearts draw Compassion, All, but that hard Heart of thine.

(2.)

Gods! Why thus d'ye wast your Graces? Why thus Bountiful in vain? Why give Devils Angels Faces, First to please, and then disdain? Where ever was a Beauteous Creature That bore lightning in her Eye, But to her Lover shew'd ill Nature, And cou'd smile to see him dy?

(3.)

'Tis true, at last, Heav'ns Indignation, Causeless hatred to Reprove, Makes her doat with equal Passion On some Youth, averse to Love;

One that, regardless, sees her languish, Like a withering Lily pine — O pity then Amintor's anguish, Or that Fate may soon be thine!

SONG IV. The reāsonable Request.

(1.)

FOR pity, Caelia, ease my care; The scorn your Eye does dart, Swifter than Lightning pierces Air, Runs to my trembling Heart, The Pangs of Death are less severe When Souls and Bodies part: But Death I've oft invok't, and shall again; For what fond wretch wou'd on the Rack remain, And have no use of Life but still to live in pain?

(2.)

I not presume to beg a Kiss, Twou'd heighten my Desire; And a kind look's a happiness That wou'd but mount it higher; Nor yet your Love, for that's a Bliss Where I must ne're aspire: No, this is all that I request, and sure A smaller Boon was never beg'd before, Do but believe I love you, and I ask no more.

SONG V. The Hopeless Comfort.

(1.)

NOT though I know she, fondly, lies Claspt in my Rival's Arms, Can free my Heart, or keep my Eyes From fixing on her Charms!

(2.)

Tell me, ye Pow'rs that rule our Fate; Why are frail men so vain, With so much Zeal to wish for that They never can attain?

(3.)

Some Comfort 'tis I'me not alone, All are like me undone; And that which does, like Death, spare none, Why shou'd I hope to shun?

SONG VI. The Fruitless Caution.

Amintor. Caelia.

Am.

TAke heed, fair Caelia, how you slight The Youth that courts you now; For though fresh Charms, like dawning Light, Still flourish on your Brow, Yet fairest Days must know a Night, And so, alas! must Thou:

In vain, in vain You'l then complain, In vain your Scorn and Cruelty bemone; For none can prove So dull, to love, When Age approaches, or when Beauty's gone.

Caelia.

Cease, Fond Amintor, cease your Suit, For 'tis but urg'd in vain; Who'd sow where they can reap no Fruit But Anguish and Disdain? Your whining Passion I despise, And hearken to't no more Than the deaf Winds to Seamen's cries When all the Billows roar:

For if when Youth and Beauty's gone I must be scorn'd of Men, I'le now revenge, e're Age come on, My Persecution then.

SONG VII. The Wanderer fixt.

(1.)

E'Re I saw Silvia, I, with ease, Cou'd find out many that cou'd please; With Beauty fraught and free from Pride; To gain their Loves I cou'd have dy'd! But when I first your Eyes did view, Streight to my Heart swift Magick flew: Before your sweet obliging Air, So fine your Shape, and Face so fair, All others Charms did disappear, And were no longer what they were!

(2.)

So of the Stars that gild the Sky, They've Rev'rence paid from ev'ry Eye; Not one but does deserve our Praise, Not one but does our wonder raise, Not one but what is gay and bright, Able, alone, to Rule the Night;

Yet, though so bright and glorious, they All, in a Moment's time, decay, Grow dim and seem to dy away, When once Aurora opens day!

SONG VIII. The unwilling Inconstant.

(1.)

THough She's so much by all admir'd, That ev'n cold Age is with her presence fir'd; Yet, by some more Resistless Art, You raze her Image from my heart, Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part!

(2.)

Say quickly (O enchanting Maid!) By what strange witchcraft I am thus betray'd? Since She to whom I've sworn is true, I shou'd a high Injustice do, To place what only she deserves, on you.

(3.)

O try, thou who, without controul, Hast shot thy glorious Form into my Soul, Whose Eyes as soon as seen subdue, O try to make me hate thee too; But that, alas! is what you cannot do.

SONG IX. Nothing wanting to Love.

(1.)

YES, Silvia, I was told but now, While on your Breast I lay My Head, and thus obsequious bow, I fool my Fame away; That Glory while I thus do join My Lips and glowing Cheeks to thine, Starts wide, and cries, She'l ne're be mine.

(2.)

Let the false World true Passion blame, And Heav'ns best Gift despise; I'de rather be the Fool I am, Than, without Love, be wise: Fame, Glory, and what e're we find That captivates th' Ambitious mind, I have 'em all, if thou art kind!

SONG X. The Result of Loving.

(1.)

CAeli•• is cruel; Silvia, Thou, I must confess, art kind; But in her Cruelty, I vow, I more repose can find: For O thy Fancy at all Game does fly, Fond of Address, and willing to comply.

(2.)

Thus he that loves must be undone; Each way on Rocks we fall: Either you will be kind to none, Or worse, be kind to all. Vain are our Hopes, and endless is our Care; We must be Jealous, or we must despair.

SONG XI. Prescription for Falshood.

YOU that have lov'd, and too soon believ'd, You that have lov'd, and been deceiv'd, No more complain, For Grief is vain, But make Musick with your Chain, A sort of Melancholy Joy; Nor rashly blame The perjur'd Dame That did your Peace destroy: Though they the Paths to Falshood tread, They yet but follow as they're led, They do but as their Mothers did; Flatter, smile, deceive, betray, By certain Instinct go astray: But e're since Eve, We may perceive 'Twas those that bore 'em shew'd the way: Then blame 'em not; but mourn with me That Females, fair As Angels are, Shou'd so destructive be, And have so old a claim to Infidelity.

The end of the Songs.

LOVE-VERSES.

The Captive.

LOng I had laught at the vain name of Love, Too weak to charm me, and too dull to move; It ne're cou'd make a Conquest of my heart, Freedom and that were one, and were too fond to part; Freedom, without whose aid ev'n Life wou'd tire, And, e're it reach't th' allotted Goal, expire: But ah! too soon I found that Blessing gone, Whose Loss, I fear, I must for ever mone•• I saw her and no more, one pointed view Softn'd my flinty Breast, and pierc't it through and through. O who can love's resistless Darts, controul, That, through our Eyes, so soon can reach the Soul! Yet Liberty, I'll not thy Loss deplore; I lov'd my Freedom well, but love this Slav'ry more: For though stern Caelia's Captive I remain, And stoop my Neck to Love's Imperial Chain, There's a strange nameless Joy incorporate with the pain.

To Caelia desiring his Absence.

YES, now you have your Wish, but Ah! be kind To the poor Captive Heart I leave behind; For though I go, yet that with Thee remains, Proud that 'tis Thine, and triumphs in its Chains: For all the Beauties that are now unblown, When in their gaudiest prime they shal be shown And kneeling to be lov'd, I'de not my Flame disown; Though by that time perhaps thy charms might wast, And the gay bloom of smiling Youth be past. Yet you inflexible, obdurate prove, And ••y, 'Tis false, 'tis feign'd, not real love: O cease those thoughts, and cease to be severe; For by thy self, thy awful self, I swear, I love too well, and must with grief confess, Those Men much happier that can love thee less.

The Prayer.

HEar me, O pow'rful Charmer! e're my Breath Is stopt by the ungentle hand of Death; E're my quick Pulse has ever ceas'd to beat, And from my Heart drain'd all the vital heat;

E're on my Tomb you stand and drop a Tear, And cry, The hapless Youth had not lain here, If I had been less rigid and severe; 'Twas my cold Frowns that wing'd his timeless Fate; Too soon he lov'd, and I believe too late! Hear me, I beg (if truth may beg for Grace) Let not thy Heart bely thy Angel's Face: Thy Face is with Compassion cloath'd around, With mildness and with smiling mercy crown'd; If not there, where is Pity to be found? Kind Glances from thy Eyes for ever move, And kindle all Beholders into Love O let me, then, beseech your gentle Ear, For once, to stoop to your low Vassal's Prayer. Which is no more, but that you would not hate That Passion which your Beauty did create. I do not ask your Love, or, if I do, He does but ask your Love that will be true.

An Expostulation for discover'd Love; which yet could not be conceal'd.

CUrst be the time when first my Soul inclin'd To say, 'twas Love of her opprest my mind. Curst too, the Wretch that did the Message bear, That made her tender Nature grow severe, And plung'd me, hopeless, deeper in Despair,

And curst my Self (if there a Curse remain, If yet there be a Plague beyond disdain) That did the Inauspicious lines indite, That banisht me for ever from her sight, When, were I to see Heav'n it self, 'twou'd be with less delight! O Slave! O wretch, hopeless, forlorn, undone! I graspt at Joy and pull'd my ruin on. Did I not hear her talk and see her move? Her negligence it self was fuel to my Love: She sung, she danc't, conquer'd without controul▪ And every motion flasht upon the Soul, Forc't it, with Charms o'er-power'd, to retire, Which, when recover'd, did enhance desire, And made me more adore and more admire! All this with Silence I had still enjoy'd, But my too forward Zeal all this destroy'd. O Slave! O Wretch!—yet why shou'd I complain? By Fate compell'd, I have reveal'd my pain, And so shou'd do, were it to do again: Long smother'd Flames at last will force their way, And, when once Master, will no more obey.

The vain Pursuit.

To a Lady that desir'd him to write to her in Verse.

CHloe, when you are pleas'd Commands to lay, Though 'twere on Kings, they'd readily obey; Much more may I then, so much less than they.

But Ah! I fear, my humble Verse will move You rather to despise it than approve, For I can write of nothing else but Love.

Of nothing else, 'tis my eternal Theme, That flows, still, with an unexhausted stream In all I say, or do, or think, or dream.

Sometimes I take my Book and go to Prayer; But Love, fond Love, ev'n interrupts me there, And turns my vain Devotions into Air.

Yet, though so true to Love, I ne're cou'd find No Balm of comfort for my wounded mind; There's not a Star in Heav'n but what's unkind!

For the hard she that I am doom'd t' obey, From my pursuit for ever flies away, And Fate it self's too weak to bribe her stay.

Shadows that Fleet before us o'er the Plain, Follow as fast when we come back again, But she ne're turns, and cannot be o'ertane.

This is the riged Fate I'me forc't to bear; And tell me, Fair one, is it not severe, That so much Love shou'd meet so much despair?

Despair, the bitter Bowl, which, I've heard tell, Does to the Brim with such strong Poison swell, As makes the Furies lash themselves in Hell.

Her Name I will conceal; my Reason why, Because she shall not blame me when I dy, That one so low shou'd have a thought so high.

Love and Despair.

IN vain I write, in vain I strive to move Her whose stern nature is averse to love: Ah Cruel Nymph! Ah most regardless Fair! Still scorning, smiling at my restless care. 'Tis said, the glorious World and all above Was rais'd from Chaos at one word of Love: Through the wide Wast blest order swiftly flew, And wild Confusion chang'd her griefly hew,

Discord by her own Off-spring was forsook; And the glad Spheres their constant motion took, And with a joint consent for ever march Their mighty rounds over the spangl'd Arch: From Love's eternal sway there's nothing free; 'Tis strange, then, Caelia, there is none in Thee, But sure there is, though not design'd for me. And, to say truth, my hopes must needs be frail When Interest more than Passion does prevail, And vulgar breath kick up the sacred scale: Besides (what plainer proof of stedfast hate? She says she scorns, and what she says is Fate: For if'twere possible she shou'd be kind, Her very Eyes, e're this, had told her mind; But Ah! instead of Love, when I gaze there, In plain, broad Characters I read, Despair! Despair then wretch, nor longer strive to move Her whose stern Nature is averse to Love.

The Hopeless Lover;

In a Vision to Caelia.

TWas now the Time when all remains of day By the thick shades of night were chas'd away; Silence and gentle sleep fill'd every Breast, And Natures self seem'd to retire to rest:

Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes, And, unconfin'd, her roving Journey takes O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er flowy Meads and Lakes; And sometimes mounts aloft where Angels dwell, And in a trice shoots down from thence to Hell, There all the tortures of the damn'd does view, And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.) Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her will To shew the Pastimes of her antick skill: Wrapt deep in sleep I lay, the Scene was drew, And this was that presented to my view.

I lookt, and lo! I saw a Nymph, as fair As Guardian Angels in Idea are; So soft her Carriage, and her Eyes so bright, Their Lustre did supply the absent light. Charm'd with the dazling object, and amaz'd, I eagerly on the sweet Vision gaz'd: But witness for me Heav'n, for you know best What Admiration seiz'd my trembling Breast, When drawing nigh to take a stricter view, (Not thinking that the Beauteous form I knew) I found 'twas Caelia, causer of my smart, Caelia, the cruel Empress of my heart; Whose Eyes, methought, at my approach shot flame, Arm'd with that fatal Weapon, sharp disdain; Backward I started, Horror seiz'd my heart, And stab'd it round in every vital part; Nor had I strength to bear the painful wound, But fainted, and fell speechless to the ground;

And lost had been beyond Fate's power to save, Had not these words recall'd me from the grave.

Amintor, rise, give Ear to what I speak; I bring the Cure, the onely Cure you seek: Despair no more (the bane of all delight) Shall break your peace by day, your rest by night, But, chas'd by me, take everlasting flight: Vp then, to meet thy coming Ioy prepare, And think me now as gentle as thou'st thought me fair.

Reviv'd with these kind words I upward sprung, But Fear had yet bar'd utt'rance from my Tongue: A thousand doubts rowl'd in my troubl'd Breast, While I stood trembling to expect the rest; Kind though she seem'd, her Eyes commanded Death, And my pale fate hung hov'ring o'er her Breath.

Dear Youth, continu'd she, the scorn I've shown Was only to confirm you more my own; For, if your Passion was unfeign'd and pure, I knew all tryal 'twou'd with ease endure: 'Twas this to be assur'd of, made me feign All the sharp rigours of unjust disdain; And who, alas! will blame me, that reflects How many of our frail believing Sex Are ruin'd, lost, caught in the worst trapan, By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man; How oft ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves, Then Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves:

When once possest for what you feign'd to burn, You treat us with disdain, neglect and scorn, And mighty Love to rude contempt does turn: Such thoughts as these made me with caution move, And on a sure foundation build my Love; For who e're gain'd it, I well knew wou'd find, 'Twas not the Passion of a fickle mind, Changing as Tydes, and wav'ring with the Wind, But fixt like Fate from whence its Essence came, Ever to last, and always be the same: And so, Amintor, so to you I give A Heart, which for you only wisht to live.

Charm'd with the tuneful sound her Language bore, I now was lost in Joy, as in despair before: Not the least sign of sorrow did remain, This one blest moment cancell'd all my pain: So a new enter'd Saint through Heav'n does range, And so does wonder at his happy change. At last, recover'd from the Trance, I spoke, And in these words the pleasing silence broke.

Thou truest Image of the Powers above, For they, like you, will frown on him they love; But when through much Adversity h' has past, Like you, they bounteously reward at last; For Perseverance gains their love divine, And Perseverance too, has gain'd me thine. Thou'st sav'd me from despair and rais'd me higher Than my most tow'ring wish e're durst aspire.

O how shall I enough thy worth declare! How sweet! how soft! how merciful and fair! Description droops when I'de thy praise relate, And Language fails beneath the pond'rous weight. O strange reverse! —Oft have I sent my cries, Through yielding Air, up echoing to the Skies: How oft in each thick Melancholy Grove Have I sat mourning my improsp'rous Love? How oft did I to senseless Trees complain? Whose whistling leaves wisper'd back grief again: Hard stones of Adamant ev'n seem'd to hear, And, in Compassion, oft wou'd drop a Tear; But harder you ne'r wept, or lent a pitying Ear. So moving was each tender sigh and groan, Ev'n Philomel has ceas'd her midnight mone, And thought my melancholy strains more pitious than her own. 'Vnkind, Relentless Caelia, wou'd I cry, 'Must I thus scorn'd and thus unpitied dy? 'Wou'd she vouchsafe one smile to ease the Slave, 'I'de go without reluctance to the Grave; 'But she denies me that; what then remains 'But with one stroke to free me from her Chains? 'In Death the Lover's eas'd from all unjust, 'Her pointed Frowns can't reach me in the Dust. Such were the words my wild despair let fall, But this blest moment has o're paid 'em all.

Thus I, methought, my Passion's progress mourn'd, When, Caelia, weeping, this reply return'd.

Amintor, how shall I your Peace restore? Or how reward the Pangs for me y'ave bore? My Love, I fear, is a return too small; Take with it then my Life, my Soul, my all! All! (cry'd I) — By Heav'n the Gift's so great, As ev'n in Angels might Desire create, And make 'em wish they mortal were, like me, T' enjoy so fair an Excellence as thee! Who if I ever cease t' adore and love, May darted vengeance brand me from above, And, if 'tis possible, to plague me more, Plunge me in sorrow deeper than before. What then, Dear Charmer, what remains but this? What? but to rush on our approaching bliss; — But first, we'll seal the Contract with a kiss. But, Ah! no sooner had the cursed sound Of those last words unwary utt'rance found, But the fair Vision took her unseen flight And swiftly vanish't through the shades of night. Awak't, I started up and gaz'd around, But not one glimpse of the dear shadow found, 'Twas gone! 'twas gone! and with it fled away All the dear hope I had of future Joy!

Eternally relentless Pow'rs above! Must all my constant sighs so fruitless prove As not to pierce the heart of her I love? Must I for ever be (O cursed State!) The wretched mark of her obdurate hate? Must I for ever in these pangs remain? Doom'd to love on, yet doom'd to love in vain▪ But, 'tis your will, and I must not complain.

Yet, O ye Powers, had you been my Friend So far, to've let the Vision known no end, That raptur'd with Imaginary Charms, I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms; Of all th' unnumber'd Joys you have in store For Vertue, nothing cou'd have pleas'd me more: But Ah! when we expect a sure relief, To find we are but deeper fixt in grief, Is of all human Curses, sure, the chief; For know, O Caelia, O disdainful fair, I must still love thee, though I still despair.

Silvia in the Country, 1682.

AS in that Region where but once a year The Sun does show himself and disappear, Leaving no glimpse behind, but just to see All Comfort flies away as swift as he; Through the dark Plains wild Echo's hoarsly ring, And Lyons roar where Birds were us'd to sing; If by hard chance some wretch is left behind, (For 'tis a Climate shun'd by human kind.) He must endure an Age of ling'ring pain, E're the bright Lamp of Heav'n returns again. So, till you left the Town, 'twas all clear day, But night, perpetual night, now y'are away. Like him, alas! (his Northern Climes among) Your stay is short, but, O! your absence long.

And O! how long so e're it is design'd, That killing absence will afflict my Mind; Nor me alone, for all that know you, mourn, And all invoke the Gods for your return. But why, alas! do I offend your Ear With that which you, perhaps, disdain to hear? Or wish you back in this ill Town again, The vast Exchange of all things lewd and vain; When you so much the happier lot enjoy, Free from those storms which here our Peace destroy; No State-Plots there disturb your blisful hours, But every moment is worth ten of ours; Where the harmonious Quire in Copses sing Their Airs Divine, and prophecy of Spring; Where Nature smiles and yields you all things rare, At least she, sure, must smile now you are there. No, rather let me wish my self with you, And to that wish I'll add this other too, That you'd be gracious to an am'rous Youth, Nor let him suffer Martyrdom for Truth.

Silvia, Luke-warm.

NOw, while I languish on your gentle Breast, (That Pillow where my Cares are hush't to rest) While our plump veins are full of youthful fire, And nature able to make good desire;

Why, at this Season, in Love's choicest prime, Shou'd you believe, that I indulge a crime To urge enjoyment? which you rather ought To think th' effect of Passion, than a fault: Think, dearest Charmer, how the Minutes fly, And the preventing spite of Destiny; Our vig'rous days, alas! will soon be gone, And Impotence and Age come swiftly on; Let us not then thus wast the pretious time, 'Tis that, O Silvia, that's the greatest crime, For as that fails, as that consumes away, Who knows too but our Passions may decay? Enjoyment will preserve the Flame entire, For that's the fuel that maintains the Fire, That's Love indeed, the rest is but desire; That is the Oyl that makes the Colours last, While Paints in Fresco fret away and wast: For pity then change your half-yielding mind, To be but kind in part is much unkind; Luke-warm Indifferency I cannot bear, Such tedious Hopes are worse than quick Despair.

Silvia, Perjur'd.

SHE has, ye Gods, forgot the Vows she made, And, conscious, flies the wretch she has betray'd! But, if she's yet not past the pow'r of Love, If Constancy have Charms, or Verse can move,

I'll fetch thy Vertue back, forgetful fair, And prove that plighted Oaths are something more than air; In that sad Language I'll my wrongs impart, So lively will I paint my bleeding heart, Ev'n thou thy self shalt blush, and think it strange It shou'd be capable of such a change! Yes, fair persidious Maid, 'twill make thee pause, To see all this and know thou art the cause: For by your Falshood, to soft Peace a Foe, I'm rais'd to the extremest pitch of woe, From whence surveying all the numerous fry Of Men, I see not one so curst as I. Did Angels know my truth as well as you, Ev'n they wou'd wonder Man shou'd be so true, But wonder more thou shou'd'st unfaithful prove▪ To such an inexhausted fund of Love. You know, and I shall nere forget the time, (If Love was Vertue then, why is it now a crime?) When I lay raptur'd on your panting Breast, Raptures not lawful here to be exprest; When by the awful pow'rs above you swore, Nay, by our mutual love, and that was more, That to me only you your heart resign'd, And for my sake rejected all Mankind: Did I not there, too, vow the same to you? You heard me, and your own bright Eyes di•• view. How zealously I lookt on Heav'n above, Wish't it unkind to me if I prov'd false to love▪ Have we not since too often done the same? With fresh indearments fed th' eternal Flame?

Eternal! — No, 'twas momentany, slight, A short-liv'd Meteor, a glaring light, A blaze, an Ignis fatuus of the night; By which thou'st led me over Bush and Thorn, Drill'd on by hope, and driven back with scorn: Sure thou dost think thou at Love's Auction art, And dost, by Inch of Candle, parcel out thy heart; Thy Flame so far from lasting, I ev'n doubt Thou dost but light it up to put it out, Or sindge us purblind Moths that fly about. Destructive Sex! for as thou usest me, So each Man's us'd by some persidious she. Cruel, or false y'are all; and he is blest, He only, that excludes you from his Breast, Nor lets your Tarrier Love dislodge his rest. O wou'd kind Heav'n my ancient peace restore, That Liberty which I contemn'd before, Away, I'd cry, with Love, and think of it no more.

The end of the Love-Verses.

Miscellanies.

TO My Lord E. Eldest Son to the Marquess of H.

Upon his Marriage and Return, &c.

PArdon, my Lord, if a poor Poet, one That is not, nor deserves not to be known, Presume not only (hardn'd in his Crime) To greet your safe Return with dogrel Rhime, But wish your future Years may this atone, And Bless no other Country but your own; Which, as it griev'd to want your Lustre here, Envy'd it's shining in another Sphere.

Many there are that travel Foreign parts, They say, to know the Manners, Men and Arts; But 'stead of leaving their own dross behind, Bring back a dross, too course to be refin'd, Affected Body and affected Mind:

For such Accomplishments what need we roam, Thanks to our Stars, these may be had at home. But you, my Lord, have nobler Conduct shown, And brought from the French Court what will adorn our own; A Vertuous Wife! a thing so rare to see, Ev'n Holy Writ mentions but two or three: To her own Native Soil she bids adieu For dear Religion, and her Dearer You; Nor has she lost, but in your Arms will find Sublimer Blessings than she leaves behind: For early y'ave the chase of Fame begun, Nor are, but by a Father's name outdone, He, when three parts of four in darkness lay, Broke the thick Scales and made us see the day, And drove our Fears and Iealousies away; False Fears and Iealousies, those useful things That Knaves insinuate when they'd ruin Kings: His Noble Image we in You may find, Lively in Person, livelier in your mind, For both have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit, He Judge of Wisdom, You the Judge of Wit.

TO THE Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. upon his Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton.

OF all men His is the most pleasing Life, That Heav'n has favour'd with a Vertuous Wife; She loves him with a chast, but cheerful Flame, And in all changes still will be the same; She brings him home Content, and shuts out strife, Content, the Cordial that does lengthen Life: This Fate, my Lord, is yours, 'tis you have found This Miracle, with true perfection Crown'd: Her Youth's adorn'd in Nature's freshest Charms, Her Youth she brings, unsully'd, to your Arms: Nor is Heav'n only to her Person kind, She is as nobly furnish't in her mind: Good Natur'd, Pious, Affable to all, Meek as the Turtle Dove that has no Gall, And free from Pride as Eve before the Fall: Ah had she been in her first Mother's room, Sure Paradise had not been lost so soon! But as the Treasure's vast which you possess, 'Tis your own Right, your Merit claims no less.

You to whom Nature kindly does impart All that can please the Eye, or charm the Heart. Shou'd our Apollo his pretensions quit Of being sacred President of Wit, With th' Acclamations of the general Voice, You wou'd succeed, at least, you'd be the Poets Choice. To judge of Poesie some make pretence, Damn what does please, and praise what gives offence, But all your approbation stamps goes currant off for sense. Yet though your Judgment we so much admire, Your Charity does lift our wonder higher! 'Tis not for nought propitious Heav'n does bless All that you undertake with such success: Ev'n that rough Sea where most Adventurers fail, That Bay of Biscay that tears every Sail, Has favour'd you with an Auspicious Gale, And brought you safe to the delightsome shore, The golden Worlds of Love's eternal store, Where unconcern'd you sit, and daily see The Wrecks of Marriage, from the danger free▪ For where the sacred Ty of Love does join With that of Marriage, there the Knot's divine; There Life like an untroubl'd stream does flow, No murmuring sound or perturbation know, But, Crown'd with daily Blessings, glides away With an almost insensible decay.

To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, upon his Marriage.

NOW, Sir, when your good Angel does rejoyce, And looks down pleas'd upon your happy choice, When Love and Beauty drest in all their charms, Give up their only Darling to your Arms, It may be thought Impertinence in Me, To grate your Ears with worthless Poesie; For while Love's sacred Musick charms the sense, All other sounds are harsh and give offence; And yet, alas! though conscious of my crime, I still go on; a Slave condemn'd to rhime. 'Tis grown almost a Miracle to see Two Natures form'd by Nature to agree; Your lovely Bride, Chast, Courteous, Noble, Good, And you, Sir, Eminent in Worth as Blood, Just, Loyal, Brave; — but let me say no more, Nor for a secret tell what all cou'd tell before. Hail then, blest Pair! your Race of Love's begun, And may you still be eager to love on; May Pleasure flow, and, because all must tast What sorrow is, may sorrow ebb as fast, That this first day may be a Prologue to the last: May long Life bless you, and a health as long; And may you, too, be fruitful while y'are young, That from your Loyns a Loyal Race may spring, T' adorn their Country, and to serve their King.

To my unknown Brother, M^r. R. R. hearing he was happily Marry'd.

'TIS, sure, the fairest Branch of Nature's Law To love all men, ev'n those we never saw; By the same Rule, it follows we should still Rejoice at their good Fate and mourn their ill, Ev'n general Charity thus much shou'd do; But I've a nearer Ty to grieve, or Joy for you: Thy Sister, still indulgent to my ease, And good, as she were only made to please, Suspends my Care, and silences my grief, Which, but for her, had never hop'd relief; Ingrateful then, ill natur'd shou'd I be, Did I not wish as good a Spouse to thee, Did I not wish, that she whom you have chose May make her chief diversion thy repose; For Vertuous we will think her, though unknown, Ev'n in thy Choice her Worth and Wit are shown: What cou'd inspire thee with a Lover's care, Must needs be something very Chast and Fair. O may you long be happy in her Arms, You never want for Love, nor she for Charms, But smoothly glide along the stream of Life, A tender Husband and Obedient Wife; And O may never Jealousy destroy Your Peace of Mind, and clog your rising Joy: May ev'n the World to thy own wish agree, The World, which has too often frown'd on me.

To G. G. C. Esq upon the Report of his being dead.

WHen to my Ears the dismal Tydings flew, And my own Fears had made me think 'twas true, A silent sorrow on my Soul did seize, And fill'd my Breast with such sad thoughts as these. Ah! why shou'd mortal Man on Life depend, Which once, and none can tell how soon, must end? Ev'n he who was but now all blythe and gay, Cheerful as April's Sun, and fresh as May, Whom every grace adorn'd and doated on, In the full bloom of Life is dead and gone! Cropt from his Stalk his vernal sweets decay'd! So flourish't Jonah's Bower, and so did fade; Nor cou'd that loss th' impatient Prophet bear, He beat his Breast, and griev'd ev'n to despair: Ah! how can I then mourn enough for thee, Who always wert a Jonah's Gourd to me, A shelter from the storms of Poverty? Yet, Witness Heav'n, it is not only gain, The loss of so much worth I most complain. Honour he priz'd, and has this Honour gain'd, 'Twas ne'r by an ignoble action stain'd; Nor was his Wit of a less sterling Coin, He ow'd it not to Blasphemy, or Wine.

Ah! Why, ye Pow'rs! why was his Morn so bright, If you design'd so soon to banish light, And bring on gloomy death, and endless night! But, lo! while thus I did indulge my grief, The happy news arriv'd that gave relief: A gust of Joy ran through each vital part, Flam'd in my Eyes and revell'd in my heart! He lives! I cry'd, — dy those that wish him ill, He lives! the great young man is with us still; He lives! that word shall dwell upon my Tongue, He lives! shall be the burden of my Song, He lives! and 'tis my Prayer he may live long.

To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, &c.

THE sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few, Scarce in a hundred years by one, or two, Yet from that hope we must not banish you; You, who so well and with so strong a wing, Of love and the bright charms of Beauty sing: Thy Version does th' Original refine, Though oft 'tis rough in that, 'tis always smooth in thine. To thee the Languages so well are known, We may, with Justice, call 'em all thy own; And by thy learned converse e'en presume At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome, Thou art as true a Native as at home.

Had'st thou at Babel been, and, but allow, Thou'd'st understood the Tongues as well as now, In vain had Heav'n their Structure overthrew, Thou'd'st made 'em carry on the Work anew, Their different Dialects had'st reconcil'd, And made all regular when all was wild. Ah Friend! it grieves me that at such a time, When all that's learn'd or good, is thought a crime, Thou should'st be doom'd to the hard fate of rhime. So base, ill natur'd are our Criticks grown, They will damn any thing but what's their own: These lines of thine, which well deserve to live, And have what praise Judicious Men can give, Must not, though nicely written, hope to be From their ungovern'd, Lawless Censure free; But let not that disturb thee, though they frown, Insult, despise thy Works, or cry 'em down, For Resignation is the mark of Grace, And Persecution shews the chosen Race.

To M^r G. F. then in the Country. Writ in 1681.

AH Friend! Oft have I wish't my self with you, Walking among the Meads and pregnant Fields, Now in sweet Dales, and then on Hills to view How every Spring fresh streams of pleasure yields:

Where true content so very seldom found, (If any where) eternally does dwell; Where all the store of Nature does abound, To feast the Eye, the Ear, the Tast and Smell: But, Ah! reserv'd for some more rigid fate, I'me doom'd to a perpetual Bondage here, Just in the Bosom of a murmuring State, Where Tumults reign as in their proper sphere. The greatest Storms are soonest overpast, They do but make a Visit and away; But here the wrack eternally does last, And without Intermission Night, or Day. Wer't possible to mount among the Clouds, When Thunder does with greatest fury rave; Compar'd with London they were peaceful shrouds, Still as a Calm, and silent as the grave. Nor wonder at it; Murder, Schism, Debate, Treach'ry, Revenge, with thousand Mischiefs more, Make a more loud Report than anger'd Fate, When Winds below and Heav'n above does roar:

Ah loving Friend! how happy shou'd I be, Were I remov'd as far from the lewd Town as thee?

To the Countess of Abingdon.

IF to commend and raise true Vertue high, To fix it's Station in the Starry sky, To cloath it gay and make it flourish long, Be the best subject for a Poet's Song; Then, Madam, I may hope you will excuse This dutiful presumption of the Muse: For since in that bright track so far y'ave gone, And with unweary'd swiftness still keep on: Something we ought to your vast Merit raise; What all Mankind admires, 'twere impious not to praise. Long the fair Sex under reproach have lain, And felt a general, oft a just disdain: But you redeem their Fame; in you we find What Excellence there is in Womankind! Of some bright Dames w'have been by Poets told, Whose Breasts were Alabaster, Hair of Gold, Whose Eyes were Suns, able to guide the day, In which ten thousand Cupids basking lay, And on their Lips did all the Graces play: Flow'rs sprouted, and th' obsequious Winds did bring Arabian Odours and around 'em fling; Where e're they came 'twas everlasting spring! Their Voices ev'n the Rivers stopt to hear; Not singing Angels, when they tun'd a sphere, Made softer Musick, or more charm'd the Ear!

This we thought Fiction all; but, seeing You, We own 'tis possible it might be true. So finely temper'd, and so nobly form'd, With so much sweetness, so much Grace adorn'd! If ought like Angels we can see below, It is to You that Happiness we owe! None sees you that, unwounded, can retire, He knows his errour, but he must admire: Yet though he loves, he dare not hope your Grace, For your chast heart is spotless like your Face. Had you but liv'd in the blest days of old, What Stories had the Antick Poets told? It had been doubly then an Age of Gold: The Goddesses had (though in Beauty rare) No more contended which had been the Fair, But with a joint consent resign'd the Ball, Asham'd your Lustre shou'd eclipse 'em all. Succeeding Times (for they shall know your Fame) Will have just Cause to celebrate your Name; Blest with a noble Issue, 'tis your doom For this Age to provide, and that to come: Those Beautys then shall shine, now in their Spring, And the then Poets of their Praises sing, Like you in every outward Gift compleat; And may, ye Gods! their Vertues be as great: A Race of Hero's too that Age shall know, Who by their Deeds will their Extraction show, Add lasting Honours to the Bertie's Fame, And with fresh Laurels crown that Noble Name.

Happy the Children sprung from vertuous Wives; Thrice happy those to whom that Fate arrives! The bright Example, through Life's vitious maze, Does guide 'em in the path that leads to praise. A Vertuous Wife! but such, alas! there's few, And in the Van your Merit places you. A Vertuous Wife! which who e're does attain, Has got the chiefest good, the richest gain, No greater Blessing can the Gods bestow When they'd oblige a Favourite below. A Vertuous Wife! which Heav'n and Earth regards, And Heav'n and Earth, too, bounteously rewards; For she'l in both Worlds meet the highest doom, Honour in this, Glory in that to come.

To my Lady Anne Bainton, on the 28^th of April, 1688.

'TWas night, and, with a weight of grief opprest, Though weary'd with much toil, I took no rest; All wrapt in Melancholy thought I lay, Wish't 'twou'd be ever dark, or soon be day: But Heav'n, still mindful wretched man to ease, Inspir'd me with a pleasing thought, when nothing else cou'd please; A thought which all around did joy display, And drove the anxious throng of cares away:

So, in a Dream, oft Fancy to us brings A thousand frightful Images of things, Confus'd, but at the op'ning of the Eye Their shapes dissolve, the airy Fantoms fly. Gods! streight I cry'd, why ly I longer here? When Pleasure's nigh, why thus indulge my care? Up, then, and to high Heav'n Devotion pay For the return of this Auspicious Day, The day that gave fair Adorissa Birth, And with another Lucreece blest the Earth: Chast Adorissa, high in Heav'n's esteem, The Grace's Darling, and the Muses Theme! Which every Pen to write, and every Ear With an uncommon Joy inclines to hear! While in her Conduct we see, fairly writ, Her Mother's Heav'nly Modesty, her Father's pow'rful wit! As thus I spoke, Aurora's cheerful ray Brought the glad Tydings of returning day, The Larks did mount, their morning Carols sung, To Heav'ns wide Arch the tuneful Echo's rung: And now the Sun let loose the Reins of light, And ne're before, methought, appear'd so bright; No gloomy Cloud did interpose between His Beams and us, nor rising Fog was seen: The Winds were hush't; only a balmy breeze, With am'rous Wings, fann'd perfume through the Trees. Lo! here, cry'd I again, when all around, Above, below, a general Joy I found, Nature her self, to shew we well admire, Puts on her gorgeous Robes and Spring attire,

That we may say, her gentlest looks she cast To grace this day and bless it as it past. Never, O Grateful Goddess! was it known Thy Glories were more proper to be shown. For, O! what Charms can in that Sex abound That's not in the more charming Adorissa found? Her Vertues, which the nicest Test will bear, Her easy, flowing, yet commanding Air, A temper, which no trifling will abide, Sweet without Art, and stately without Pride; How all she does becomes her, such a Grace! Such lovely Motions! such a lovely Face! Though young her self, yet how in Judgment old, Are things too full of wonder to be told. These, Madam, were my Thoughts, but while you stay To read 'em, you throw pretious time away, And mar the better Pleasures of the Day; The Guests, Impatient, long you shou'd appear, And I shou'd err to keep you longer here. Now strike up Musick, let the Virgins feet With equal Harmony your Measures meet; And you, fair Dam'sels, give delight the rein, Though often tir'd, take breath and to't again: But, O kind Youths, let not the Nymphs, though fair, Make you fix Adoration only there; O give not Cupid all, let Bacchus have his share. So, to the top fill up the flowing Bowl, Come, he that spills least has the greatest Soul: Let no dull sniveling Coxcomb baulk his Glass, But if he will not drink, dismiss the Ass;

Ill fare the man that will, at such a time, Think Dancing, Love, Delight, or Drink a crime: What if they call us Sots, so let 'em do, Your Sober Sot's the dullest of the two. O Solomon! thou never spok'st amiss, If time for all things, now's the time for this. Fill round again, to the large Brim fill up, 'Tis Adorissa's Health, unlade the Cup; But prithee, though y'are merry, don't forget The Poet;— Wine's his best pretence to wit. But whither does the Muse intend her flight? Or has the Jilt forgot to whom I write? Or I am drunk indeed? turn'd giddy with delight. Howe're it is, Madam, I'm confident 'Tis all obedience, 'tis all humbly meant. Permit me, then, to hope you will forgive These lines, and condescend to let 'em live; The Poet's Friend, whene're y'are pleas'd to smile, You wing our Fancy and improve our stile. Wherefore this April's Sun shall cease to warm, Your Spouse to Love, and your own Eyes to charm. E're I decline (indulgent to your Fame) To write your Praise and celebrate your Name. Long may you in your Partners Arms be prest, With the same Ardour that you first carest, When the dear man came panting to your Breast. May you see many of these days return, And all the while have not one cause to mourn: And O! (which will be more than double Joy) May your next Birth-day prove the Birth-day of a Boy!

To M^rs H. Key.

FAir is your Sex, but, Ah! so faithless, they Indeed deserve what we in Satyr say: But some among the rest, a very few, Like Diamonds in the dust, attract our view; Among which number sparkling like a Star, You shine above the rest, and spread your lustre far. Ah Noble Maid! but in thy Age's noon, And make perfection all thy own so soon! Showing thy Sex (and O that more wou'd please To trace thy steps) they may be good with ease; That Vertue's not a Scarecrow to affright, (light: But soft as kindling love, and mild as dawning Indeed our Teachers with their Haggard looks, And doz'd with poring upon Musty Books, Say 'tis a Blessing ev'n the best can't gain, But with an Age of Patience, Toyl and Pain; O, why shou'd they make rough what you have made so plain? But while of these Impediments they tell, They but discourage those that wou'd do well, Unwing their mounting thoughts, which else might fly A tow'ring height with yours and reach the am∣ple sky: 'Tis granted that Temptations still abound, But whom seduce? the rotten, not the sound: Gold charms in vain, in vain the Siren sings, To one that does contemplate higher things;

That sees the Goal, and with a sober pace, (For some run fast and tire) keep on and win the race. Ill fare the rigid Dame and wrinkl'd Face, As far from common sense as Sin from Grace, That think none can be wise or good, but those That whine and cant, and snuffle in the Nose, And wear, by choice, unfashionable Cloaths: But decent Ornament, though such abase, Instead of a reproof does claim our praise: Why shou'd that Female be thought vain, or proud, That loves to be distinguish't from the croud? The crowd (not Sin shou'd be avoided more) Those two leg'd Bruits, more senseless than the four. Yet that a mean shou'd be observ'd is true, And 'tis as sure that mean's observ'd by few: The Servant shou'd not like her Lady dress, (She may let her Impertinence be less) Nor Drabs of the Exchange, of base report, Be trick't like a fine Lady of the Court: In Quality there's many things allow'd, Which, in a meaner State wou'd be too proud; Though oft in Quality, it self, we see A strange Corruption of this Liberty: Extravagance in dress is the abuse, And that, in no degree, admits excuse. The Merchant's tawdry Spouse does most affect That costly wear the better-bred reject; Such will have rich attire, and when that's done, They're awkardly and flauntingly put on:

Just as a Bully's know by full-mouth'd Oaths, So the Cit's Wife by ill-chose tawdry Cloaths; Which yet, to make it worse, the senseless Elves Think best, and for their fancy hug themselves.— But thou art to the happy mean inclin'd, Ev'n in thy outward dress we see thy inmost mind, So much of Modesty it dazles sight, And renders thee our wonder and delight: Fine, not coquetish, as if too much care Were us'd in dressing; then thy gentle air (Neither too stiff, nor, which is worse, too free, But just what true deportment ought to be) Mixt with thy pleasing Converse, is a Charm That wou'd give Statues Life, and make cold Hermits warm. Happy for Womankind, as Happy too For us, were all your charming Sex like you; Wou'd they Behaviour from your Conduct learn Dress well, but make high Heav'n their chief concern: But Ah! Mankind wou'd then too happy be, And Heav'n has shew'd us, in Creating Thee, Such Worth's a thing we must but seldom see; For, unlike thee, most of thy Sex, we find, Not made to Pleasure, but to plague Mankind. Vain are our Youths to let thee, then, so long Live in thy Virgin State — but 'tis themselves they wrong: Or else unkind art thou, that wilt not take Th'Addresses, which without dispute, they make; For they have Hearts Impression to receive, And you have Eyes to Conquer and Enslave!

Yes, yes! I see 'em at your Footstool kneel, I hear 'em sigh, and with a pang reveal That Love they did with greater pangs conceal! O be n't Inexorable, but incline To Pity — Love's a Passion all Divine! Make some one happy, and reward his care, And ease the rest by giving 'em despair.

Absence.

THree years, Almira, has our Souls been join'd, For what's true Love but mingling of the mind? To say w'are the same flesh is far too low T'express the Faith we to each other show: Ev'n Friendship burns but faint, not worth a name, When 'tis compar'd with our more mutual flame, And not so well deserves Immortal Fame. In thy dear Arms my Cares were always eas'd, Nor cou'd I ever grieve when you were pleas'd; Still so concern'd, so studious of your good, For every tear you shed my Heart wept blood. Nor was your Passion, dear Almira, less, Too strong to warp, too mighty to express, A languishing, a lasting, lambent flame, Bright as thy Eyes, untainted as thy fame, Fresh as the dawn when first Aurora springs, And soft as Down upon an Angel's Wings

Such was our Love, so we, entranc't, did live, Contented, and what more had Heav'n to give? Blest were these hours, and Ah! they swiftly flew, But who e're kept soft pleasure long in view? For since our Hearts were one by mutual vow, We never knew what absence was till now; Ne'r knew what 'twas to wander all alone, Ly by a murmuring Brook on Moss, or Stone, And make the list'ning stream attend our mone, With sharp complaint the neighb'ring Air to wound, And tire kind Echo with the mournful sound; Ne're knew what 'twas at dead of night, distrest, (When silence does invite the World to rest) With sighs abrupt to think on our late Joy, Which we once thought ill Fate cou'd not destroy; Ah foolish thought! let none hereafter be So fond to assure themselves Felicity; If we, in whom unsully'd Love did reign, Cou'd not be priviledg'd from hateful pain, For others to expect a kinder Fate is vain. Not through past Ages can a pair be found, Whose truth deserves more nobly to be crown'd, Or will in after Days be more renown'd. To lay down Life for her dear sake I love, Though great, were far too small my Faith to prove; I cou'd, nor doubt I but your love's like mine, Endanger ev'n my Soul to rescue thine, Nor does in this ought that's profane appear; For Heav'n wou'd not be Heav'n, were not Almira there;

Though I enjoy'd what cou'd on Man befal, All that in this world wise men happy call, Absence from thee wou'd turn those sweets to gall. Think then thou lovely Partner of my heart, Lovely I call thee, lovely without Art, Lovelier than those that ly in Princes Arms; For she that's vertuous has ten thousand Charms. O think if absence can such woe create, What 'tis I suffer from relentless fate! Unhappy shou'd we be, indeed, and know No ebb of grief, but a perpetual flow, If unkind Fortune longer shou'd conspire, With inauspicious hands, to cancel our desire: But, thanks to Heav'n, their kindly Influence Our Stars begin, in pity, to dispence: For the time's nigh that will redeem our harms, And bring us, blest! to one anothers Arms. Fly then, ye minutes, you that grace the van Be quick as thought, and lead the following on; And you succeeding moments ('tis no crime When once you enter the cariere of time) That you the sooner may our Peace restore, Push on the sluggards that took flight before. And thou, my Soul, no more at Fate repine, No longer blame decrees that are Divine; Compose thy Griefs against thy Joys return, For when thou art at rest, Almira will not mourn.

Prologue design'd for a Play of mine.

OF Poets living poorly oft you tell, But you may wonder how they live so well: How many vain Fops do there daily sit, Trick't like my Ladies Monkey, in the Pit, That wou'd be poorer if they liv'd by Wit? Not that the Poets have so vast a store, But they might, very well, dispence with more: Of late, indeed, what e're they want in sense, Is made up with Poetick Impudence; No Trophies to the good or great they raise, But Fool and Knave they over-whelm with praise. They feed on Flattry, and it keeps 'em strong; So Maggots get best Nutriment in Dung▪ These are the things our wretched Poets do, Yet most of ye wou'd be thought Poets too. There hardly was an Age e're known before, Vertue was less in use and Verses more. Courtier and Pesant equally possest, Write, and 'tis hard to tell which writes the best; For, when examin'd, we are sure to see But little Reason and much Ribaldry: Nay ev'n the Women of this Frantick Age Think they're inspir'd with Poetick rage; If any vain, lewd, loose-writ thing you see, You may be sure the Author is a she. The Lawyer, too, does versify amain, But falls, by starts, to his own Trade again;

For Knavery, that Functions, fertile clime, Is far more difficult to leave than rhime; Once of that Tribe you can be just no more, They're thorow tainted, rotten to the core. The Flutt'ring Spark that has lov'd Chloris long, As his last hope, attacks her with a Song, And with ten whining lines does charm her more, Than with ten thousand whining words before; Songs will prevail, in spite of Vertue's rules, For that vain Sex is still most kind to Fools: All these pretend to Wit, but, still 'tis shown, The way they strive to prove it, proves they've none. Our Author by this rhiming Fiend possest, Does put in for a Fool among the rest; For Fools e're now (he says) have written Plays, Nay more than that, Fools have had good third days; He therefore begs, and he'l desire no more, Shew him the Favour they had heretofore; He'd fain be thought a Fool upon that score.

On the new Edition of Godfrey of Bulloigne, in 1687.

LOng this stupendous work has lain obscur'd, From gloomy Times a long Eclipse endur'd: But now it rises like a Cloudless Sun, And brings as great a Tyde of glory on.

Hail, Heav'nly Poem! while these strains we hear, The Soul does mount into the ravish't Ear, Diverts our Anguish and suspends our Care! So wond'rous are the Actions here enroll'd, And in such high harmonious numbers told! See here, you dull Translators, look with shame Upon this stately Monument of Fame; And, to amaze you more, reflect how long It is, since first 'twas taught the English Tongue; In what a Dark Age it was brought to Light, Dark? no, our Age is dark, and that was bright. Of all those Versions which now brightest shine, Most (Fairfax) are but Foils to set off thine: Ev'n Horace can't of too much Justice boast, His unaffected easie style is lost; And Ogilby's the lumber of the stall; But thy succinct Translation does atone for all. 'Tis true some few exploded words we find, To which we ought not to be too unkind; For, if the truth is scan'd, we must allow They're better than the new admitted now: Our Language is at best, and it will fail As th' inundations of French words prevail: Let Waller be our Standard, all beyond, Though spoke at Court, is foppery and fond. For thee too, Tasso, I a wreath wou'd twine, If my low strain cou'd reach the praise of thine: Homer came first, and much to him is due, Virgil, the next, does claim our wonder too, And the third Place must be conferr'd on You: Thy work is through with the same spirit fir'd, Will last as long and be as much admir'd.

If lofty Verse undaunted thoughts inspire, And fill the Hero's Breast with martial Fire; May that * 1.1 great Chief, who does the Turk engage, Makes Armies tremble, and restrains their rage; May he (a scourge to Infidels unblest) Take Pattern by the Warriour here exprest, And drive like him, with an avenging hand, Those Vnbelievers from the sacred Land, Free the great Sepulchre of Christ once more, And be what mighty Godfrey was before.

The True Fast. A Paraphrase on the 58^th of Isaiah.

CRY, let thy Voice like the loud Trumpet sound, Through the wide Air diffuse it all around, To tell My People how their Crimes abound: And yet, alas! they seem to take delight To know my ways and study what is right, As if they did not trespass and rebel, They justify their Errors, and think all is well: Wherefore (say they) do we make tedious Fasts? Thou see'st not, still thy Indignation lasts;

To mortify our Lusts why do we roam, And wander such a wicked way from home? Why such lean Penance do we undergo? Thou tak'st no knowledge, though thou all dost know. Hear me (O Rebels!) that can thus report, Do you not fast for wantonness and sport? Is it true Piety? Is it Remorse? No, no, A Ceremony made in course, Of neither Efficacy, Power, or Force: Under this thin disguise much sin you hide, Hypocrisy, Revenge and Canker'd Pride; And Strifes, that you may have pretence to blame The wiser few that will not act the same, Participating in your guilt and shame; Such as the Nonsense of your Fasts detect, And clearly prove they are of no effect. But Fasts you call 'em, and you Fasts proclaim, When Luxury oft were a more proper Name; The Deep is ransack't, all her Treasures shown; For Flesh one day deny'd, the Sea is all your own: In vain with this loose Custom you comply, In vain for this you lift your Voices high, They come lame Intercessors to the Sky. Observe, O Stubborn Brood! your Maker's voice; Is this a Fast which I have made my choice? Is to afflict the mind, to sigh and mone, And drawl my name out in a Canting tone? Is it to sob and fawn with heads reclin'd, Like Bull-rushes that bend before the wind,

To dress in Sack-cloath and the lash to feel, With all th' External Pomp of hair-brain'd Zeal? What stress upon such trifling will ye lay? Or can this be to me a Fast, or Acceptable Day? No, no, the Fast that pleases me is this; To loose the Bands of all that is amiss, To fly from willful sin and every way In which th' unwary Soul is led astray, Release the heavy load, break every yoke, And free the wretched from th'Oppressor's stroke; To deal thy Bread to those that sit in want, And, to thy power, ready still to grant (For he that has but little, yet may be, By giving little, sav'd for Charity) To think not thy own House too good and great For Strangers to sojourn, and th' indigent to eat; To let the mourning Widow be thy care, To cloath the Naked that they be not bare In the Inclemency of Winter's Air; Not to detract, or be with Passion wild, But ever merciful and ever mild, Nor be a cruel Father to thy Child; Not to be Proud, or in Discourse profane, But free thy Lips from all obscene and vain: Reach but this Goal, and happiness you win; This is a Fast indeed, — A Fast from Sin. Then thou shalt be exempt from every pain, Thy health shall quickly come and long remain; All thy Good Deeds shall in the Front appear, And Glory shall attend 'em in the Reer: Then thou shalt call, and I will hear thee streight, Nor long shalt for a Gracious Answer wait:

From dark Obscurity thy light shall rise, And take it's lofty Station in the Skies; The Sun himself shall hardly shine so bright, Hardly diffuse around a more refulgent light: Nay more (what better Fate can Man betide?) 'Tis I my self, ev'n I will be thy guide, I'll set thee in the Path, I'll shew the way; O happy Man, that cannot go astray! In Famine thou shalt daily have supply, In tedious Droughts thou never shalt be dry, But like a water'd Garden still be gay, Or Fountain rising in a Sun-shine day, Whose Springs ne're fail, but ever mount and play. The noble Structures ras'd by War and Time, Thy Sons shall build more sumptuous than their prime, But thine shall be the Glory, thine the Fame; The Age to come shall bless thy honour'd name. Yes, this was he, th' united Voice shall cry, That the foundations laid, and rais'd the ruins high. And if to this thou add these Vertues more, I'll yet add other Blessings to thy store; If from all loose desires thou turn'st away, Not following Harlots on my Holy-Day, But think it honourable, pure, sublime, And take delight then to redeem the time, With Zeal and ardour wish its coming on, And, when 'tis with thee, that 'twou'd nere be gone;

And all this while not walking thy own way, Nor after dull Enthusiasts run astray, Not speaking thy own words, but cleave to what I say; In the true Fast that I have nam'd remain, (For t'other's superstitious, fond and vain) Then thou shalt be my Darling, my Delight, Dear to my thought and pleasing to my sight; High I will lift thee and far spread thy Name, The Globe shall be too narrow for thy Fame, With me to Heav'n I'll carry it along, An Endless Theme for the Celestial Song: All Nature's Products too thou shalt command, And feed upon the fatness of the Land; — 'Tis I have spoke it, and my word shall stand.

The Harlot. A Paraphrase on the 7^th of Proverbs.

YOung Man, let what I speak attention draw, Observe it as you wou'd Heav'n's strictest Law; Hear my Commands and weave 'em in thy heart, Make 'em both one that they may never part; Do this, you'l quickly find the good effect, But swift destruction follows the neglect.

To Wisdom say, thou my fair Sister art, My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart, Dearer than Life, with Life I'd sooner part; Discretion too thy near Relation call; Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all; No better Gift can bounteous Heav'n bestow, No safer Guard from human ills below: Envy may hiss, but she can do no harm, She flies, she dies before the pow'rful charm. Particularly, it will keep thee free From the loose Strumpet's specious Flatt'ry, Whose words like Oyl on Rivers glide along, Her words more tuneful than the Siren's Song; She makes Perdition pleasing with the Musick of her Tongue: Keep, keep from her Inhospitable Coast, But once incline to hear her, you are lost; Regret, Remorse, Repentance come too late, Nought but a wonder can reverse your Fate; While on her wanton Breast your head you lay, For one thought that does cry, Rise, Come away, You'l have ten thousand pressing you to stay: But let the Wretches Fate which here is shown, Encline you to be careful of your own. Just in the close and shutting up of day, When the last gleams were hurrying swift away; The Harlots hour their subtle Trains to lay; As in my Window I stood leaning out, Pensive and thoughtful, gazing round about,

Among the Youths (behold!) a Wretch I spy'd, Loose, foolish, vain, nor strove his guilt to hide, What shou'd have been his shame he made his Pride; For to his Drab's Apartment he was bent, His glowing Cheeks discover'd his intent; Pleas'd with the thought, he scarcely touch'd the ground, But, like a Mountain-Roe did leap and bound: But (lo!) she met him, coming forth to see For some kind Friend of her Fraternity; For any Fop had serv'd as well as He: Those that are learn'd and known to gain by sin, Must trade as well without doors as within; At every Corner of the street they ply, To angle Coxcombs, which in shoals glide by, As soon as e're the Bait appears in sight, Eager to be beguil'd, the Gudgeons bite: Have you e're seen (what time the Seasons yield Suck kind of sports) a Spaniel range the Field, And mark't what pains he takes to spring his Game? Th' industrious ranging Drab is just the same: Thus, streight, the Youth she spies, and round him cast Her snowy Arms, she prest, she held him fast, And with a warm Lascivious fierce embrace, Laid Cheek to Cheek and suckt him to her Face: Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her attire, Learn'd in the Art how to enflame desire, And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire;

Harlot throughout, each motion that she made Show'd her true Punk, and perfect in her Trade: But after some fond looks and dalliance past, Thus the fair faithless tun'd her Tongue at last.

'Tis Peace (said she) 'tis Peace and Love I bring, This day I've paid my vows and made my Offering, And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet, Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the street; The dangers of the night not frighten me, At least, they vanish at the sight of Thee: Without thee what a tedious night I'd past? And who knows too but it had been my last? Depriv'd of thee must have strange Tortures wrought, And plung'd me deep in Melancholy Thought; But I have found thee, long I've wisht it so, And it shall longer be before I let thee go. I've deck't (my Love) I've deck't my Bed with Flowers, Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bow'rs; With costly Tap'stry I have hung my room, Not richer ever stretch't the Tyrian Loom; There Venus is in all her Postures wrought, And how Loves Pleasure she with hazard sought, Surprizing to the Eye! transporting to the thought! Perfum'd with richest Scents, such as inspire Gay Loves and melting Ioy, and soft desire! Come then, away, and take of Love our fill; In Passion, such as ours, there is no ill: Let aged Matrons rail, and Gown-men preach, They are too wise to practise what they teach: Away! come let me plunge into thy Arms, Find you fresh Love, and I'll create fresh Charms:

Come, till the Morning let us sport and play, Nor rise the sooner for it's being day. Nor let the thought of Husband pall your Ioy, He's now far off upon a grand employ, Cash he has took long Charges to defray, And will not come till his appointed day; And O (ye Gods!) I wish he never may; My right in him I'd willingly resign, Millions of his embraces are but one of thine: But ah! the hours have Wings, away! away! Let not the pretious time be lost when Love and Plea∣sure stay.

With her fair Speech she forc'd him soon to yield, But force is needless when we quit the field; Too credulous, her Flatt'ry he believ'd, Nor was he the first Fool that she deceiv'd: She turns, he follows, nor his Joy conceals, Nor sees destruction dog him at the heels: As Oxen to the Slaughter (wretched State!) So on he walks, unmindful of his Fate; Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes, To lasting scorn he does his Fame expose: As Birds hast to the snare their food to find, And think not that their ruin is design'd; So a Dart strikes him through, a fatal Knife, And lets him see h' has fool'd away his Life: Disease o'ertakes him, makes his health a prey, Meagre and wan he looks that once was gay, His Winter his December comes in May: Too late his Lustful error's understood, He feels her Poxt Embraces in his tainted Blood:

With aches crampt, and strong Convulsions torn, Sciaticas too grievous to be born, Till the Gout comes, the pains of Hell scarce worse, And his last Breath evaporates in a Curse. Hear me (O Youth) and to my words attend, Despise 'em not because I am a Friend, But persevere in good, and glory crowns the end: Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline; She's worse than Devil though she seems divine: Strip her but of her Silk, her Patch and Paint, And see how fit she's then to make a Saint; Then mark her shrivel'd Face and sallow Skin, Rank all without, and rotten all within: And yet, alas! (such Charms she does display) The rich, the noble, witty and the gay, The great, the strong, have been, by turns, her prey; Warriours themselves have by her Arts been slain, Have lain down by her, but ne'r rose again: Her House is the destructive path to sin, From whence there's no return when once y'are in, Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes: O don't thy Safety to this Rock expose! 'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose!

To Madam G. with M^rs Phillips's Poems.

ORinda's lasting Works to you I send, Not doubting but you'l prove her lasting Friend; Accept and lay her to your Breast, you'l find She's Entertainment for the noblest Mind,

And to your Sex this lasting Honour brings, That they are capable of highest things: Her Verses and her Vertuous Life declare, 'Tis not your only Glory to be Fair. How can you fail to Conquer, when your Darts Are double-pointed still that reach our Hearts? Wing'd with your Beauty, guided by your Wit, What mark so distant that they cannot hit? Darkness in vain wou'd interpose between; With these advantages you wound unseen. But by what Magick has her Heav'nly Song Lain from thy knowing view conceal'd so long, When not the Sun, who is the God of Wit, Makes more unweary'd searches after it? Great Shakespear, Fletcher, Denham, Waller, Ben, Cowley, and all th' Immortal, tuneful Men Thou'st made thy own, and none can better tell Where they are low, and where they most excel, Can reach their heights when thou art pleas'd to write, Soaring a pitch that dazles human sight! But O! when thou hast read this matchless Book, And from it's excellence a Judgment took, What the fair Sex was then, thou, sure, wilt mourn To see how justly now they're branded with our scorn. Farces and Songs obscene, remote from Wit, (Such as our Sappho to Lisander writ) Employs their time; so far th' abuse prevails, Their Verses are as vitious as their Tails; Both are expos'd; alike, to publick view, And both of 'em have their Admirers too.

With just abhorrence look upon these Crimes, And by thy chast Example fix the Times; Right the wrong'd Age, redeem thy Sex from shame, 'Twas so Orinda got her deathless Name; Thou art as fair, hast the like skill in Song, And all that thou dost write will last as long.

To Madam Beaw. Occasion'd by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's.

AS when the Blest up to their Heav'n are gone, And put their Fadeless Wreaths of Laurel on, How are they pleas'd to hear their Vertues there A Theme for Angels songs that met Reproaches here? No less amaz'd, nor less with Rapture fraught, Rais'd above Earth with the exalted thought, I stood, to hear my Praise, contemn'd by Men, Employ our Beauteous Adorissa's Pen! All that we Merit we but think our due, So but bare satisfaction can ensue; And Blessings hop'd for half the Bliss destroy, For ev'n the Expectation palls the Joy; But when unthought of, undeserv'd, they come, They give us transport, and they strike it home! So she, like Heav'n, does her Rewards impart, Which fly beyond the Bounds of all desert.

I now may boast I have Eternity; For, sure, what she does write can never dy: Her Beauty may, perhaps, to Time submit, But Time must fall a Trophy to her Wit. Beneath her shelter, like a Shrub, I ly, And, safe intrench't, the envious Men defy; While, like the Mountain Cedar, she surveys The Plain, and whom she please does Crown with Bays: They cannot reach to her, nor dare reject (To her high worth preserving their respect) What she has deign'd, to like and to protect. But while her Wit is in our Praises shown, Why is she so forgetful of her own? Why honour others, and neglect the claim To her undoubted Right, Immortal Fame? 'Tis therefore, Fair One, that these lines you see, That on this subject you may join with me: You can both write, and judge of what is writ, A Priestess of the Mysteries of Wit, Though her own Modesty won't soar on high, But clips the Wings with which her praise shou'd fly, Our Gratitude must not with that comply: We shou'd, how e'r, attempt to do her right; The subject will instruct us to indite. Does not her Form, which we with Joy behold, Transcend Fictitious Goddesses of old? Yet Matchless though her Beauty be, her smile Is not more sweet and lively than her stile; Her Eyes themselves have not more moving charms, And ev'n her Love not more Divinely warms!

Sure from her Godlike Sire her Genius came, Who living warm'd three Nations with his Flame: She, Phenix-like, soars from his Urn aloft, Her Flight as steady, and her Plumes as soft. Here we shou'd all her other Gifts declare; (For of all else she has as great a share) Her Piety, unblemisht Love and Truth, A Converse fin'd from all the Dross of Youth; A Faith unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed, And strict Obedience to her lawful head. On Marriage do depend our Peace of Life, Our greatest good or ill springs from a Wife, Eternal Comfort! or eternal strife! Eternal Comfort, then, is Damon's Lot: But where one has it, Millions have it not. He only cou'd deserve so great a good, Who in the Bud the Flower understood, And knew to what advantage 'twou'd be shown, When Spring was come, and all its Glories blown. A hundred Seasons may the Gods allow This Blessing to him, and she fair as now. But O! what Pen or Pencil can we find Able to paint the Beauties of her mind? Which open'd to our view diffuse around A Flood of lustre that does sight confound, Forces the Muse her airy flight to stay, Which here must stop, or else must lose her way. So when from Heav'n (and brighter than the Sun) A sudden Glory round th' Apostle shon, Too much refulgence did oppress his sight, And he fell blind amid'st the blaze of light.

Instructions to a Young Lady.

Y'Are now, Asteria, on the publick Stage, Live in ill Times, and a Censorious Age, But seen few years, yet like an Angel Fair, As great your Merit, great must be your Care. Be strict, if you'd have Reputation stay, The least neglect throws the rich Gemm away. Th' Hesperian Fruit, though by a Dragon kept, Was by a bold Hand gather'd while he slept. The more your Beauty shines, it but gives light To the sharp Darts of prejudice and spite, To take their fatal aim, and hit the white. Beside, alas! though every Woman's frail, The fairest are most liable to fail: If fruit we chuse, we take the loveliest first, The rest goes down, but not with such a gust: Think of Lucretia, then of Tarquin's lust. If Barefac't Violence does not prevail To work your Ruin, Flatt'ry will not fail; But O! beware the smooth enchanting Tale. You know the Truth, the Snake's beneath the Flower, Avoid his Tongue and you avoid his Power. Let ev'n the good with Caution be believ'd, For not to trust is not to be deceiv'd. But who, alas! can scape sharp Envy's sting, That wounds up from the Beggar to the King; Nothing is free from it's unlicens'd rage, Nor Innocence of Youth, nor Reverence of Age.

Shou'd Angels, as of old, from Heav'n come down T' instruct, as then to scourge a Lustful Town, They'd find ill Tongues wou'd slander spreadabout, And bring their Heav'n-born Purity in doubt: If this be so (as Truth 'tis to our shame) You can't with too much niceness guard your Fame; That to secure shou'd all your thoughts employ; Hard to preserve and easy to destroy. Vertue, though ne're so pure, may sully'd be, She's made, or marr'd by Credibility; Toss'd like a Ship, Opinion fills her Sails, And they all slacken as Opinion fails: That is the Sterling Stamp that makes her go, For you are Vertuous if we think you so: Strive then (nor is your labour spent for nought) When we think well of you, we may improve the thought. 'Tis true, you'l say when Clouds as thick as night Obscure the Sun, yet in himself he's bright, Breaks through at last, and does exert his light; And Vertue, though opprest, at last may rise, And with it's cheerful Glories gild the Skies: But do not let this Answer be forgot, This may arrive, but much more likely, not. If we a Voyage take (and let Life's Scene Be that avoidless Voyage that I mean) Is it not better far still to be free From Reckless Storms, and Heav'ns Inclemency, That no rough Waves shou'd rowl, no Winds shou'd blow, But all be still above, and smooth below, Till we have gain'd the Port, in Harbour ly, And there, secure, their baffled rage defy?

To be more plain; had we not better live, And take what Praise a grudging World will give, Let life glide gently on, an even stream, Free from ill Tongues and every wild extream, Till to the Grave we go, and there enjoy That long repose which Envy can't destroy? Were it not wiser thus, than, by fond ways, Proud of our worth, pull down what we wou'd raise? For vertuous we may be, but when respect We wou'd assume for being so, it dwindles to neglect. Let it then be your study and delight Never to give the least pretence to spite; A Mad Dog, if not hooted, may not bite. But above all, Religion be your Care; Your Thoughts and Actions must be centr'd there: It must not be with a light Air receiv'd, For then as lightly it will be believ'd; The great Deceit is when w'are by our selves deceiv'd. What Arguments so e'r some men may bring To make it seem a sowre unlovely thing, When once embrac't, you'l find it has more charms Than Love, or Wealth, or Power can usher to your Arms. Yet, have a care, for, to our lasting shame, All's not Religion that does bear the Name. 'Tis not a hot dispute, or Zeal that's cold, Or Legends very false and very old, Dull, superstitions, such as sense destroys, And only fit for Chimney talk for Boys. Nor is it whining, when, with Maudlin Eyes W'are told the grunting Spirit's just about to rise. That's true Religion that does make you strive To love your Neighbour, and the Poor relieve, To do no wrong, nor at no wrong connive, And all the wrong that's done you to forgive. Now Fair One let me this request obtain, That these Instructions you would not disdain, Because they're told you in a homely strain; Not but I know your Conduct has been try'd, And that you'l find out Fame without a Guide.

Funeral Elegies.

TO THE Memory of M^r. John Oldham.

BUT that 'tis dangerous for Man to be Too busie with Immutable Decree, I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel doom, That lent so much to be requir'd so soon! The Flowers with which the Meads are drest so gay, Short-liv'd though they are, yet they live a day; Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch'd away! Though not before thy Verse had wonders shown, And bravely made the Age to come thy own! The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine, Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine; They quickly perish, yours was still the same, An everlasting, but a Lambent Flame, Which something so resistless did impart, It still through every Ear won every Heart; Unlike the Wretch that strives to get esteem, And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme, And can be witty on no other Theme.

Ah foolish Men! (whom thou did'st still despise) That must be wicked to be counted wise! But thy Converse was from this error free, And yet 'twas every thing true Wit can be, None had it but, ev'n with a Tear, does own, The Soul of Dear Society is gone! But while we thus thy Native sweetness sing▪ We ought not to forget thy Native sting: Thy Satyr spar'd no Follies nor no Crimes; Satyr the best Reformer of the Times. While diff'rent Priests eternally contest, And each will have his own Religion best, And in a holy huff damns all the rest, Their Love to Gain, not Godliness is shown; Heav'ns work is left undone to do their own. How wide shoot they that strive to blast thy Fame By saying that thy Verse was rough and lame? They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move, And writ so pliant, nicely and so smooth, As if the Muse were in a flux of Love: But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools wou'd sing, Must Force and Fire, and Indignation bring; For 'tis no Satyr if it has no sting: In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be, Must think and write like Iuvenal and Thee. Let others boast of all the mighty nine, To make their Labours with more lustre shine: I never had no other Muse but thee, Ev'n thou wer't all the mighty nine to me:

'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire, And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire, But 'tis a warmth that does with thee expire; For when the Sun is set that guides the day, The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.

To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq.

THough ne'r so base, or never so sublime, All human things must be the spoil of time; Poet and Hero with the rest must go, Their Fame may higher mount, their dust must ly as low: Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expir'd, With Cowley from a vitious Age retir'd, As much lamented and as much admir'd! Long we enjoy'd him: on his tuneful tongue, All Ears and Hearts with the same rapture hung, As if Heav'n had indited, and an Angel sung. Here the two bold, contending Fleets are found, The mighty Rivals of the wat'ry round; In Smoak and Flame involv'd, they cou'd not fight With so much force and fire as he does write! Here Galatea mourns; in such sad strains Poor Philomel her wretched Fate complains: Here Fletcher and Immortal Iohnson shine, Deathless, preserv'd in his Immortal Line: But where, O mighty Bard! where is that he, Surviving now, to do the same for Thee?

At such a Theme my conscious Muse withdraws, Too weak to plead in such a weighty cause. Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike Iames, His Lyre was strung; the Muse's dearest Themes! Whether of Love's success, when in the Eyes Of the kind Nymph the kindling glances rise, When, blushing, she breaths short, and with constraint denies; Whether he paint the Lover's restless care, Or Sacharissa the disdainful Fair; (Relentless Sacharissa, deaf to Love, The only she his Verse cou'd never move; But sure she stopt her Ears and shut her Eyes, He cou'd not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize) All this is done with so much grace and care, Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear! His Labours thus peculiar Glory claim, As writ with something more than mortal flame: Wit, Judgment, Fancy, and a heat divine Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine, The expression clear, the thought sublime and high; No flutt'ring, but with even wing he glides along the Sky. Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ Good sense, at fifty take their leave of wit, Chimaera's and Incongruous Fables feign, Tedious, Insipid, Impudent and Vain, The Hinds and Panthers of a Crazy Brain: But he, when he through eighty years had past, Felt no decay, the same from first to last, Death only cou'd his vig'rous Flame o'ercast.

Such was the Man whose loss we now deplore, Such was the Man, but we shou'd call him more: Immortal in himself, we need not strive To keep his sacred Memory alive: Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Gen'rous, Kind; The English Tongue he to the height refin'd, his Legacy, And the best Standard of it leaves behind.

To the Memory of Colonel Edward Cooke.

'TIs Vertue which alone supports the whole, For without that the World's without a Soul; Most certain, then, as it grows faint and weak, Th' eternal Chain decays, at last must break: When great Cooke fell, the jarring Links did twang, And Nature sigh'd as if she felt the pang; Nor is it strange; For Vertue was his guide, And scarce before so much e're with a votary dy'd, In War he was nurs't up, Arms his delight, Courted in Peace, and as much shun'd in fight: Death he had seen in various shapes, but none Cou'd move him to be fearful of his own: Nor did old Age abate the martial Flame; 'Twas always great, and always was the same. His Charity did equally extend To cherish the distress'd, and serve his Friend.

When he did good (and who his Life surveys Will find he did delight in't all his dayes) 'Twas for the sake of good, and not for praise. Restless Ambition ne'r his thought employ'd; Peace and Conteet he sought, and those enjoy'd. Merit he priz'd though 'twere in rags enshrin'd; He look't not on the Person but the Mind. His Judgment was unbyast, clear and strong, His Conversation pleasant, gay and young: But then his Mirth was still from Folly free; Take all profane from Wit, and that was he. And as when Tygers range the Woods for prey, And chance to meet a Lyon in their way, Streight they forget their rage, and learn t' obey; So Atheous Men, though they blasphem'd before, Aw'd with his Presence, their vain talk forbore: For Piety was still his constant Guest, And found its safest refuge in his Breast. Such was his Life — and now his Death we'll shew, His Death, the greater wonder of the two! For when the fatal pangs were drawing on, And the last Sands were eager to be gone; When all his Friends lay drown'd in tears of grief, Wishing, alas! but hopeless of relief; Ev'n he alone his Change with Patience bore, Like all the Changes of his Life before: No labouring sound, no murmuring groan exprest, But dy'd as weary Pilgrims go to rest. O Pity, pity, some more able Quill Had not adorn'd this Theme with greater skill; That Fame to late Posterity might tell, Few Men can live, but fewer dy so well.

To the Memory of M^rs M. Peachley.

COme hither You who the fair Sex reproach, And basely rail at what you can't debauch, That in loose Satyr tell us of their Crimes, And say they are the grievance of the Times; Come hither all, while, in sad Funeral Verse, Peachley's Immortal Vertues I reherse, That you may see how very much you err, Repent, and learn how to be good by her. Ev'n in her Youth her early worth did show To what a vast proportion it wou'd grow, When Faith had taught her all she was to know; On whose strong Wings she oft to Heav'n wou'd flee, And by it find what can, what cannot be, Better than all their vain Philosophy. Charming her Form, and matchless was her Mind, At least 'twas something above Womankind. Trace her through all the Series of her Life, You'l find her free from Envy, Hate and Strife; A Duteous Child, and then a Vertuous Wife: A careful Mother next, and if we find Any regret for dying touch'd her mind, It was to leave her Angel-Brood behind;

And not the love of Life: O hapless young! The World's a Maze where you will sure go wrong, Without the Clue of her Instructive tongue; She wou'd have taught you when with cares perplext, And lost in this World, how to find the next: O how shall we enough her Worth commend! So good a Christian, and so true a Friend, She'd take Offence, but never wou'd offend! Well read in History, in Religion more; And had a Heart which ne'r forgot the Poor. Mourn, mourn, ye Graces, mourn your Dar∣ling's fall, The most exalted wonder of you all! To whose kind Breast can you for refuge run, Now she that gave you life is dead and gone? A great Example stands, to let us see "No pitch of Vertue from the Grave is free.

URANIA. A Funeral Eclogue; TO THE Pious Memory of the Incomparable M^rs Wharton.

Damon. Alexis.

Dam.

ALexis, Why that Cloud upon your Brow? Has lovely Chloris lately broke her Vow, And the sad Tydings reach't your Ears but now? It must be so, that, sure, must be the cause, That from your Eyes this bleeding deluge draws.

Alex.

Were it no more but a frail Nymph unkind, It rather shou'd divert than wound my mind; For he that grieves when such their Love estrange, As well may grieve because the wind will change. No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their spring From a more sad, a more important thing:

Were all my Life to be one mourning Day, Or cou'd my Heart dissolve in Tears away, 'Tis yet a Tribute for our loss too small, Our Loss, I call it, for it wounds us all!

Dam.

Still to your Tears you call a fresh supply, And still, too, you conceal the reason why.

Alex.

O! Is it possible thou should'st not know The Fatal Cause that has unman'd me so, When Sorrow does triumph o'er all the Plain, And strikes the coyest Nymph and dullest Swain? These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their hair, Like Lovers that are wedded to despair: Not more cou'd be the cry, if the last doom, The dreadful change of Time and Place were come!

Dam.

No longer in suspence, then, let me stay, But tell, that I may mourn as well as they.

Alex.

Take then, O Damon! take the worst in brief, The worst! for it admits of no relief! Vrania, Sweet Vrania, justly fam'd, And never but with Adoration nam'd, In whom were join'd each Vertue and each Grace, These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face; Vrania, in whose conduct we did find More than we cou'd expect in Womankind;

The happy Favorite of the mighty Nine, Whose Verse was still employ'd on Themes Divine; Ev'n she — O Heav'ns! —

Dam.

I fear, — but yet — go on.

Alex.

Then hear and burst with grief — she's dead and gone!

Dam.

O killing Sentence! which I dy to know! Alexis, prithee say that 'tis not so: But, see! thy Eyes run o'er! in them I view The fatal news y'ave told me is too true!

Alex.

Too true indeed: — when I my thought advance, Reflecting on the turns of Fate and Chance, How many Accidents disturb our rest, How soon we lose the bravest and the best, How they no more are priviledg'd from death Than ev'n the vilest Insect that draws breath, Subject to worst of wrongs, opprest with care, (Of which, Vrania, thou hast had thy share) How swift, by Heav'ns inevitable doom, They're snatch'd from hence and hurry'd to the Tomb, Leaving the wicked and the vain to wast, And glut on Blessings they cou'd never tast; I hardly can the Impious thought forbear, — That Heav'n of our concerns takes little care, Or that, at least, 'tis something too severe.

Dam.

Alexis, do not blame Divine Decree, And the strict Laws of strong necessity; For since eternal Iustice cannot err, What that inflicts we shou'd with patience bear: I need not tell you all must dy e're long. —

Alex.

True Damon, but not all dy while they're young: As for the Aged let 'em pass away, And drop into their Tenements of Clay, It does not trouble me; for they must go, Must feel the Sting of Death, and shortly too; But then the Youthful, Healthy, Gay and Strong, We may with Justice hope to live as long; And she, you know, was in her lovely noon, (O Heav'n! that things so fair shou'd fade so soon!) Not half her Glass (Ah brittle Glass!) was run, Not half her natural term of years was done! 'Tis that —

Dam.

Alexis, moderate your grief; 'Tis in your power to give your self relief: Think her (as sure she is) among the blest, And has begun the Sabbath of her rest; Think she is free from all that World of woe Under whose weight she labour'd here below, And you will find more reason to be glad, Than thus to be immoderately sad: Repine not then, Alexis, 'tis not well; — Yet, since y'are on this subject, prithee tell By what sad Fate the sweet Vrania fell.

Alex.

A mortal, but a lingering Disease Upon the Spirits of her Life did seize; Her strength decreas'd, and every fatal Day Still took a part, till all was born away: Pale, wan and meagre did her Cheeks appear, Though once a Spring of Roses flourish't there: Thus long she lay with strong Convulsions torn, Which yet were with a Saint-like patience born; Till nature ceasing, rather forc't to cease, Gave her a painful, yet a kind release. Go sacred Nymph! ascend the spangled Sphere, For it has long wanted thy lustre there! Faithful and loving to the last she prov'd, And better did deserve to be belov'd: — Here Colon I cou'd —

Dam.

Mention not his Name, But let your subject be the Matchless Dame.

Alex.

So many are her Vertues and so vast, And crowd upon my Memory so fast, 'Tis difficult on what part to begin, And 'twill be hard to leave when once I'm in. Her Converse was from all that Dross refin'd That is so visible in Womankind; So very mild, so fraught with Innocence, I dare believe she cou'd not give offence. By Practice she did Vertue's path commend, And honour'd all that were to worth a Friend: Her Ardour still to Heav'nly things, did show She learnt to be an Angel here below!

Gentle to all, but to her self austere, Hardly a Day but was half spent in Prayer: 'Tis Heav'ns Injunction we shou'd pray for those That are our mortal and inveterate Foes; Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to err, But 'twas a very easy one to Her. Her Charity did every where extend, For to be poor was to make her a Friend. The Muses off-spring all she did excel, In the great Poet-Art of writing well, Her charming strains did please the nicest Ear, And ev'n the haughtiest Swains were proud to hear: Thirsis himself took notice of her Lays, And thought 'em worthy his Celestial Praise! Ah sweet Vrania! of all Womankind, Where hast thou left one like thy self behind, Unless the chast Mirana? who but she? Thy Vertuous Sister; For in her we see, Thou dear departed Saint, how much w'ave lost in Thee!

Dam.

By Heav'ns, Alexis, thou so well has shown The Vertues of the Nymph for whom you mone, In such sad numbers told the fatal cause That from your Eyes this bleeding Deluge draws; I've caught it too, plung'd in the same extreme, Nor blush to weep upon so just a Theme!

Alex.

Such pious grief Heav'n cannot but for∣give, That lets the Vertuous in our Memories live. —

But, see! if now thou dost some tears let fall, There goes a sight that will engross 'em all! The sweet Vrania (ah too rigid doom!) By▪ Virgins born to her eternal home! See with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears, The Swains all Speechless, and the Nymphs all tears: Instead of Flow'ry Wreath, with Chaplets crown'd, Their Temples are with Funeral-Cypress bound, Though they are silent, yet their looks impart A lasting Anguish and a bleeding Heart! Ha! Damon! see! on the sad Biere display'd, Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid! You sigh! alas! you know you sigh in vain, You'l never more behold her tread the Plain! No more you'l hear that soft harmonious voice, Which none yet ever heard but did rejoice! For ever ceas'd are all her matchless lays! Heav'n has clos'd up the Volume of her days! O Grief! that I can think on the chast Dame, "Think that she's dead, and not become the same!

Dam.

Cease, Dear Alexis, lest it shou'd be sed We fail'd in our last Office to the dead: Let's follow then the Mourners gone before; It cannot add to our affliction more: To see her laid in Dust, that Boon we'll crave, And strew sweet Flowers upon her honour'd Grave.

ALCANDER. A Funeral Eclogue. Sacred to the Memory of Sir▪ G. G. Baronet.

Doron. Amintor.

THE Sun was set, and the obsequious Night Had nigh extinguish't all remains of Light, When poor Amintor, with his head reclin'd, A pensive Visage and a troubl'd Mind, His Flocks neglecting, to the Grove retir'd, Alone, nor any Company desir'd; True Mourners still the dark recesses crave, Most pleas'd with those that are most like the Grave. Doron who all that day had mark't his grief, And fill'd with hope to give him some relief, Follow'd the weeping Swain, who, seeing, spoke; But first he sigh'd as if his Heart were broke.

Amin.

Doron, Methinks this lovely, gloomy shade Seems only for despair and sorrow made: The cheerful Sun darts here no rosie beam, But all is sad and silent in extream; The Melancholy place deserves a Melancholy Theme: Let us, then, talk of the uncertain State Of human Life and the swift turns of Fate; For who on frail Mortality does trust, But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

Dor.

Look through blue glass, and the whole prospect's blue; Through sorrow's Optick this retreat you view, And that does give it the same tincture too: When Caelia first you saw 'twas in this place; Caelia, the chastest of the charming race, All Truth writ in her mind, all Beauty in her Face: Not one of all the Shepherds of the Plain That sigh'd for the fair Maid, but sigh'd in vain, She still frown'd on, regardless of their pain: You only gain'd her Favour, and 'twas here First the disdainful Nymph vouchsaft an Ear; She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown, You melted her to Love, and made her all your own: And still as lovingly the Myrtles twine, As if her snowy hands lay prest in thine, And all the Quire of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice divine.

'Tis you then that are chang'd; and O! if what My boading fears suggest I may relate, In your despairing looks I read Alcander's wretched Fate!

Amin.

Doron, you have it right, alas! 'tis so, He's gone where (soon or late) we all must go! 〈…〉〈…〉, whom we ever shall deplore, For ever gone whom we did all adore, Alcander, dear Alcander is no more! No more! O bitter word! O hateful sound! What two-edg'd Sword can give a deeper wound? What Ponyard, Poison, what envenom'd Dart Can find a quicker passage to the heart? They wound but one way, this through every pore: No more! O bitter, hateful word, no more!

Dor.

Amintor cease — but who can reprehend Those Tears wept o'er the grave of such a Friend? How many down death's steep Oblivion rowl, Thought on no more than if they'd had no Soul? Ill, sure, they've liv'd, and met a wretched lot, That are so soon eternally forgot: It shows much worth, a generous heart and kind, When gone, to leave some mourning Friends behind.

Amin.

If grieving for the dead, in ought set forth Their private Vertue, or their publick worth, It, both ways, does sufficiently proclaim Alcander's Bounty, Friendship, Love and Fame:

For O! who ever touch't Death's fatal shore, Of all the Millions that are gone before, Whose dear converse was mist, or mourn'd for more: In me, O Doron! read (and you may see His loss in no small measure touches me) How all his Friends (and no one Man had more) Lament his absence, and his loss deplore! With Grief transported, Grief that knows no bound, They fall extended on the rigid ground, Expostulating with relentless Fate, That deals so hardly by the good and great, Disdaining to give respit to their mone; But, with a joint consent, all sigh and groan, All weep for poor Alcander, dead and gone!

Dor.

How can it chuse but move the hardest heart, To think that Honour, Piety, Desert, Are most obnoxious to the fatal Dart?

Amin.

Frequent Examples we may daily view, That what y'ave said, O Doron, is too true! For O! to my Confusion, now I find Death makes distinction, takes the just and kind, And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind; And they live on the time that nature gave, Till, tir'd with Life, no longer time they crave, And upon Crutches creep into the grave:

But such as dear Alcander soon take flight, Their rosie morning soon eclips'd in night, That was so cheerful, vigorous and bright! And O! since once we must resign our breath, Since once w'are doom'd to feel the sting of death, Wou'd I his fatal Minute had supply'd; That he might still have liv'd, I willingly shou'd ha' dy'd: No less by me cou'd on the publick fall; His loss does for the publick sorrow call, And will be surely heard, and surely mourn'd by all! To serve his Country still his care did tend, That with his Sword and Council to defend; No Man was ever more his Country's Friend! But he is gone, he's gone! and let us mourn, Gone to the Grave, and never must return! To the dark Grave, to the wide gloomy shade, Where, undistinguish't, good and bad are laid! O Eyes! run o'er, and take of Grief your fill, Let every Tear be sharp enough to kill! Let ev'ry groan come from my Heart, and show 'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of woe! O Cheeks! henceforth no sanguine Colour come To open view, but pale usurp the room, Such a true pale as all the World may know, Such a true pale as may distinctly show The fatal cause from whence the sad effect does flow! Let from my Lips the livid tincture fly, Like Ev'ning Rays before a gloomy Sky,

And a dark ashy hew throughout be spread, Dusk't over like the visage of the dead! Yet when all these with one joint mind condole, To show how great my grief is in the whole, They'll yet want pow'r to paint the anguish of my Soul!

Dor.

When I just now your sorrow did com∣mend, I did not mean a sorrow without end: The dead claim nothing but our present grief, While Nature does exert her power in chief; For they that dy well give us this relief; They're free from Horror, Sorrow, Pain and Care, Envy, Disgrace, Resentment and Despair, With all the num'rous Catalogue of ills That Plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills: For spite of all that's urg'd in Life's defence, And all the Pleasures that depend on sense, There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence. Beside, what is more vain than to lament Immoderately for what we can't prevent? Not all our sighs, our Tears, though ne'r so great, Though spent at never so profuse a rate, Can change th' unalterable Doom of Fate; We must resign when Heav'n does give the call; Cedars where that does lay the Ax, must fall.

Amin.

That all must dy is true, beyond de∣bate, But some may dy too soon, and some too late:

When good men leave us, what e're term you use, Though Heav'n may gain, we wretched Mortals lose: There brightest Spirits but small lustre add, Here they shine out, and wou'd direct the bad; Like Israel's Guide, in a Corporeal shroud, By night our Pillar, and by day our Cloud. How many are there, Infamous to name, That strive to set the Nation in a flame, Blood their delight, and Civil strife their aim? He wisely saw which way the stream wou'd force, And rais'd the Banks to stop it's violent course. O never let the Muse forget his Name! But lift it high, and give it lasting Fame; Describe his Actions, which claim vast esteem, For, sure, there ne'r was a more copious Theme!

Dor.

"That task does properly belong to you; "You best can be to his high merit true: "He was your Friend; I oft have heard you tell, "Fond Mother's scarce love their first-born so well. You then that knew him, and have skill in Song, Proclaim his Vertues, or you do him wrong.

Amin.

"My Oaten-Reed no lofty Notes can raise, "And lofty Notes alone can reach his praise: "Yet, though I'm short in power, accept the will, "And let my Love atone my want of skill.

Dor.

"Be still ye Winds, let not the gentlest breeze, "With winding Lab'rinth, murmur through the Trees; "Ev'n Philomel thy charming grief forbear, "Thou'st long pleas'd us, now lend thy self an Ear; "Let all below, above, and all around us hear! "While in sad strains Amintor does relate "Alcander's glorious Life, and wretched Fate!

Amin.

Thou'st heard, O Doron! of our fatal Broils, Our harrast Country, and intestine toyls; How the proud Subject, in a cursed hour, Assum'd the sacred Reins of Sovereign Power: By unjust force a num'rous Host was rais'd, The Patriots of Rebellion lov'd and prais'd: Enthusiasm, Schism, Spite and Rage, And all the Agents of a Barbarous Age Broke loose at once, and level'd at the Crown, To raise themselves by pulling Justice down: 'Twas for our Sins, which now took general Birth, Th' Almighty pour'd his Viols on the Earth: May we no more such desolation find! But more deserve, and Heav'n will be more kind. Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage, Found work t' employ his Vertue and his Rage: And, that his Loyalty might first be try'd, He took the Royal, and the Suffering side. In all Attempts still prodigal of blood, Nor valu'd Life lost in a Cause so good.

Where horrour and where danger thickest lay, Through, like a Storm, forc't his impetuous way. Let Edge-hill's Fatal Field his worth declare, Success in Conduct, and his Name in War; Nor only He, but there, with Courage fraught, His Father, Vncles, and his Brothers fought: O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name! The sound repeated fills the blast of Fame! The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard, Saw his vast worth, and gave him due reward. But ah! in vain he fought, in vain fought all, For Heav'n decreed the pious Prince shou'd fall; In vain all means were try'd, Art, Conduct, Force, Were all too weak to stop the Torrent's course; Down fell the Banks, the Deluge enter'd fast, Till all was lost, all over-whelm'd at last! Thus Blood and Vsurpation rais'd their head: And with the rest our brave Alcander fled, To see what pity strange Lands wou'd afford, And mourn'd in Exile for his murder'd Lord, Nor saw one happy moment till he saw his race restor'd: Here was a short amends for all his pain, For a whole Family of Hero's slain. Th' auspicious Prince, return'd, benign, August, Look't on his wrongs, advanc't him into trust And never was a Subject known more just! But who, alas! can long a Favourite be? Or ride safe in the Courts inconstant Sea? A Sea, indeed, where few rough Tempests blow, But num'rous Rocks and Quicksands lurk below, And make vain all the Care a Pilot can bestow:

For Life no certain Station can afford, And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword.

Dor.

The wisest and the bravest ne'r cou'd be From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free; And rising Vertues, as they mount the Sky, They daily watch and shoot 'em as they fly. As the returning Light expels the dark, And points the Archer out his certain mark, So good men, by their radiant Acts made bright, Stand but a fairer Butt for rage and spite. A Prince's favour dangerous glories bring; In every Male-content it puts a sting; By such the Favourite is despis'd, debas'd, The good he does the publick goes unprais'd, Still the more hated as he's higher rais'd: Kings see not this; for it is hard to see Through the nice subtile Vail of Flattery; Dissimulation wears an airy screen, And, like a Deity, does walk unseen: When the Court Parasite does thus prevail, Bear all before him with a smiling gale, The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail; Expos'd to black Aspersions, publick hate, And oft must stoop to an Inglorious Fate, Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell, He, who when all cry'd Justice! Justice! without Justice fell.

Amin.

Darkn'd a while, but not quite overcast, 'Twas but a faint Eclipse and soon was past:

Alcander's Vertue was too bright to ly Long shrouded under odious Calumny, But, like the Sun, for a short time retir'd Behind a Cloud, broke out, and was admir'd. And let me here to their Confusion tell, Their lasting shame that ought to've us'd him well. (An honour ne'r conferr'd but on the brave) He bore his Prince's favour to his grave; Firm in his grace he stood and high Esteem; And here again renews the mournful Theme! When glory seem'd to court him with her smiles, And give him peace after an Age of Toils; When all around him 'twas serene and bright, And promis'd a long Jubilee of light, Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's eternal night! And, which does yet for much more sorrow call, By a mean accident ignobly fall: Not in the Field, where sterling honour's sought, And where, with blood, he had that honour bought; Not in his King's and his dear Country's cause, Destroying those that wou'd subvert the Laws; But, God's! by such a chance, as well does show How little to that trifle Life we owe, How transitory the best gift below! Nor worth one half, we, to preserve it, pay, That is, in spite of all our care, so quickly snatch't away! O Life! O nothing! for y'are both the same, Or, if you differ, 'tis but in the name: 'Tis equal to be what we nothing call, As to be sure we shall to nothing fall.

Add to all this his firm, unshaken mind, To the fixt Pole of Glory still inclin'd: A Carriage graceful and a Wit sublime, A Friendship not to be impair'd by Time; A Soul sedate, with no misfortune mov'd, And no Man was with more misfortune prov'd. Death he ne'r fear'd in its most ghastly form, In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by storm; Now he caress'd him with a cheerful brow; Welcome at all times, but most welcome now! O had you heard him, e're he did resign, With how much Zeal he talkt of things divine, You wou'd have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue, While he discours'd descending Angels sung; Waiting his better part with them to bear; Which now, let loose, through the vast tract of Air, Pierc't like a Sun-beam to its native sphere.

Dor.

There let him rest; —and let the thought, my Friend, That he is happy thy Complaints suspend — But come, 'tis time, we now shou'd homeward steer; And, to be plain, 'tis but cold comfort here. The mold is damp, the wind perversely blows; And Night, far spent, invites us to repose. Come, let me raise thee by the Friendly Arm:— What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no charm?

Amin.

Yes, I will go, but think not of repose, My heart's too full to let my Eyelids close: No cheerful thought shall in my Breast find room, But Death and Man's inevitable doom: Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality; When following him that is past on before, I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.

The End of the Funeral Elegies.

Pindarick Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits.

TO Fleetwood Sheppard, Esq.

SIR,

I Need not here the Servile path pursue, By doing what most Dedicators do; Lay out their Patron's Vertues on a Stall, Like Pedlar's Ware, to please the Crowd withal, And be despis'd by the Iudicious Eye, Which does but look and loath, and pass regardless by. Your Merit speaks it self; a Poet's care, In lofty praise, wou'd be superfluous there. What need that Man in a Fool's co•••• be shown That hath one very graceful of his own? I wave that Subject then, your generous mind; Wit, Iudgment, Converse, and what else we find So lov'd, admir'd, and courted by Mankind; And humbly at your Feet this worthless Tribute lay; I owe you much, and blush I can so little pay.

I am,

Sir,

Your much Obliged Servant, R. Gould.

Advertisement.

FOR the Reader's clearer understanding, I am to inform him, that the word [Beaux-Esprits] as here us'd, has no relation to the Beaux-Esprits, or Vertuosi of France; but means barely what the word in that Language imports in its simple signification; which is, fine, good, or true Wits: The Poem being written to a Society of Ingenious Gentlemen, whom the World has honour'd with that Distinction. Not but they might, without Arrogance, have assum'd to them∣selves that Title, as being Men whose charming Con∣versations have render'd 'em the delight and Ornament of the Age; it being thought no small Honour, ev'n by the most Accomplish't, to be admitted of their Num∣ber. What more relates to 'em follows in the Poem; which, though it does not particularize their Endow∣ments, may serve to let the World see how sublime a piece a better hand wou'd have made upon the subject. But for my Insufficiency, I beg their Pardon: this be∣ing my first Essay in Pindarick, and likely to be the last; since nothing that can, or, at least, has of late been writ in this kind, is comparable to what that Ad∣mirable Poet has done, who first retriev'd and made this stately way of writing familiar to us; and in∣deed has perform'd so much, as cuts off all hope of like success to any that now do, or shall (I prophesie)

hereafter attempt it: for though he has imitated Pin∣dar without the danger that Horace presag'd shou'd befal the Man shou'd dare to do it: 'tis vain for us (without the same portion of Genius) to mount that unruly Steed, whose guidance requir'd ev'n all the strength and skill of so great and so celebrated an Author.

Pindarick Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits. ODE.

(1.)

IF Poets when they undertake Some happy, lofty Theme, That does their Hero's worth immortal make, And fix it in the foremost rank of Fame; So firm, 'tis hard to say if Fate Or that will bear the longer date; If they invoke some God to be Propitious, and infuse Life, Spirit, Warmth and Vigour in the Muse,

That through the whole may brightly shine, And shew they're guided by a hand Divine; What Power, what Deity (You learn'd Society!) Must be invok't by me? 'Tis You, great Souls, 'tis You, Whose Fame I sing, must aid me too: If your assistance does my labours bless, 'Twere vain to doubt success: For while I write to Men, Themselves such Masters of the Pen, Solid, Judicious, Wise, That search the dark retreats where errour lies, And pluck off the Disguise; While such I praise, shame, if not skill, Will my desire fulfil; 'Tis hard on such a Subject to write ill.

(2.)

No tedious ways y'ave taken, no Meander's trac'd; Well knowing, they That will be obstinate and go astray, And leave the easie for a rugged way, Are but the more remarkably disgrac't: As sordid Chymists with much toyl and pain, Labour of Body and of Brain, Wear out their wretched days In solid Poverty and empty praise; And all to find (such Notions do they start) What neither is in Nature nor in Art.

In vain they strive that passless Rock t' explore, Where they have seen so many split before, And lost on that Inhospitable shore. Castles they still build in the Air; Rapt with the Bliss They shall possess In their new Golden Worlds, the Lord knows where! But after all, we see (In spite of their stupidity) When their whole Life is in expectance past, Drill'd on by Hope, and flatter'd to the last; Instead of the fam'd Stone of which they're proud, That Geugaw in whose praise they've been so loud, Meet the Resemblance only and an empty Cloud.

(3.)

No; You have better fix't your aim, And, to the Honour of your Name, Acquir'd a just and lasting Fame: "When first you did your Forces join, "When first you did your mingl'd lustre twine "In that bright Orb where now you shine, "The Envious must confess, "Though great the Praise we gave, you did deserve no less. When 'twas your Pleasure to enrol In your fam'd List some worthy Soul, With one joint Mind and Voice: You made the generous Choice; For whom one Recommended, all the rest A like esteem exprest, And shot their Friendly Souls into his Breast:

Which proves the Body's purity, From Factious and Self-Interest-Members free▪ No whiffling Fops you did admit, Retaylers in the Trade of Wit; No Farce-Companions, that, with awkard Miene, Court every Punk they meet, and every where are seen; No sordid Scriblers, whose unlicens'd Rhimes Add to our growing Crimes, And will, I fear, pluck down a Judgment on the Times: This fry was scorn'd: — to none Was the great Favour shown, But who brought equal merit of their own; Such as were worthy and believ'd The Honour Worthy they receiv'd: That loath'd the crying Follies of the Age, And the lewd Scenes of the declining Stage; The Coward's calmness and the Bully's rage, The Statesman's Quibbles and the Lawyer's wiles, The Souldier's brags and the false fair One's smiles, The Spark's gay dress that sets up for a Beau; With all that think they're Wise and are not so: These were the Genii, these the Soul; And such as these compose the whole.

(4.)

Thus constituted, your bright Progress you began; Short is the time and far the space y'ave ran! For to that pitch of glory y'are arriv'd, As all the foremost Arts admire; Yet you stop not, but still aspire;

Unlike the Greshamites, who have their Fame surviv'd, You are the more rever'd as you grow longer liv'd. You make it not your business to pry Into the dark-wrought Snares of Policy, Made Intricate by Jugling Elves, And is a Maze to lose themselves: Ne'r vex, or wonder at the turns of State That makes so many Knaves and Coxcombs great, Does upstart Mushroms raise Till they, like Meteors, blaze, And make the Lavish Poets wanton in their praise; This stiles 'em Noble and this Iust, And tells how well they have discharg'd their trust, Though they rais'd all their store, By peeling of the publick and the poor, As by Estates, soon got, w'are sure they must. Another does their Eloquence approve, As if their Tongues dropt from above, And swear, like Orpheus's Harp, they make the Forests move: Yet to the man that nicely marks, A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks: Thus they flourish; — but anon The storm of Fate comes on, They're prov'd false Metal, and they must be gone; And that which now appear'd so bright, Has in a moment lost its glaring light, Eclips'd by black reproach and everlasting night.

(5.)

Nor is your time mis-spent in Parchment-Far, The Hellish Bustle of the Bar, Where the loud tough-lung'd Tribe wage an eternal War; A War while there: — high words are rais'd, Their Pedigree and Vertues blaz'd: That is the Issue of a first-rate Clown, That wore his Leathern-Breeches up to Town; This is a Pimp to Causes, such a Cheat, He'd pawn his Soul for a five-shilling Treat: This has a Conscience steel'd, and this a Face of Brass, And he that looks so gravely is an Ass: Yet when they next meet they agree, (Litigious Treachery!) Consult afresh to raise their Client's strife, And make it last as long as life: Yet they well know the Law was meant, What's wrongful to redress, To free the Poor and Innocent, And make their suffrings less. How cou'd Grays-Inn, or how the Temple rise, (Such pompous Piles as e'n outbrave the Skies, And seem a dwelling fit for Deities;) If all the Cash, which such a charge sustain'd, Had Righteously been gain'd? Let Lawyers then talk what they please, Banter, Buz, and ly for Fees, We see which way they draw;

And safely may assert, (And all unprejudic't will take our part) No man can be a thorough Knave that's not bred to the Law.)

(6.)

But as you shun and hate These Catterpillars of the State, That ravage on the Spring just as they please, And leave the Barren after-crop to other Sciences; So you laugh too at those (For they deserve not pity but your scorn) That madly run into the dang'rous Noose, And painful Bondage before freedom chuse — But Asses are for slavery born: Such Bruits! They wou'd let all the poor Rot and perish at the door, E're they'd relieve'em with a single Mite; Yet wast Estates to propagate their spite: Wou'd give a Million, without grutch, To Pettifoggers, Rooks and such, Just for the dear delight to make another spend as much: Reflecting not what will, at last, befal, Or who stands waiting by to sweep up all. At the Groom-Porter's, so, I've seen the Fops impatient for the throw, Win there three hands and pay, But leave not off their play, Till, between what was won and lost, Fortune from one to t'other tost, Wise Niel has half the Cash engross'd;

Still they push on, nor mind th' impendent ill, The Purse will empty as the Box does fill. And so too have I read In living lines, though the fam'd Author's dead: The Frog and Mouse were once at mortal strife, And each in equal hazard of his life; The Kite who saw the vain contest, (And, by the way, Lawyers, like them, are Birds of prey) To give a warning to the rest, And make their senseless fewd a jest, Devours 'em both, ends the dispute. Dull Souls! whom such Examples can't confute.

(7.)

Nor stop you here; the Velvet-Quack That wears a Leash of Lives upon his back, Feels your Resentment like the rest, For him a like disgust express't: Nor does the grave Disguise (Which he affects to make us think he's wife) Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat, That grows by purging, and by poys'ning great: How negligent they are we see, And careful of our Lives what need they be, That both ways, live or dy, will have their Fee? By Indirection thus they raise their store; Keep their gay Lacquey, Coach and Whore, And Fops of Quality can do no more. As for Religion, what they have, they feign, 'Tis not consistent with their way of gain,

T'wou'd make 'em charitable paths pursue, Which they that will be rich can never do. Their Spawn, Th' Apothecary, too, Who Leech-like cleave to the poor Patient close, And suck their Purses full e're they break loose, With their damn'd, long, unconscionable Bills, Bring in as many Pounds as they deliver Pills: Thus Fools, with Villains willfully complying, Are made to pay for dying: Nay some leave 'em large Legacies by Will, And, ev'n in Death, admire their Murd'rer's Skill.

(8.)

Unhappy, foolish, wilful Man, Preposterous! from thy self thy Woes began: Of all created things none are so curst as Thee, So curst by their Simplicity: The Feather'd and four-footed kind, Without those helps we boast to find, Endure Heav'n's wrath, Excessive heat and cold, Yet grow, according to their Natures, old; Nor are among themselves at strife, How to abridge the little span of Life, Which of it self, alas! is quickly gone, And flies too fast to be push't faster on: But Man, vain Man has found a thousand Keys To open that one Lock that ends his Days; Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague and Tempest fail, They're not Physician-proof, he'll certainly prevail.

O for a Western Wind that may To the Red-Sea these num'rous Locusts bear, A greater Curse than those of Egypt were: They but a while brought Desolation; But these are fixt a standing Plague to scourge the sinful Nation.

(9.)

Nor less do you despise The dull Astrologer's Absurdities, That through their Telescopes pore on the Skies, To calculate Nativities, And find out Fools and Women's Destinies: When such a one may 'scape being hang'd, or drown'd; When Spirits walk, where Treasure may be found; — At Peru, under ground. When Comets hang in Air, With swinging Tails and blazing Hair, To what part of the World they threaten Plague and War. What all our senseless Dreams import (Drest in a thousand various shapes, Centaures, Chimaera's, Bulls and Apes) When Fancy is dispos'd her Airyship to sport. And thus, with their twelve Houses, and their Schemes, Run into more Ridiculous Extremes, Than Poets, Fools and Madmen in their Dreams; How can Another's Fate by him be known That's Ignorant of his Own?

Or how reveal th'Intriegues of France and Rome, That knows not when a Parliament will be call'd here at home? Can those into Fate's dark Recesses see, And find what is to be, That shall forget (to prove how far they stray) What their own selves did Yesterday? To tell what is to come how dare they boast, That can't retrieve the slightest Image memory has lost?

(10.)

In the same File with these you do The Virtuosi place; Though, to speak truth, they don't deserve that Grace: Who is it that can see Their Magazins of Trumpery, And how preposterously they're all employ'd, And not, at the first view, be cloy'd? Here one, that thinks he is no Ass — (And 'tis but thought — but let it pass) Has in his Magnifying Glass Stuck up a Crab-louse, and does pry Upon't with such a heedful Eye, You'd swear some horrid Prodigy, Or a new World were just upon Discovery; Yet all the while shall have no other aim, Than just to see, as 'tis divulg'd by Fame, If it be like the Fish that bears that name: Then into their Extraction they enquire, And prove 'em Cousin Germans, if not nigher.

Another does to Montpelier repair, To bring home bottl'd Air; Extremely good to let loose here, A Pint enough to purify a Shire. A third will send for Water from the Rhine, Only to make comparison between The Thames and that, which of the two's most light, Or which will freeze the thickest in a night. Others aver, the Mites in Cheese Like in a Monarchy, like Bees, Have civil Laws and Magistrates, Their Rise, their Periods and Fates, Like other Human Powers and States; And, by a strange, peculiar Art, Can hear 'em sneeze, discourse and fart: These Men by right shou'd be Ass-trologers, And hold Acquaintance with the Stars, Happy for doubting Man 'twou'd be; For they that have such Ears, what is't they may not see?

(11.)

Nay ev'n Philosophy is not exempt From meriting contempt: 'Tis true, it's Excellencies are Above all other Learning far; That but a Glow-worm, this a Star; Yet 'tis not wholly priviledg'd from Fau'ts, And those employ my present thoughts. How many wild Opinions have took Birth From Man? that lumpish Son of Earth

That blindly groaps on in the dark: For all their works express, The best of 'em but spoke by guess, No wonder they shoot wide that cannot see the mark▪ Here one, the first and wisest, did not know But that this All was always as 'tis now, And did on it's Power depend, As Self-Existent, and wou'd never end. Another (as if just wak'd from a Trance, And seen the Atoms in their Antick Dance; Those Atoms, which he says, all sorts of Union past, Leap't into Form, and made a World at last) Asserts 'twill perish, as it came, by chance. A third the Earth is fixt, and all above, Sun, Moon and Stars for ever round it move. Others call this in doubt, And say the Earth is whirl'd about, By a Finger and a Thumb at first set up, And spun e'r since just like a School-boy's Top, While the superiour Orbs of light Stand gazing on, and wonder at the sight. Some, that the Moon's a World, and add withal This Globe on which we tread, this pond'rous Ball, (A fine task to discuss!) Is but a Moon to that, as that to us.

(12.)

As Contradictory are all Their Notions of the Soul; So hard, so difficultly solv'd, And with so many wild perplexities involv'd, The more w' unravel w' are the less resolv'd:

So a benighted Traveller that strays, And comes to have, at once, his choice of many ways, (For what is human Wisdom but a Maze?) Stands reasoning with himself and doubtful long, Choses, and wanders further in the wrong. Quite as abstruse is what they say Of Mankind's final good, As little understood; Here, one does place it, and another, here, And all the while, alas! they grasp but Air; For certain happiness we ne'r can know; A Jewel 'tis too glorious to be worn below. How senseless and how vain a thing is Man? That, with his little span, Pretends the height and depth, and breadth of Providence to scan! Attempts to grasp whole Nature in his hand, Whose smallest part he ne'r can understand! From hence my Muse, with conscious awe, retires, And all she cannot comprehend, admires.

(13.)

Pardon me, generous Souls, I have digress't too long, But my Digression has not done you wrong; For while I show the Follies you despise, The Lyon's Skin that you pluck off, and find What sordid Creature lurks behind; While this I tell, Impartial Men will guess, By the degenerate Paths you shun, In what a noble track you run, And by the Vice you hate, the Virtues you possess;

Your Virtues, which, by me, If you assist, shall be Deliver'd down to all Posterity. Here, therefore, I again your aid require, That with fresh Spirit you'd the Muse inspire, That while through airy, untrac'd ways I fly, And nothing see but Sky, I to your Worth may a just Tribute bring; And keep the towring Pegasus on Wing, Till it has fixt your Name Among the happiest Favourites of Fame; From her Records ne'r to be rac'd, Till the loud Trumpet's general blast, And Nature, Death and Time have breath'd their last.

(14.)

First, your Religion shall be shown; Though Zealots may, perhaps, think you have none. All vain Disputings you avoid, (Disputes with which, of late, w' have been so cloy'd) But chiefly those, that tend This Faith t' oppose, or that defend; For such can never have an end. For while there wants a measure to decide The right from wrong, the diff'rence must abide: True, Scripture is sufficient, and wou'd do't, But that, alas! is Mute; And this will wrest it one way, that another, And, knowing this, why keep they such a pother? The Points in Question I'll not here Pretend to darken, or to clear,

But leave 'em to the holy, wrangling Men; Such Iargon wou'd defile a Poet's Pen: Yet this, without a Perspective, I see, Their Interest, Prejudice and Pride, will ne're let 'em agree; Each day the diff'rence grows more wild, And all the Parties are resolv'd not to be reconcil'd. Thus, to their everlasting shame, They fix a scandal on the Christian name, And tarnish the bright Lustre of it's (else un∣spotted) Fame. 'Tis this which makes the Atheist fleer and laugh, And, equally, at all Religion scoff; For how (they'l say) How can we chuse but go astray, When ev'n our Guides themselves take each a different way? And these damn those, without Reprieve, For not believing what they can't believe?

(15.)

But you, Illustrious Souls, see this, See all, and know that all's amiss; And very wisely trace The moderate Path, and keep the moderate pace; While violent men, daz'd in their rash carere, Fall from their aim, and meet the ills they fear: But, Carrier-like, you cheerfully jogg on, (Yet not so slow to mire, Nor yet so fast to tire) And the extremes of either hand you shun: And just as the kind Sun,

(That cheers you while he shines) Has chang'd the shadows and declines, You'l arrive safely at your happy Inn, When others the long Iourney but begin: Lost and benighted, on they stray, And perish in their Doubts before 'tis day. In short, Faith's necessary Rules are few, And you those Rules pursue; And a good Man has little else to do.

(16.)

Your Morals too with your Religion fit, And both are suited to your Wit: Your Wit! which does deserve immortal praise, A Wreath of Stars instead of Bays. Your Wit! which can at once instruct and please, And give the vitious Patient timely ease; Discover his loose deeds and frantick thoughts, And laugh him to a loathing of his Fau'ts: Your Wit! so charming, those that hear Cou'd wish they were all Ear; No sooner they admire, But some new rapture lifts their wonder higher! Not taken up on trust, no plated Brass, But Currant Coin that every where will pass: From painful Learning and Experience drain'd, And as with labour got, so with delight retain'd. No glaring Meteor that makes us gaze, And spends it self all in a blaze, But, like the Sun, a lasting sourse of light, Which, though it must decline, 'tis but to rise more bright.

Your Wit! which never values Man the more For Wealth and Power, Or what his lewd Ambition does devour; His Pride, Vain-Glory, awful Port, Which meets so much regard at Court, It justly damns and makes a May-game sport. No barren Jest, the Carman's Mirth, Or Clinches e're from you take Birth; But all you speak is nervous, strong, And soft as Philomela's Song, While Fools, unknowingly, advance, And if they're Witty, 'tis th' effect of Chance.

(17.)

When met, with grave Harangues you first begin, Such as from Kings might just attention win: Shew us how far w' have been misled Both by the living and the dead: Free us from Prejudice and Lies, Nonsense, Impossibilities, And Wolves in Sheep's disguise, With all the Snares Malice and Zeal have laid, By bringing our own Reason to our aid: Our Reason, still in danger try'd, And always prov'd a faithful guide: Reason, the Polar Star That does discover Happiness from far, Straiten the Crooked Path, found by so few, Contract the space and set all Heav'n in view. A Pilot that can through Life's Ocean steer As safe in Storms, as if the Skies were clear:

While those who stupidly believe, And pin their Faith upon a Zealot's sleeve, Are still with doubts and killing Fears perplext, This hour of one perswasion, none the next: But Reason, drest in Adamantine Arms, Does end the frightful Charms; All subtil shifts descry, With it's sharp-sighted Eagle's Eye, Before whose pow'rful Rays the gloomy Phantoms fly.

(18.)

While thus you hold discourse, the Goblet's crown'd, And twice or thrice does nimbly move around: Care, that disturber of our rest, That grows habitual to the Breast, And hardly ever leaves what it has once possest, Ev'n that curst Fiend at such a time takes wing, And Envy drops her sting: Yet nothing idle, or profane, Lewd, Ridiculous, or vain, Nothing is spoke but what the Nuns might hear, Were they much chaster than they are. With you Mirth's cloath'd in it's true, genuine shape, Not like an Ass, an Owl, or Ape, But in the same garb it was drest by Ben. There's as much difference between Mirth as Men. And now you Envy not ev'n Kings themselves, Nor all the under-fry of courtly Elves; Who, like the Moon, their borrow'd lustre owe, And Tradesmen are the Suns that make 'em glit∣ter so.

The troubles of Mortality you view, (Those num'rous, and it's Blessings few) The evil that o'r Mankind brooding sits, That fattens Fools and starves the Wits: What Fears and Iealousies are broach't by Knaves, Believ'd by Cowards, Pimps and Slaves: And since true pleasure flits and will not stay, You this way take a draught without allay; And make the dull Fatigue of Life fly pleasantly away!

(19.)

What Honours then, you mighty few, Ought here to be conferr'd on you; That make Life pleasant, and improve your selves in knowledge too? What Trophies to your Fame must we erect! And O! what wonders may we not expect, Though distant now, brought home within our view, By Men so qualify'd as you? That, ev'n at your first setting out, can be So worthy of a History! But that I know you will not raise A Monument in your own praise, I shou'd presume to ask Some one of you to undertake that task: For where, alas! where else can there be found A Sprat, your Grandeur to resound? Where else a Cowley, in his lofty Verse Your Glories to reherse, And to the Heav'nly Arch make the loud Echo bound?

Your Glory, which, like the fix't Star, wou'd shine, And as propitious be, To all that want a guide, as He, Had this great Subject been adorn'd by any Muse but mine.

To the Earl of Abingdon, &c. ODE.

AS when some humble, lab'ring Swain Is favour'd with a large encrease of grain, Straight to the Gods he sends his Prayer Through the obsequious Air, More swift than the wing'd race themselves can flee; For nothing is so swift as Piety: With no less hearty Zeal, my Lord, to you My Praises I acknowledge due; For all the Bounties you dispence, And with an Influence So far diffus'd and free, It ev'n extends to me! Disdain not, then, that Praise (my Off'ring) to receive, For that, alas! is all that I can give; But then the World shall see I'll never cease to pay you that, till I shall cease to be.

(2.)

Were I in Ricot's happy shade, Where no State-noise the Rites of Peace invade;

But every Morn does still fresh Pleasure bring, And Plenty flows with an unbounded Spring; Where Horses neighing, and the cheerful sound Of Huntsman, Horn and Hound, Echo's a grateful Harmony to all the Country round. Or when your sportful Lavington we name, The jocund Scene is much the same: There only 'tis where Nature is with Art at strife; Both are ambitious to excel, And both have done so well, That 'twou'd be hard to tell Which of 'em's most adorn'd with Beauty and with life! Such haunts as these might, possibly, inspire My Breast with a Poetick Fire, And set those thoughts on wing, Which now but faintly fly and hoarsely sing.

(3.)

No longer, Clio, on the Mansions live, Though they deserve more praise than thou can st give, (As situate in a happy soil, And blest with Flora's earliest smile) But view the Hospitality within, And a new flight begin; For that's a Theme where thou may'st ever dwell, And every day have something new to tell: A Theme which had great Pindar's greater Son Been but so happy to have known, Through every Village 'twou'd have rung, The sole delight of every Tongue, Through ev'ry Meadow, ev'ry Grove, Where Shepherds seal their Vows of Love,

Through ev'ry populous City, ev'ry Cell, And every where, where Vertue's known to dwell; Nay to the Clouds it Echoing wou'd have flew; What less when his the Song and the great Subject you?

(4.)

Nor had his vast Carere Or stop't, or tired here: Your God-like Sire's high worth he wou'd have sung, Who, while he liv'd, was blest by every Loyal Tongue: He wou'd have told, inspir'd with the Heroick thought, How great his Conduct and how well he fought; How like a Bulwark by his Prince he stood, When 'twas found Treason to be great, or good; And, spite of Death and Time's devouring Jaws, Have crown'd his memory with deserv'd applause: So great the Warriour, and so just his Cause! From thence, Triumphantly, have fled To the Production of your fertile Bed; In whom already does appear, (And 'tis the Spring that crowns the following Year) Their Father's Courage and their Mother's Charms; A Guard from future harms: And here again fresh thoughts wou'd spring, How they might one day serve their Country and their King. For that untainted Blood which from your Veins does flow, Can produce nothing but what's truly so.

(5.)

Nor had your Wisdom and your Piety Been past neglected by; And least of all your stedfast Loyalty; Which stood the pow'rful Faction's late Impetuous shock, Unshaken as a Rock: Upon smooth Seas we may with safety steer, For there the Pleasure does surmount the Fear; But hard and dangerous 'tis, to gain the Port, When Winds and Waves with equal Fury roar, And make those stately Barks their cruel sport, They seem'd to court before: Such is the Sea; nor was our storm at Land, By yours and other Loyal Hands represt, Less dangerous to withstand. All this he gladly wou'd have done In Verse as lasting as the Sun; While, at an humble distance, I Had blest the happy Muse that wou'd have soar'd so high!

Sacred To the Memory of our late Sovereign LORD King CHARLES the Second.

ODE.

EAch Man has private Cares enow To make him bend, to make him bow; Ah! how then shall we bear the general Sorrow now! Unless we dy with Grief, what Sanction can we bring Sufficient for the loss of such a gracious King! Peace, like a Mountain-stream, from him did flow, And water'd all us humble Plants below, And made us flourish too; Yet Peace himself but seldom knew. Too rigid, Ah! too rigid is the Fate That on indulgent Monarchs wait! While for the Publick good, the Publick weight they bare, As they're Supreme in Power, so they're Supreme in Care:

Theirs is the Toyl, theirs is the pain, Ours is the Profit, ours the gain; And this was prov'd in Charles's Reign: Think, Britains, think, how oft h' has broke his sleep, Intrench't on his few hours of needful rest, To make us free, to make us blest, And, if you are not Marble, you must weep!

(2.)

Long as our stubborn Land he sway'd (Ah that w' had all so long obey'd!) Our stubborn Land a Paradise was made: Indulg'd by his enliv'ning smiles, (The Glory of all other Isles) We did in Safety, Ease and Plenty live, Enjoy'd all Priviledges He cou'd give: Till sated with continu'd Happiness, Like Devils, we conspir'd to make it less. False Fears and Iealousies Knaves did create, And, once more, strove to plunge the State In all the miseries it felt from forty one to Eight Here did our pitying Monarch timely interpose, And sav'd us from our selves — for who else were our Foes? On those whom goodness cou'd not awe, He let loose Iustice and the Law; His Iustice prob'd our fester'd wound, His Iustice heal'd and made it sound, From Exile call'd our banisht right, (Good Angel's and good Men's delight) And made us happy in our own despight!

(3.)

Not op'ning Buds more certain Tydings bring Of the approaching Glories of the Spring, Than his least Action spoke him King! He talkt, he look't, he trod, And had the Air, the Port and Manage of a God! These Wonders in his Person all might find; But who can tell the wonders of his mind? How Wise! how Just! how Mild! how Kind! In Exile, Danger, Want and Strife, In all the various Changes of his Life, Before, and when he reign'd, His troubles were with Saint-like Constancy su∣stain'd: And great and num'rous was the store; His Martyr'd God, and Martyr'd Father, only suffer'd more: His Favours too, like theirs, Did to his deadliest Foes extend, Forgave as fast as ill Men did offend, And when he had forgave, wou'd prove a Friend: What greater proof of Clemency Cou'd Heav'n it self express? 'Twas Vertue, Goodness, Mercy to excess!

(4.)

If ought that's excellent, or brave, Cou'd priviledge their Owners from the Grave; He, like Elijah, to his Bliss had fled, And never mingled with the dead: — But Man was born to dy! And though the Prophet might the easier Passage find, Our Pious Sovereign left his Dross behind, And went to Heav'n more pure and more refin'd.

There rest, blest shade, from all the sorrow free, From all the Treachery, From all the Infidelity, That did attend thy painful Progress of Mortality: There rest: — while the poor Melancholy Bards below Though they can ne'r pay all they owe, At least, their Love and Duty show, And, in sad Funeral-Verse, embalm Their ever haypy Patron's name; Not that it needs it — for 'twou'd live Without th' Assistance Poets give.

The End of the Pindarick Poems.

SATYRS.

PROLOGUE. To the following Satyrs and Epistles.

TO that Prodigious height of vice w' are grown, Both in the Court, the Theatre and Town, That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fixt a rule, Who ever is not vitious is a Fool; Hiss't at by old and young, despis'd, opprest, If he be not a Villain, like the rest: Vertue and Truth are lost — search for good men, Among ten thousand you will scarce find ten. Half Wits conceited Coxcombs, Cowards, Braves, Base Flatt'rers, and the endless Fry of Knaves, Fops, Fools and Pimps you every where may find, "And not to meet 'em you must shun Mankind. The other Sex, too, whom we all adore, When search'd, we still find rotten at the core, An old, dry Bawd, or a young, juicy Whore; Their love all false, their Vertue but a name, And nothing in 'em constant but their shame. What Saty'rist, then, that honest can sit still, And, unconcern'd, see such a Tyde of ill,

With an impetuous force, o'erflow the Age, And not strive to restrain it with his rage? On Sin's vast Army seize, Wing, Reer and Van, And, like Impartial Death, not spare a Man? For where, alas! where is that mighty He, That is from Pride, Deceit and Envy free, Or rather, is not tainted with all three? Mankind is Criminal, their Acts, their Thoughts; 'Tis Charity to tell 'em of their Fau'ts, And shew their failings in a faithful Glass; For who won't mend that sees he is an Ass? And this design 'tis that employs my Muse, This for her daily Theme she's proud to chuse; A Theme that she'l have daily need to use: Let other Poets flatter, fawn and write, To get some Guinnys and a Dinner by't; But she cou'd ne'r cringe to a Lord for meat, Change sides for Int'rest, hug the City-cheat, Nor praise a prosp'rous Villain, thô he's great: Quite contrary her Practice shall appear; Unbrib'd, Impartial, pointed and severe: That way my Nature leans, compos'd of Gall; I must write sharply, or not write at all. Tho' Thyrsis wings the Air in tow'ring flights, And, to a wonder, Panegyrick writes; Though he is still exalted and sublime, Scarce to be marcht by past or present time; Yet what Instruction can from hence accrue? 'Tis flatt'ry all, too fulsom to be true. Urge not (for 'tis to vindicate the wrong) It causes Emulation in the young,

A thirst to Fame, while some high Act they read, That spurs 'em to the same Romantick deed; As if some pow'rful magick lay in Rhimes, That made men braver than at other times. 'Tis false and fond: — Hero's may huff and fight, But who can merit so as he can write? To hold a Glow-worm is the morning Star, And that it may, with ease, be seen as far, Were most ridiculous, so wide from truth, It justly wou'd deserve a sharp reproof. That wretch is more to blame, whose hireling Pen Calls Knaves and Coxcombs, wise deserving men, Says that the vitious are with vertue grac't, Iudges all just, and all Court-Strumpets chast. If to be prais'd does give a man pretence To Glory, Honour, Honesty and Sense, Cromwell had much to say in his defence; Who, though a Tyrant, which all ills comprize, Has been extoll'd and lifted to the Skies: While living (such was the applause they gave) Counted High, Princely, Pious, Just and Brave, And with Encomiums waited to the Grave. Who then wou'd give this — for a Poet's praise? Which, rightly understood, does but debase, And blast that Reputation it wou'd raise. Hence 'tis (and 'tis a Punishment that's fit) They are condemn'd and scorn'd by men of wit: 'Tis true, some Foplings nibble at their Praise, And think it great to grace the Front of Plays; Though most to that stupidity are grown, They wave their Patron's praise to write their own;

Yet they but seldom fail of their Rewards; And, Faith, in that I cannot blame the Bards; If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue, If they love Flatt'ry, let 'em pay for't too; 'Tis one sure method to convince the Elves; They spare my pains and satyrize themselves. In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend: While in huge Volumes motly Priests contend, And let their vain Disputes ne'r have an end, They plunge us in those Snares we else shou'd shun; Like Tinkers, make ten holes in mending one. Our dearest Friends, too, though they know our Fau'ts, For pity, or for shame conceal their Thoughts, While we, who see our failings not forbid, Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did: 'Tis Satyr, then, that is our truest Friend, For none before they know their Faults can mend; That tells us boldly of our foulest crimes, Reproves ill manners, and reforms the Times: How am I then too blame, when all I write Is honest rage, not prejudice, or spight? Truth is my aim, with truth I shall impeach, And I'll spare none that come within it's reach: On then, my Muse, the World before thee lies, And lash the Knaves and Fools that I despise.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Lorrain.