By ſeveral Hands.
London: Printed for
J. Hindmarſh, at
the Golden Ball over againſt the Royal Ex
change in Cornhil, 16851685.
To Sir William Clifton.
I am very ſenſible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleaſed to Judge of almoſt all Dedications, and when not addreſt to themſelves will not let ’em paſs without the imputation of Flattery; for there is ſcarce any Man ſo Juſt to allow thoſe Praiſes to another in which he does not immediatly ſhare in ſome degree himſelf, nor can the Fantaſtic Humors of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is meaſured according to the ſence another has of it, and not by its own intrinſic value, ſo that if another does not ſee with my Eyes and Judge with my Sence, I muſt be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor will they be undeceived in an Error that ſo agreeably flatters them, either by a better knowledge of the Perſon commended, or by a right underſtanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convincedA2a5 ced ix a5v ced of what will make no part of their ſatisfaction when they are ſo, for as ’tis natural to deſpiſe all thoſe that have no vertue at all, ſo ’tis as natural to Envy thoſe we find have more than our ſelves inſtead of imitating ’em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for being all over Flattery, and Damn it in groſs, who when it has been laid before him, and he has been aſked to anſwer according to his Conſcience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict one ſingle Vertue that has been juſtly given there, yet angry at being convinced has cry’d, with a peeviſh, uneaſie tone.—Yet I don’t know how, nor I don’t know what —but ’tis all together methinks a piece of Flattery— When indeed the buſineſs was, he did not know how to afford him ſo good a Character, nor he did not know what other reaſon he had to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find twas all true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of ſome little ſiniſter end or advantage of the Author.
’Tis therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addreſſing my ſelf to one, whoſe Generoſity and Goodneſs has prevented any ſuch Scandal, x a6r Scandal, and ſecured me from the imputation of Flattery by rendring this, but a ſmall part of that Duty only, which I have ſo long owed you; ’tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature are not eaſily returned, and one muſt be a great while diſcharging it out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for ſo good and juſt an occaſion, and we all ſoon agreed where firſt we ſhould begin the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known, and valued; it bears the Royal ſtamp and paſſes for currant to every ready hand; Loyalty being that ſtandard Vertue of the Soul which finds its price all over the World; nor is it in theſe our glorious days, who bears that Rate now, but who has always done ſo through Fate and Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering Sun-ſhine, nor loſt in every falling Shower, but ſtanch to its firſt beautiful colour, indures all weathers.
Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and bleſt, but you, whoſe Quality A3a6 and xi a6v and Fortune elivate you above the common Crowd, ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading Examples to the reſt, as the Genius of your Country and the Star that influences, where your Luſtre ſhines. You, who in spight of all the Follies we import from France ſo much in faſhion here, ſtill retain, and ſtill maintain the good old Engliſh Cuſtoms of Noble Hoſpitality, and treat the under-world about you, even into good nature and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honeſt, while elſe-where for want of ſuch great Patrons and Preſidents, Faction and Sedition have over-run thoſe Villages where Igrance abounded, and got footing almoſt every where, whoſe Inhabitants are a ſort of Bruits, that ought no more to be left to themſelves than Fire, and are as Miſchievous and as Deſtructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that awes and civillizes ’em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom becauſe they know, they Worſhip with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their King, whoſe Repreſentative they take him at leaſt to be if not that of God himſelf, ſince they know no greater or more indulgent; and are ſure to be of this opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Goſpel xii a7r Goſpel, and whom they’ll ſooner credit; never was new Religion, Miſunderſtanding, and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themſelves to ſcanty lodgings in the City, ſtarved the Poor of their Pariſh, and rackt their Tenants to keep the Taudry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expencive, but you Sir, retain ſtill the perfect meaſures of true Honour, you underſtand the joys and comforts of life and bleſt retreat; you value Courts tho you do not always ſhine there, you dare be brave, liberal, and honeſt tho you do not always behold the Illuſtrious Pattern of all Glorious Vertue in your King, and abſent from the laviſh City. You are pleaſed and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no need of his Bounty, dare ſerve him with your Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to all the World is your Character in ſhort, for which your laſting Name ſhall live, when the turbulent, buſie hot-brain’d diſturbers of their on tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, ſhall live in fear, die xiii a7v die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or ſtand to after Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity ſo well as to laſting Verſe, that out-wears Time and Marble. If any thing within can contribute to the diverſion of your Hours of leaſt concern, ’twill be ſufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage here, eſpecially
Sir, Your obliged and moſt humble Servant,
MusÆus of Hero and Leander.
Come, Sing my Muſe, that Lamp that once did prove,
The conſtant Witneſs of a ſecret Love;
That Lamp, that o’re the Sea the Lover drew,
To dark embraces which the Sun ne’re knew.
Sing Seſtos and Abidus; Sing the whole,
How Hero her enjoyments nightly ſtole:
I ſing Leander, and that conſcious light,
That was the Pimp of Venus ev’ry night,
And ſhew’d the way to Hero’s ſtoln delight.
That Lamp which in reward Celeſtial Jove,
Ought to have fix’d among the Lights above,
And call’d it the officious Star of Love.B For 2 B1v (2)
For till an envious blaſt did it betray
To Love’s ſoft joys, it nightly ſhew’d the way.
Sing on my Muſe, how Fate did give that light
And young Leander one eternal night.
Two Towns there ſtood which Helle did divide,
The one was Europe’s, t’other Aſia’s Pride.
This the great Seſtos, that Abydos nam’d;
Cupid to both one Golden Arrow aim’d;
Here a brave Youth, there a young Maid he ſhot,
This lovely Hero, young Leander that.
Leander liv’d upon Abydo’s Shore,
Ne’re Seſtos ſtood the Virgin Hero’s Tow’r;
Both ſhew’d a Star to their reſpective Town,
Both by each others Beauties to be known.
Reader, If’t be thy fortune or thy fate
To view theſe Caſtles, find where Hero ſate.
On Venus Bow’r, a Lamp fixt in her hand,
Guiding Leander to his wiſh’d-for Strand:
Seek me Abydos out, where to this day
Rites to Leander all the Natives pay;But 3 B2r (3)
But ſince the Youth did beyond Helle live,
How cou’d the Nymph at ſuch a diſtance give
So great a wound; ſo great a wound receive.
Hero deſcended from a noble Race,
Unskill’d in Love, knew not what Cupid was:
Far from her Fathers Houſe, on Helle’s Shore,
Liv’d in a great, but ſolitary Tow’r;
Was Venus Prieſteſs; ſuch her Grace and meen,
You’d rather take her for that Beauties Queen:
Yet to obſcure what all that ſaw admir’d,
She prudently from company retir’d;
Danc’d at no Balls, to ſhun the envious fair,
For all the Sex in Beauty envious are.
Her Bus’neſs was, her Goddeſs to attone,
And ſometimes to the Mother joyn’d the Son;
But all in vain, no Sacrifice was fit,
Or cou’d appeaſe that little waſpiſh Chit,
He ſhot at laſt, and as he ſhot he hit.
Now was the yearly Feaſt of Venus come,
When it was thought a ſin to ſtay at home;B2 This 4 B2v (4)
This Seſtos did to Venus Dedicate,
In memory of Adonis mournful fate.
They ſwarm’d from every Quarter many Miles;
From Theſſally and all the neighb’ring Iſles:
Some Youths from Cyprus come, but not a Maid
On Libanus, or in Cythera ſtaid;
Hither the Phrygian Lads did all reſort,
Abydos left not one to guard the Sport.
To Feaſts, ſuch Amorous Youths do ſtill repair,
Not to attend on Sacrifice, or Prayer,
But to adore the Nimph that’s kind and fair.
Hero i’th’ Temple walks, and ſo diſplays
Among th’ admiring Crowd her charming Rays;
So Cynthia exalts her Beauty’s Pride,
When all the leſſer Lights are round her ſide;
The Lillies of her cheeks with Roſes joyn,
To give her Face a luſtre all Divine;
View but thoſe Limbs that bleſs the common Air,
You’ll find a Bed of Violets bluſhing there;
Her feet beneath her Alb, plays in and out,
And ſpread a thouſand Roſes round about.That 5 B3r (5)
That Poet never had good word of mine,
Who did the Graces but to three confine;
Let Hero ſmile, the doting Bard ſhall ſwear
Ten thouſand Graces in her Eyes appear;
A lovely Prieſteſs for the Queen of Love,
Her Sov’rein Charms did ſo Majeſtick prove,
That She without a Rival all did paſs,
And Venus Maid another Venus was.
Now ev’ry Youth a welcome heat did fire,
Not one but her enjoyment did deſire;
Still as ſhe walk’d before the gazing Crowd,
All Eyes, and hearts, and wiſhes, her purſu’d;
Till a gay Youth, to give his Paſſion eaſe,
Broke ſilence in theſe words, or ſuch as theſe.
I’ve travell’d Greece, have been at Sparta fair,
Where the fam’d celebrated Beauties are;
Yet never have I ſeen a Face like thine,
The Graces ſure attend at Venus Shrine.
I’ve tir’d, but cannot ſatisfie my Eye;
Oh give me Hero’s Bed! then let me dye,
In Hero’s Arms I cou’d with Raptures lye.B3 Had 6 B3v (6)
Had I but Hero mine, at my abode,
I ſhould be leſſen’d to be made a God;
But if thy Prieſteſs Venus be deny’d,
Grant me, oh grant me! ſuch another Bride.
Thus ſpoke the Youth, and others much the ſame,
Whoſe hearts were fir’d, tho they conceal’d the flame.
The young Leander, he his Paſſion own’d,
He ſcorn’d to hide an honourable wound.
Shot with the Darts that from her Beauties flye,
He reſolutely brave would Fortune try,
Wou’d Hero’s live, or elſe wou’d Hero’s dye;
Love lit’ his Torch, brave Youth, at Hero’s Eyes,
And did thy Soul with gen’rous fire ſurprize;
Swift are the darts that charming Beauties caſt,
The feather’d Arrows fly not half ſo faſt;
The Eye, ye wretched Lovers, is the way
By which the wound they to the heart convey.
A while Leander diff’rent Paſſions move,
A ſilent, then a baſhful trembling Love;But 7 B4r (7)
But Cupid’s freſh aſſaults ſoon rous’d his Senſe,
And gave him a convenient Impudence:
Now at leſs diſtance he confronts the Dame,
And flings a glance to tell his ſilent flame;
Hoping this ſecret way the Maid to win,
And lead her by that wanton path to ſin.
Hero well pleas’d Leander was her Slave,
Now Veils that Beauty which the Victory gave:
But firſt (for ſhe too felt Love’s pow’rful God)
She kindly ſent him an aſſigning Nod;
And then afreſh does all her Beams diſplay,
Leander knew what thoſe dumb ſigns did ſay:
And now a pleaſing Joy through ev’ry vein
Told him ſhe knew, and wou’d relieve his pain;
And while he long’d for a fit time and place,
The wearied Sun had run his daily race:
Heſperus ſhews a dusky kind of Light,
And welcome Clouds combine to haſten night.
Then with more boldneſs did the Youth draw nigh,
And preſt her fingers with a willing ſigh;B4 While 8 B4v (8)
While ſhe with Scorn drew her fair hand away,
Her Eyes alaſs, much kinder things betray,
Embolden’d then he took her by the Gown,
And forc’d her to the Veſtry all alone;
She ſeem’d unwilling, and half chiding ſaid,
Unhand me cruel Man; Heavens! are you mad?
Is this the manner of your rude addreſs?
D’ye know my Function? dare you treat me thus?
Ah leave me while y’are ſafe, if you are wiſe,
My Father’s Rage, your Folly will Chaſtiſe:
—But wou’d you Sir—indeed—debauch a Nun—
A harmleſs Maid is not ſo eaſily won.
Thus Hero chides, if Virgins know to chide,
But this cou’d not her ſofter paſſion hide;
When Women uſe th’ Artillery of the Tongue,
No doubt they will ſurrender e’re be long:
Know then when ſuch faint threats you Lovers hear,
They yield apace, the aſſignation’s near.
Leander now ſecure the Fort to win
Firſt ſteals a kiſs, and then does thus begin:My 9 B5r (9)
My ſacred fair, next to the Queen of Love,
Thou to thy Lover ſhalt a Venus prove;
Next to the Daughter of Jove’s teeming brain
Thou a new Pallas o’re my ſoul ſhalt reign;
Thou haſt no equal in the World beſide,
None but thoſe pow’rs that are to Jove allied;
Happy that Man if he were yet no more,
To whom thou ow’ſt that being I adore;
Thrice happy is the Womb from whence you came,
But heal my wounds, and quench my burning flame.
As Venus Nymph the Rites of Venus mind,
I will inſtruct thoſe Rites, if you’l be kind:
A Virgin knows not Venus to attone,
Venus will ne’re indure thy Virgine Zone;
Her Inſtitutes ’tis fit that you ſhould read,
Kiſſes, and all the ſweets o’th’ Nuptial Bed;
If to your Goddeſs you’d obliging prove,
You muſt ſubmit to the ſoft Laws of Love.Come 10 B5v (10)
Come make me thine; Cupid has made me ſo,
Such is the pow’r of his Victorious Bow,
Who made Alcides quit his Lions skin,
With Omphale and her Maids to ſet and ſpin.
You’ve heard of Atalanta I ſuppoſe,,,
Who to Diana made acurſed Vows;
She ſcorn’d the great Milanion’s offer’d bed,
But angry Venus bow’d her haughty Pride,
And made her yield to the avenging Boy;
Oh fear the Goddeſs rage and be not Coy.
This Tale the liſt’ning Nymph more eaſie made,
And to Love’s wandring paths did ſoon perſwade;
She bluſh’d, and bent her baſhful Eyes to Earth,
Her new-born flames deni’d her words a Birth;
And to conceal the fire her Eyes might ſhew,
She clos’d her Veil, and took a turn or two.
But ſilence gave conſent, ask but your Miſs
When ſhe will taſt the ſweets of Cupid’s bliſs?
When ſhe’l aſſign to give your Paſſion eaſe?
If ſhe ſay nothing, that’s e’ne when you pleaſe.Hero 11 B6r (11)
Hero both felt and fan’d Loves eager fire,
Taſting the pleaſing pain of new deſire:
Leander as the Nymph bow’d down her head,
On her fair Neck his greedy Eyes he fed;
Freſh bluſhes ſtill a ſweet Confuſion make,
At laſt ſhe ſigh’d, and trembling, thus ſhe ſpake:
Such pow’rful Charms, as theſe, the Rocks wou’d move,
Who taught you all theſe cunning Arts of Love?
Alaſs—and then ſhe bluſh’d— who brought you here?
And yet your tale of Love—is loſt—I fear—
You are unknown, a Stranger in the Land,
Strangers have Vows ad Oaths at their command;
You cannot lead me to a lawful Bed,
My Parents w’ont conſent that we ſhou’d wed;
If you ſhou’d Sojourn here and ſteal the Joys,
All over Seſtos that would make a noiſe;
In things of ill report Mens tongues are bold,
What’s done in corners, is in Markets told.Yet 12 B6v (12)
Yet tell your Name, what Countryman you are,
You know my Town, my Name is Hero Sir.
Th’ unkindneſs of my Parents built this Tow’r,
This Hermitage upon the Seſtian Shore,
To be a Seat for one poor Maid and Me;
No Nymph or ſprightly Youth our comforts be,
No Neighbour near us, but the Neighbouring Sea;
Where every night by Winds and Waves is plaid
A Melancholy diſmal Serinade.
This ſaid ſhe bluſh’d, and down her Eyes ſhe hung,
Checking the Licence ſhe had giv’n her Tongue.
Now did Leander all his cunning prove,
Wiſely to manage his Intrigue of Love.
When Cupid finds his homage ſtrictly paid,
He kindly heals the wounds his Arrows made;
Where his Supremacy is duely own’d,
There he’s a Friend and not a Tyrant found:
Leander thus diſtreſt finds Cupid’s aid,
And thus with nobler Courage Courts the Maid.
Alas, can Seas confine my vaſt deſire?
To you, my fair, I’ll make through Seas of fire.
When I to Hero’s Bed wou’d force my way,
The Waves in Storms of Thunder ſhall obey;
I’ll ſwim the Helleſpont and ſtem its Tide,
In ſpite of all its rage and ſwelling Pride.
At diſtance, (ſmall for Lovers) againſt yours,
There ſtands the Town Abydos, which is ours;
From thence I’ll ſwim, when day ſhall end in night,
Only upon your Turret hang a Light:
That ſhall Love’s Veſſel guide; no more in vain
Will I direct my Courſe by Charles his Wain:
What good can dull Bootes me afford?
Or fierce Orion with his flaming Sword?
That Light ſhall be my Star my joys to find,
But as thou lov’ſt me, guard me from the wind;
My Life no longer than that light will laſt,
And both will end with one malicious blaſt.
Till then, ſince, faireſt, you my name would have,
I’m your Leander proud to be your Slave.
Thus both conſent to a clandeſtine Match,
She to hang up her Lamp by night to watch;
He to ſwim o’re the Sea; th’ agreement this,
That their ſtoln pleaſures might augment their bliſs:
When thus they’d ſpent the Night as Lovers do,
They took their Leaves, and ſighing, cri’d adieu;
She to her Tow’r, he to a ſtrict ſurvey,
How in the darkeſt night to find the way.
Now had he put from Shore, and proſperous Gales
More than he wiſht, to Abydos fill’d his Sails:
Both ſtrove with day, and long’d for kinder night,
For night! to give, and hide their ſtoln delight:
Night came at laſt, and brought her freſh ſupplys
Of ſleep to all, but Lovers watchful Eyes.
Leander he to the Sea-ſide repair’d,
To ſee if his bright Nuptial Star appear’d;
That pledge of Faith that the fond Lover led,
To taſte the ſweets of Hero’s Virgin Bed.
No ſooner had kind Clouds o’reſpread the skies,
But to her Turret the ſwift Hero flies;Hangs 15 B8r (15)
Hangs out her Lamp, and as ſhe that does fire,
Love fires Leander with more hot deſire;
At firſt when he the raging Sea did hear,
He felt a little kind of ſeeming fear;
But ſoon he to th’ inviting Lamp did look,
And then his Manly Courage thus be ſpoke:
Loves furious rage is great, no leſs your Seas,
Such violent Storms no Victim can appeaſe;
The Sea but water is, but Love’s a flame,
That all the Floods of Helle ne’re can tame;
To Love compar’d the Sea’s a feeble thing,
Know’ſt not what Deity from thence did ſpring?
Venus, the pow’rful Venus tim’rous fool?
What rules us Lovers does the Sea too rule.
This ſaid, the Am’rous Youth, with both Arms ſwept
Guided by Love, into the Waves he leapt;
A ſteady Courſe by his new Star he ſought,
Himſelf the Pilate, Paſſenger, and Boat.
By the Lamps ſide poor Hero trembling ſtood,
And garded it by all the art ſhe cou’d;Sometimes 16 B8v (16)
Sometimes ſhe cover’d it, and pray’d the wind
To that and to Leander to be kind:
Till as ſhe wiſht Leander came aſhore,
Oh then how nimbly ſhe unlock’d the doors,
Kiſs’d and embrac’d, and led him to her Tow’r.
Over his quiv’ring Limbs ſhe flung her Gown,
And dry’d his Locks that ſtill ran trickling down;
Then to her own apartment led the way,
Whoſe choice perfumes did the Waves ſalts allay;
And as he lay ſtill panting on her Bed,
She thus imbrac’d him, and thus ſoftly ſaid.
Come, my dear Bridegroom, thou thy love haſt tri’d,
As never any Bridegroom did beſide;
That all the Waves o’th’ Helleſpont can tell,
And that this ſcent of thine, this brackiſh ſmell;
Come let me claſp thee in my longing Arms,
There I’ll ſecure thee from all threatning harms.
Raviſh’d with pleaſure he unti’d her Zone,
And ſo the Rites of Venus were begun;Nuptials 17 C1r (17)
Nuptials there were, but yet no Nuptials Dance,
No Muſick or Love-Song their Joys inhance;
Not one of Phœbus Prophets tun’d his Lyre,
Not one o’th’ Graces, or the Muſes Choyr:
Alas! no Hymen Hymeneus cry’d,
No Torches burning; nay the bed beſide
Soft ſilence made, black Night undreſs’d the Bride.
Black night alone was conſcious of their Bliſs,
The day ne’re ſaw the Bride and Bridegroom kiſs;
Before Aurora well cou’d dreſs the Morn,
Leander ſtill had made his quick return,
Nothing diſcover’d yet, Hero they ſay
A Wife by night, a Virgin was by day.
To ſpeed the Sun both do their Vows ingage,
Each minute that divides ’em is an Age:
Thus the ſtoln pleaſures of the Bed they taſt
Happy; if this their happineſs wou’d laſt.
Too ſhort a thred the Deſtinies had ſpun,
Too ſoon alas, their little Race was run;C When 18 C1v (18)
When Froſt had wither’d all the Verdant plains,
And Winter ſent abroad both Storms and Rains;
When the rude Winds no longer were confin’d,
But ravag’d up and down as they’d a mind;
When Seas obey’d their Tyrannous Commands,
Ships burſt aſunder on the yielding Sands;
When Seamen trembled tho on Shore they ſtood,
Then young Leander, you your Courage ſhew’d;
Not raging Seas, nor terrors of the Night
Cou’d ſtop your Courſe, when once you ſaw that light;
That fickle treacherous Light, that made thee brave
Thy threatning Fate, and ſcorn each gaping Wave.
Believe me Hero, now thy Love’s thy Crime,
You ſhou’d have lain alone this Stormy time;
Not ſent thy Lamp abroad, which now did prove
The Phoſphorus of Fate, and not of Love,
But ſo the Gods wou’d ha’t that rul’d above.
Dark was the night, the raging Winds did roar,
Who with joyn’d Forces now attack the Shore;When 19 C2r (19)
When young Leander to enjoy his Bride
With matchleſs Courage did a Wave beſtride;
A Wave, that with a wild Auxiliary aid
Durſt ſtorm the Skies, and make th’ Hav’ns afraid;
A Civil War did all the Winds ingage,
Great was the fury of inteſtin Rage;
Eurus with all the Forces of the Eaſt,
Charg’d Zephyrus the General of the Weſt;
The North and South joyn’d Battel on the place,
And Notus Hector’d Boreas to his face;
Their hideous noiſe like that of Thunder ſpread.
Oh whither ſhould Leander flie for aid!
Sometimes he did for help on Venus call,
Sometimes upon his knees to Neptune fall;
Nor did he leave the bluſtring Boreas out,
Tho he his Atthis now had quite forgot:
But Fate prevail’d, not one would lend an Ear,
Not one of all the Gods would hear his Prayer;
Now did he yield himſelf to every Wave,
His Legs and Arms were tir’d, and cou’d not ſave;C2 He 20 C2v (20)
He gaſp’d his laſt, and Floods ran down his Throat,
And now, juſt now, the fatal Lamp went out;
Curſt be that blaſt that was ſo rudely thrown,
That Lamp of Love is with the Lover gone;
Hero outwatch’d the Lamp, cou’d find no eaſe,
Toſt by her fears as he was by the Seas.
By break of Day ſhe every Wave ſurvey’d,
Thinking, the Lamp being out he might be ſtray’d;
But wen ſhe caſt her Eyes beneath her Tow’r,
And ſaw Leander dead upon the Shore,
She from the top herſelf did headlong throw,
And thus enjoy’d him in the Shades below.
The Runaway Cupid: Out of MOSCHUS.
When Cupid from his Mother ran away,
Thus Venus Cry’d her little wanton Stray.
Oh Yes! if any one o’th’ Neighb’ring Swains,
Has ſeen my Cupid ſtragling on the Plains;
Let me but know where my young Fugitive is,
Venus will well reward thee with a kiſs.
But if thou bring’ſt him home when he is Cry’d,
A kiſs is thine, and ſomething elſe beſide.
He’s a notorious Boy, his Marks I’ll ſhew,
’Mong twenty Lads you may my youngſter know:C3 His 22 C3v (22)
His skin’s not white like other Boys, but red,
His Eyes like fire do ſparkle in his head;
Smooth is his Tongue, but his heart full of guile,
His words as ſoft as they were ſteep’d in Oyl;
When angry, he is fierce, and will engage
All the miſchievous Arts of treacherous Rage;
He is a Lying, Couz’ning Boy, and ſtill
His very Sports do one or other kill;
A lovely head of hair his Temples grace
But then he has a bold and daring face;
Small are his hands, and yet they’l fling a dart
To th’ Shades below, and wound e’n Pluto’s heart;
Naked are all his Limbs, his Plots not ſo,
Wing’d like a Bird that hops from Buſh to Bough.
From this young Swain, to that fair Maid he flies,
And over both their hearts does tyrannize;
Small is his Bow, but it is always fixt,
His little Arrows ſometime Heav’n have vext.A 23 C4r (23)
A Golden Quiver, bitter Shafts does hide,
With which the Rogue will wound his Mothers ſide;
All cruel are, his Torch a little one,
But with new flames it often fires the Sun.
Pray bind him faſt, if you my Vagrant take,
Let him cry if he will, till his heart ake;
But if he ſmiles, and offer you a kiſs,
Drag him along, his Lips all Poiſon is;
He’ll cry—here take my Torch, my Shafts, my Bow,
But touch ’em not, they are all Poiſon too.
The Honey Stealer, the 20th.Idylium of Theocrites.
When Cupid once the little Thief would play,
And ſearch’d a Hive to ſteal the Combs away;
A watchful Bee that in her waxen Cell,
To guard her Nectar then ſtood Centinel,
Wounded his Fingers as they ſtill drew near,
And to the head bury’d her poyſon’d Spear;
He cry’d, and ſtamp’d, and frisk’d, and blow’d his hand,
And to his Mother of the Bee complain’d;He 25 C5r (25)
He ſobb’d, and wonder’d how there could be found
A Fly ſo ſmall to make ſo great a wound;
But Venus laugh’d to ſee how Cupid cry’d,
And thus at length ſhe ſmilingly reply’d:
Thou’rt like this Bee, my Child, a little Brat,
But great the wound you make, I’m ſure of that.
Damon and Thyrſis: A Pastoral On The Right Honourable, The Earl of Pembroke’s Wedding.
Thyr.What Damon ſleeping, and all over day?
Are theſe the Early Offerings we pay?
The Pipe undreſt, the Garland wither’d lies,
Rouſe Shepherd and uncloſe theſe drowſie eyes.
Thyr.Alas I am undone!
Yet ſhall my Zeal prevent the riſing Sun.
Da.Shepherd the Morning bluſhes at thy Sloth,
God Pan will ſore chaſtiſe thy breach of Oath;
You Vow’d with Holy Fire to light the Day,
Before Aurora well could ſee her way.
Late as it is no fire to th’ Altar’s laid,
Your Vows I ſee are as ſoon broke as made.
Thyr.This Sloth you chide pure inſpiration was,
Laſt night (ſit while I dreſs) I took a glaſs
A cherful glaſs at MetabJius Feaſt,
Where Damon, you have been a welcome Gueſt.
But when I took my leave, and kiſs’d his hand,
God Bacchus ſtrok’d me with his charming wand;
And I no ſooner reel’d into my Cell,
But in a pleaſing Extaſie I fell;
I walk’d with Venus in the Myrtle Grove,
And learnt the neweſt tunes of Noble Love;
Dan.I wiſh thou’dſt learnt thy Duty, Swain,
Daphnis the Pride of all Arcadia’s Plain,Laſt 28 C6v (28)
Laſt night his Beauteous Bride fair Ægle led,
To the wiſh’d Joys of a chaſte Nuptial Bed;
Daphnis and all the Gods too I’ll believe
But to the Altars, let not dreams deceive.
Thyr.Thither I’m going Damon with your leave.
Not Dreams but Viſions ſtole my Soul away,
And kept it tardy till the break of day;
Venus and all the Cupids me confin’d,
For Venus oft you know with Bacchus joyn’d;
They led me Captive in their welcome chains,
Taught me the Notes of Love, thoſe Am’rous ſtrains:
Thoſe very Raptures that great Daphnis Sung,
When trilling Cupids play’d upon his tongue;
I have thoſe very Airs won Ægle’s heart,
Damon, I’ll ſing ’em, if you’ll bear a part.
Da.This time for Song? thy Sacrifice prepare
Heav’n will reject thy late and drowſie Prayer.
Thyr.No Penitent too late, to Heav’n come,
A dying ſigh may prove an Hecatomb.
Da.What Victim now ſhall add to Daphnis bliſs?
Thyr.May Heav’n and all the Gods be ever his.
Da.Thy breath that coſt thee nothing thou wilt give,
And with that empty breath thy Flocks reprieve.
Thyr.Daphnis commands my Flocks and me his Swain,
For him the firſt of all my Flocks are Slain.
Da.For Daphnis I my whiteſt Kid will bring,
And while the Prieſt ſhall Pray I’ll ſit and Sing.
Thyr.In Daphnis’s tender years I had the care,
To tune his Voice and his firſt Pipe prepare;
That Honour Damon I ſhall proudly wear.
Da.At Flora’s Feaſt I did with Daphnis Sing,
And had the ſecond Garland from our King;
That Honour’s mine, Thyrſis, of all the Ring.
Thyr.Oh! what Notes does Daphnis now aſpire to;
I hide my Pipe if he but touch his Lyre.
Da.Daphnis I now the Victory reſign,
My Laurels wither at the ſight of thine.
Thyr.Henceforth no Rival Daphnis’s art will prove,
He only knows the Harmony above,
And tunes his Lute to a Diviner Love.
Da.Sublimer Notes now entertain his Care,
He teaches Dedalus what Machins are,
And Archimedes how to uſe his Sphere.
Thyr.When too much care leads our Divines aſtray,
And nice diſtinctions loſe what they would ſay,
He ſhews to Heav’n a more compendious way.
Da.While ſome in many Books would Science find,
And what they vainly ſeek ſtill leave behind,
He reads the Numerous Volumns of his mind.
Thyr.The Sacred Oracle he does revere,
And all the Sybills Leaves by them compare:
But Daphnis is a Theme too high
For ſilly Swains, as thou and I:
Come what for Ægle will my Damon pay?
That ev’ry Sun new pleaſure may convey,
And ev’ry night more pleaſure than the day.
Da.Dull Swain, and ſhall we then preſume to ſing
The Nymph that Daphnis did in Fetters bring?
Will Ægle ever ſtoop to lend an ear
To Thyrſis Notes, or ruſtick Damon hear?
Ægle with Daphnis ſoars above the Sky,
In Damon’s Roll Ægle’s a Deity.
Thyr.Then jointly let’s erect a Shrine,
For Damon’s Goddeſs ſhall be mine.
Da.I’ll bring a Turtle Dove that ſits and moans,
And tells her Love in ſoft and murmuring tones.
And I my Philomel, who ſtill does ſing
The rude Embraces of the Thracian King.
Da.I’ll to the Turtles chaſt Alcione give,
Who for her Ceyx will in numbers grieve.
Ther.And I’ll ſet Progne by her Siſters ſide,
They once did Itys, now their Notes divide.
Da.I’ll deck fair Ægle’s Fountain with a Roſe,
A Roſe that bluſhing in her Beauty grows.
Thyr.I would the Lillies of the Valleys ſeek,
But that thoſe Lillies grow in yonder cheek.
Da.Ægle, vouchſafe on me one gracious look,
I’ll Offer up my Pipe and Shepherds Crook.
Thyr.Ægle, let one kind Ray on Thyrſis ſhine,
I’ll hang my Lute and Laurels on your Shrine.
Da.Laſt night when Daphnis the Nymph Ægle led,
Dame Juno bore the Torch, and Hymen made the Bed.
Thyr.As Daphnis lead, the Graces danc’d along,
Apollo plai’d on’s Harp, and all the Muſes ſung.
Da.Cupid unſtrung his Bow, his work was done,
And Venus help’d t’untie the Virgin Zone.
Thyr.All did aſſiſt, but above all the reſt,
The Chaſte Diana Daphnis Bride undreſs’d.
Daphnis! oh how that name does me inſpire
With ſoemthing more than a Poetick fire!
As t’other night I by a Fountain play’d,
Damon, I ſaw Muaſylus in the Shade,
And heard him ſing the Song Silenus made,After 33 D1r (33)
After a learned Origin of things,
The Rights divine of Prelates and of Kings.
To Daphnis Race he did his Song confine,
The numerous Heroes of that Noble Line;
He ſhew’d the very Point that does divide
Great Wit and Madneſs; too too near ally’d,
Where Honour ſtagger’d, and where firmly ſtood
What Fire Attoms did ferment their blood.
After a Liſt of Heroes whoſe great name
Beyond Time’s Regeſters ſhall challenge Fame.
He ſung how Janus ſteer’d with politick care,
The old Lord. Firm to his Prince, yet to the Faction fair.
The firſt Brother. How Bromius did Love, and Court the Vine,
To drink and drown in flowing Bowls of Wine;
The laſt Brother. And how Leantius, in his Nature mild,
By converſe with wild Beaſts himſelf grew wild;D Whoſe 34 D1v (34)
Whoſe Houſe was metamorphos’d to a Den
Of Bears and Tygers, or more Savage Men.
This preſent Lord. But when the Satyr ſounded Daphnis name,
His Voice was like the Silver Trump of Fame;
He made the Mountains and the Woods repeat
Daphnis the Brave! Daphnis the good and Great
How all the Nymphs for Daphnis Love did Pine
Of Sein, of Tajo, Tyber, and the Rhine.
Here Pſyche too, who by a turn of Fate
Was Janus Relict, while yet Janus Mate:
Fill’d all the Grove with a ſweet trembling Air,
Pſyche the Chaſte, the Pious, and the Fair.
When e’re her heart for Janus Love did bleed,
With ſighs and kiſſes ſhe’d young Daphnis feed.
No wonder Heav’n thus Crowns his riper years,
Who was the Son of Pſyche’s Prayers and Tears.
Early to th’ Muſes care ſhe ſent her Son,
Whoſe thirſt of Wit ſoon drein’d the Hellicon;
Thence Daphnis went to Athens, and from thence
A Student of the World he did Commence.35 D2r (35)
Ye Gods what Vows ſhe made for his return!
But here the Satyr did not ſing, but mourn.
Da.When he to th’ Banks of Loir, or Arno came,
Daphnis was thought a Native of the ſame;
He read the Men and Manners of each Town,
Not to improve but to impart his own.
Thyr.Where e’re he came the Nymphs for Daphnis ſtrove,
While none but Ægle cou’d deſerve his Love;
Still may ſhe have the ſole Dominion there,
And Daphnis think none but his Ægle fair;
Confirm ye Gods to each the other’s heart,
And none but Heav’n can greater Joys impart;
Both.Still may they live, ſtill may they love,
To increaſe the number of the bleſt above.
He adviſes his friend to Marry. Shews the Happineſs of that, and the Miſeries of a looſer Life: By Mr. H.C. of K.C.C.
Let Debauchees call Matrimony dull,
Laugh at the ſoft uxorious wedded Fool;
Damn’d to the loath’d Embraces of a Wife;
Eternal Slave to nonſenſe, noiſe, and ſtrife;
While they ſtill new and nobler pleaſures find,
Are always free and always unconfin’d;
From place to place, from Wench to Wench they rove,
And change as often as their Cloaths, their Love
Ev’ry new Face the cringing Coxcombs Court,
And ev’ry old becomes their ſcorn and ſport.
They Spend, Drink, Duel, till at lasſt they come
With empty Pockets, Clap’d and Bleeding homeThis 37 D3r (37)
This is the bleſſed Liberty they boaſt,
Their Health, their Credit, and their Money’s loſt:
But this is needleſs Sir, to you are known
The Follies and the Lewdneſs of the Town.
Which while I griev’d, oh may I ever be
A Slave, ſaid I, if this be to be free.
But you my friend, my life’s peculiar care,
Warn’d by the Ills you daily ſee, beware,
Let no Lewd Fop, nor wild example prove
Your Generous Youth to baſe promiſcuous love;
Suppreſs the riſing paſſion if you can,
If not, at leaſt confine your flame to one;
Love her and only her, the charming ſhe,
Whoſe happy humour does with yours agree;
Of equal Birth and Fortune, kindly made
By Heav’n, to be the partner of your Bed,
To whoſe Exceſs there is no need of Force,
And when enjoy’d there follows no remorſe;D3 With 38 D3v (38)
With harmleſs Innocence, ſincere delight,
Without th’allay of horror or a fright
She’l ſweeten all the cares of the paſt day at night;
With thouſand Kiſſes ſhe’ll invite to Reſt,
Recline you gently on her downy Breaſt,
Then undiſturb’d you’ll peaceful ſlumbers take;
And no foul guilt diſtract you when you wake;
Bleſt ſhall you be at leaſt with ſuch a Son,
As the glad Father will be proud to own.
From Homer’s Iliads By Mr. T.B. Priam’s Speech to Achilles.
Feeble like me, with ſuch grey Locks as theſe,
Peleus preſents himſelf upon his knees;
And begs my Peace: Think on the good old man
Then Peleus Son be cruel if you can.
Suppoſe him Sir, juſt now to be oppreſs’d,
And none to drive the torture from his Breaſt,
But he can ſmile to hear how you are bleſs’d;
Proud with his hopes he longs for you to come,
And ſhew my Fate in milder Wars at home.D4 Ah! 40 D4v (40)
Ah! once unhappy Priam two could boaſt
Himſelf the Father of a Warlike Hoſt.
When fifty Sons ſecur’d him in his Throne;
Ah! once he lov’d! now Priam’s left alone.
The chance of War has ſnatch’d ’em moſt from hence,
And him that was my City’s chief defence,
Preſerv’d my Sons and Me, (Hector in vain
Fought in his Country’s Cauſe) thy Sword hath ſlain;
For his dear ſake I come amongſt my Foes,
And venture all that hatred can oppoſe:
Theſe gifts muſt purchaſe Hector,—ſtill malicious Fate!
Ineſtimable Hector bought at ſuch a rate!
But God-like Sir, revere the Pow’rs on high;
And ſhew what we muſt do, when you aſcend the sky:
Think on your aged Sire, and pity me,
Thruſt on all evils by my miſery:
None ſure was ſo unfortunate before,
I kiſs the hand ſtain’d in my Hectors gore.
A Letter from one in the Univerſity to his Friend in the Country.
I Often have admir’d dear Friend, why we
Of all Mankind ſhould ſo unhappy be,
We’ve all that Liberal Nature ever ſent,
Or Art, to perfect Nature cou’d invent;
We have—what have we not? yet all our Joys
Are paul’d, and ſomething ſtill our bliſs deſtroys;
For Woman, that firſt damn’d us ſtill retains
That faculty, and ſtill augments our pains;
We’re here o’rewhelm’d with a reſiſtleſs Tide
Of Patches, Paint, Hypocriſie, and Pride.
Yet ſure one might have thought (if ought cou’d be,
This ſacred ground might from ſuch Weeds be free.
But oh! the richeſt ſoil too often breeds
The fouleſt Venom, and the rankeſt Weeds;Here 42 D5v (42)
Here each proud tawdry thing lays claim to wit,
And dare to ſenſure what the Wits have writ;
But among all this numerous train, there dwells
Not one whom haughty Roſaline excells
For Wit or Breeding, Gayety or Senſe,
Or ought that you can call impertinence:
She can Lucretias deepeſt ſecrets ſcan,
And knows each Attome which compoſe a Man;
Verſt in all Tongues, to every thing pretend,
Yet ſcarce can read the Poem she commends;
By Heav’n, there’s not a Plague on Earth ſo great
As Womans tongue, back’d with her own conceit;
She loves Alcæus, and his Senſe admires,
But loaths the dulneſs of Mechanick Fires;
Buys off her Husbands Love, that ſo ſhe might
With greater guſto meet her Sparks delight:
At Table ſhe deſcants on every Word,
Her talk is all Sir Harry, and my Lord;
Her Pride’s her greateſt Vertue, and ſo vain,
That Nature ſeem’d to form her for diſdain:Others 43 D6r (43)
Others we have, whoſe names I’ll wave, for ſhe
Of all that’s vain, is the Epitome.
Thus Sir, you ſee through what a Hurrican
The bold young Pilot Sails, to be a Man.
Song By the Earl of Rocheſter.
My dear Miſtris has a heart,
Soft as thoſe kind looks ſhe gave me,
When with Love’s reſiſtleſs Art,
And her eyes ſhe did inſlave me;
But her Conſtancy’s ſo weak,
She’s ſo wild and apt to wander,
That my Jealous heart wou’d break,
Should we live one day aſunder.
Melting Joys about her moves
Killing Pleaſures, wounding Bliſſes,
She can dreſs her Eyes in Love,
And her Lips can Arm with Kiſſes;
Angels liſten when ſhe ſpeaks,
She’s my delight, all Mankinds wonder;
But my Jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day aſunder.
Poems on ſeveral Occaſions, by ſeveral hands:
On the Death of the late Earl of Rocheſter, By Mrs. A.B.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muſes, all your loſs deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne’re ſhall riſe from Deaths eternal Night,
So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne’re bore,
Such Wit, ſuch Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t’improve
In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his gift, which freely he beſtow’d,
And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himſelf attain’d a Glorious name.But 46 D7v (46)
But oh! in vain was all his peeviſh Pride,
The Sun as ſoon might his vaſt Luſtre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more laſting bright,
As ſuffering no viciſſitudes of Night.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muſes, all your loſs deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Now uninſpir’d upon your Banks we lye,
Unleſs when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;
His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit diſpenſe,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Senſe.
But all fine thought that Raviſht when it ſpoke,
With the ſoft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the ſoul o’recome,
Is buried all in Strephon’s Worſhip’d Tomb;
Satyr has loſt its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear inſtructing Rage is now allay’d,
And no ſharp Pen dares tell ’em how they’ve ſtray’d;Bold 47 D8r (47)
Bold as a God was ev’ry laſh he took,
But kind and gentle the chaſtiſing ſtroke.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
The laſt Reproacher of your Vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cypruſ on,
The trueſt Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and ſigh’d, and ſpoke,
Recall his Meen, his Faſhion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did ſurprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
Bedew’d with everlaſting falling Show’rs;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
Too ſad a Triumph of your Victories;Adorn’d 48 D8v (48)
Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent,
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent
You’ve laid into his early Monument.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your ſad loſs deplore,
The Young, the Charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whoſe Darts
Have loſt their wonted power of piercing hearts
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The uſeleſs Toys can do no Miſchief now,
Thoſe Eyes that all your Arrows points inſpir’d,
Thoſe Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Dove
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humbleſt Votary have loſt
That ever your Divinities could boaſt;
Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your wings encompaſs round his Shrine
In ſtead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows ſtrow,
And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loſs deplore,
The ſoft, the Charming Strephon is no more.
Large was his Fame, but ſhort his Glorious Race,
Like young Lucretius liv’d and dy’d apace.
So early Roſes fade, ſo over all
They caſt their fragrant ſcents, then ſoftly fall,
While all the ſcatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
How lovely ’twas when whole, how ſweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,
When great Auguſtus fill’d the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond’rous Poet ſeen,
And known his Genius, and ſurvey’d his Meen,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name,
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verſe his Ovid he’ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.
Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loſs deplore,
The great, the charming Strephon is no more.
The Fifth Metre in the firſt Book of Boetius, done in 16801680. on occaſion of the preſent confuſion. By Mr. E.A.
Great Ruler of the Glorious World above
Who ſeated high in thy Eternal Throne
Doſt Heav’n around in rapid Courſes move,
And mak’ſt the Stars thy vaſt Dominion own.
Thou ſend’ſt the Moon array’d in borrow’d Light
To baniſh Terror from the diſmal Night;
And when its leſſen’d Orb is in its Wane,
Fill’ſt with freſh Beams the empty ſpace again;
Yet lets her not uſurp her Brothers ſway,
But in its courſe reſtor’ſt the welcome day.
The welcome Day, which cheers our longing ſight,
And ſhames the baffl’d Glory of the Night.
To thee the year its various ſeaſons owes,
Thou their ſucceſſions wiſely doſt diſpoſe;
In Winters Cold thou doſt contract the Light,
And from ſhort toils to long repoſe invite.
But doſt in Summers heat repriſe the day,
And kindly all its borrow’d time repay.
Now gentle Zephyrs to the trees reſtore
What the rude Boreus robb’d ’em of before,
And Seeds which once Arcturus did behold
Buried in the ridges of the furrow’d Mould,
Now finds a joyful Reſurrection thence,
Quick’ned by Sirius ripening Influence;
Thy work leaves nothing to miſtake its way,
But by their Antient rule doſt all things ſway.
Yet while for meaner things thy care is ſhown,
That bleſſing is deny’d to Man alone;
Why ſhould inconſtant Fortune elſe create,
Such various alterations in his State?
Why ſhould the torments, for the guilty meant,
Be made the portion of the Innocent?E2 While 52 E2v (52)
While they whoſe Crimes and guilt deſerve Diſgrace
Triumph o’re Vertue, and uſurp its place.
The forſworn wretch thrives by his Perjurys,
And Fraud ſucceeds varniſh’d with ſplendid lyes,
And when ’tis pleas’d to exerciſe its Powers,
It ruins Princes whom the World adores.
Oh thou whoſe Power to every thing gives birth,
Regard at laſt the miſerable Earth,
Man, no mean part of thy great work, is toſt
In a rough Sea of Fate, and almoſt loſt,
Oh lay the riſing Waves, and noiſy wind,
And in thy Care let Man a Harbour find;
Let Earth with Heaven participate thy Love,
And rule below propitious as above,
The Seventh Metre in the firſt Book of Boetius. By Mr. E.A.
The Stars whoſe ſplendor gilds the Skys,
No Beauty can diſcloſe,
When e’re between them and our Eyes
Clouds rudely interpoſe.
When the rough wind without controul,
O’re the ſwoln Ocean raves,
Whoſe Blaſts the mounting Billows rowl,
And toſs the foaming Waves.
The Chriſtal Flood which was before
(Clear, as ſereneſt days,
Troubl’d and Muddy now, no more
That Excellence diſplays.
The River which from lofty Hills,
With eaſie motion flows,
Oft meets with Stones born down its Rills,
Which its due Courſe oppoſe.
If with a clear and faithful Light,
Thou Truth deſir’ſt to ſee,
And of all ways wouldſt chooſe the right,
From baneful Error Free;
Drive all falſe pleaſures from thy Breaſt,
Baniſh all idle fear,
And be not with vain hope poſſeſt,
Nor yield to ſad deſpair.
For where thoſe Tyrant Paſſions Reign,
They ſo inſlave the mind,
No Priſoner wears a heavier Chain,
No Captive more confin’d.
The Complaint. A Song To a new Scotch Tune of Mr. Farmers, By Mr. T.O.
I Love, I dote, I rave with pain,
No quiet’s in my mind,
Tho ne’re cou’d be a happy Swain,
Were Sylvia leſs unkind.
For when, as long her Chains I’ve worn,
I ask relief from ſmart,
She only gives me looks of Scorn;
Alas ’twill break my heart.
My Rival’s rich in Wordly Store,
May offer heaps of Gold,
But ſurely I a Heav’n adore,
Too precious to be ſold;E4 Can 56 E4v (56)
Can Sylvia ſuch a Coxcomb prize,
For Wealth and not Deſert,
And my poor ſighs and tears deſpiſe;
Alas, ’twill break my heart.
When like ſome panting hov’ring Dove,
I for my Bliſs contend,
And plead the Cauſe of eager Love,
She coldly calls me Friend;
Ah Sylvia! thus in vain you ſtrive,
To act a Healers part,
’Twill keep but lingring pain alive;
Alas! and break my heart.
When on my lonely penſive Bed,
I lay me down to reſt,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning Breaſt;
Her Cruelty all eaſe denies,
With ſome ſad Dream I ſtart,
All drown’d in tears I find my Eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then riſing, through the Path I rove,
That leads me where ſhe dwells,
Where to the ſenſleſs Waves my Love,
Its Mournful ſtory tells;
With ſighs I dew and kiſs the Door,
Till Morning bids depart,
Then vent ten thouſand ſighs and more;
Alas ’twill break my heart.
But Sylvia, when this Conqueſt’s won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you’ve done,
Nor glory when ’tis told;
For ev’ry lovely generous Maid,
Will take my injur’d part,
And curſe thee Sylvia I’m afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
Againſt Duelling. By Mr. H.C. of Kings Colledge
Forgive him, no, no Damn me if I do,
I’ll be reveng’d, and that the World ſhal know;
May I be Damn’d to all Eternity
If e’er I put it up; what, take the Lye?
Fool, Coward too, and do I wear a Sword?
His Life ſhall dearly pay for that proud word:
My ſelf, my friend abus’d, my Miſtris too;
And lives the Man that dares provoke me ſo?
His Blood for ſatisfaction I will have,
To my revenge I’ll Sacrifice the Slave.
But if the Fates unjuſt, my Fall decree,
And I thus injur’d, unreveng’d muſt die,
’Twill pleaſe my angry Ghoſt, to have it ſed,
He bravely fell: he fell in Honour’s Bed.
Alas, vain Man, he thinks not there’s a Hell
For him who on that Bed of Honour fell.
Falſe notions did his erring ſenſe deceive,
He knew not that tis nobler to forgive,
Than poorly to revenge; for only Man
Sould bear Affronts, a Worm will turn again;
This Deviliſh Cuſtom firſt from France was brought,
France that inſtructs in ev’ry thing that’s naught,
From thence we lov’d and dreſt, from thence we taught:
Oh that we wou’d at laſt become more wiſe,
That we would ſcorn this mean unmanly Vice,
That no more generous blood might here be ſpilt,
The Nation’s Scandal, and the Victor’s Guilt.
If we’d be brave, let’s make our Vallour known
Againſt our Countrys Foes, and not our own.
’Twas by this nobler Art that heretofore,
Our ancient Britains roſe to ſo much pow’r;
That they did to that envi’d greatneſs come,
So fear’d abroad, and ſo belov’d at home;Had 60 E6v (60)
Had Blood for ev’ry ſlight affront been ſhed,
There ſcarce had now been left a Man to bleed.
The Parting: By Mr. T.B.
As Damon that unhappy Swain,
Was forc’d away from the Arcadian Plain
Claſping his dear Amyntas in his Arms,
And loſt among the throng of Charms,
With much adoe
And ſigh’d and wept, and ſo went ſadly on:
Oh!—will you think of Damon when he’s gone.
Think how he ſate by yonder Hill,
Think how he pip’d, and be you merry ſtill;
Then wou’d we languiſh on each others Face,
Then wou’d we ſmile and then imbrace;
Our Lambs have gaz’d,
And ſtood amaz’d,
To ſee this pitch of Love; for living thus
Our very Flocks learnt Innocence of us.
Oh! my Amyntas muſt we part,
How ſhall I do to live without my heart!
But bus’neſs—cruel bus’neſs—what can hold?
That Wolf will break into our Fold,
And mar our bleſſed State
In humane Fate
Whom do thy thread, to ſuch ill fortune bind,
The Body flies and leaves the Soul behind.
Out of Ovid’s Amours: Book 3. Elegy 3. On his Perjur’d Miſtris. By Mr. H.C. of K.C.
Not I, I’ll never, never entertain
Belief of an Almighty Pow’r again;
Never perſwade me to’t: Corina ſwore
And perjur’d is, yet lovely as before;
Still each reſiſtless Charm, ſtill ev’ry Grace
Smiles with commanding ſweetneſs in her face,
She’s fair, as when all Innocent ſhe was.No 62 E7v (62)
No former Beauty from her Cheeks are fled,
Such whiteneſs ſtill they wear, ſo dy’d with red;
Her radiant Eyes of Stars out-ſhone the light,
Her radient Eyes are ſtill than Stars more bright.
Sure ’tis from all Eternity decreed,
The Beauteous ne’re for Perjuries ſhou’d bleed.
By her own Eyes, deceitful as her heart,
By mine ſhe ſwore, alas mine felt the ſmart;
Why oh ye Gods, is ſhe from Vengeance free?
Why’s the dire Curſe unjuſtly fall’n on me?
Is’t not enough ſhe muſt ſecure remain,
And triumph over baffl’d Gods and Men?
But that I muſt, I who no fault have known,
Your Victim fall, and for her crime attone;
Sure there’s no Gods, but in the Vulgars fear,
Who cringe to ſomething, not known what, or where,
Or if there be, they too the fair adore,
And to the Beauteous Sex reſign their Pow’r.
’Tis againſt Man that they their Armes prepare,
Unhappy Man muſt all their Anger bear;While 63 E8r (63)
While ſinful Beauty’s in it ſelf ſecure,
They all affronts can from the fair indure;
High Tow’rs and Groves Jove with his Thunder tears,
But Woman! lovely Perjur’d Woman ſpares.
Who then will Incence on your Altars burn?
Sure braver Man will the baſe Office ſcorn.
But why reproach I thus the bleſt above?
The Gods have eyes and hearts, the Gods may love;
Were I my ſelf a God, deceiv’d I’d be,
And wink, or ſmile on Womans Perjury.
I by my ſelf wou’d Swear, (a Sacred Oath)
What ever Woman Swore, was ſacred truth;
I’d ſtill be kind, and ſcorn it ſhou’d be ſaid
Of me,—he was a rude ill-natur’d God.
Thus Madam you may Reign, yet gently Reign,
And as you cauſe, ſo cure the Wretched’s Pain.
On Flowers in a Ladies Boſom, By T.B.
Behold the promis’d Land where Pleaſure flows,
See how the Milk-white Hills do gently riſe,
And beat the ſilken Skies;
Behold the Valley ſpread with flowr’s below,
Other diſcoveries Fate let me not ſhare,
As I find out may I Inhabit there.
The happy Flow’rs, how they allure my ſenſe,
The fairer ſoil gives ’em the noble hew;
Her Breath Perfumes ’em too;
Rooted i’th’ heart they ſeem to ſpring from thence;
Tell, tell me why thou fruitful Virgin Breaſt,
Why ſhou’d ſo good a ſoil lye unpoſſeſt?
Surely ſome Champion in the Cauſe of Love
Has languiſh’d here—more weary with the fight,
Then vanquiſh’d quite;
While the ſoft God took pity from above,
And thinking to reward his Service well,
Bid him grow there where he ſo nobly fell.
So when the longing Cytherea found
The Murder’d Boy, who long deceiv’d her eyes
Under a Flow’rs diſguiſe,
And pluck’d the curious Poſie from the ground;
Fair Cytherea’s Boſom look’d like this,
So bluſh’d Adonis in the ſeat of Bliſs.
Song Made by an Old Man, to Lady F.
Ah! fly me not bright Creature, ſtay;
Deſtroy not what you do create;
Your Beauty’s Pow’r will change my Grey,
And make me young, and Fortunate,
Almighty Love that Error will deſtroy,
That Age is paſt the taſt of pleaſing Joy:
’Tis true, an outward Froſt appears,
But Youthful Flames are in my Heart,
Love can recall the Lovers years,
And new create his every part,
Love equally inſpires the Old and Young,
Preſerves Gay Youth, and makes the Aged ſtrong.
On the Duke of Grafton, Upon the firſt Night of Bedding his Lady.
Hark, hark, great Love does give the Alarms;
Ariſe brave Youth, to Arms, to Arms,
See where Clarinda does appear!
For the bleſs’d combate then prepare;
Let Love, the Monarch of the Soul
All that is rough and fierce controul.
Prepare your ſelf for Joys, where both ſhall be
Each other’s Victor by Love’s Extaſie.
Let others in the Field prepare,
With Armour ’gainſt the harms of War,
Who only empty Honours gain,
Reaping their Glories from the Slain.
With Blood and Wounds they Fame create,
And Savage Murders make ’em great.F2 From 68 F2v (68)
From Fear, not Vallor, do their Glories riſe,
Who poorly boaſt of Fame when th’ Conquer’d dies.
But Love’s ſoft Wars more Noble are,
A wounded heart’s the only ſcar,
Which with full Joys they ſtill receive,
And bleſs thoſe eyes the charming Miſchiefs give.
Inſtead of Rage, young Love inſpires
His Combatants with ſoft deſires,
With which he oft, Rallies, renews the Fray,
And he’s the Conqueror that has loſt the day.
Song, By the Earl of Dorſet.
Let the Ambitious favour find,
In Courts and empty noiſe,
Whilſt greater Love does fill my mind
With ſilent real Joy.
Let Fools and Knaves grow Rich and Great,
And the World think ’em Wiſe,
Whilſt I lie dying at her feet,
And all that World deſpiſe.
Let Conquering Kings new Trophies raiſe,
And melt in Court delights,
Her Eyes can give me brighter days,
Her Arms much ſofter nights:
Song, Made by Mrs. Taylor.
Ye Virgin Pow’rs defend my heart
From Amorous looks and ſmiles,
From ſawcy Love, or nicer Art
Which moſt our Sex beguile;
For Sighs, and Vows, from awful fears
That do to Pity move,
From ſpeaking ſilence, and from Tears,
Thoſe Springs that Water Love,
But if through Paſſion I grow blind,
Let Honour be my guide.
And where frail Nature seems inclin’d,
There fix a guard of Pride.
A heart whoſe Flames are ſeen tho pure,
Needs every Vertues aid,
And thoſe who think themſelves ſecure,
The ſooneſt are betray’d.
To Mertill who deſired her to ſpeak to Clorinda of his Love. By Mrs. Taylor.
Mertill Though my heart ſhould break,
In granting thy deſire,
To cold Clorinda I will ſpeak,
And warm her, with my fire.
To ſave thee from approaching harm,
My Death I will obey.
To ſave thee, ſinking in the Storm,
I’ll caſt my ſelf away.
May her Charms equal thoſe of thine!
No words can e’re expreſs,
And let her Love be great as mine,
Which thee wou’d only bleſs.
May you ſtill prove her faithful ſlave,
And ſhe ſo kind and true,
She nothing may deſire to have,
Or fear to Loſe,—but you.
Song, By Mrs. Taylor.
Strephon has Faſhion, Wit and Youth,
With all things elſe that pleaſe,
He nothing wants but Love and Truth,
To ruine me with eaſe.
But he is flint, and bears the Art,
To kindle ſtrong deſire,
His pow’r inflames anothers heart,
Yet he ne’re feels the fire.
Alas, it does my Soul perplex,
When I his charms recall,
To think he should deſpiſe the Sex,
Or what’s worſe, love ’em all;
My wearied heart, like Noah’s Dove,
In vain may ſeek for reſt,
Finding no hope to fix my Love,
Returns into my Breaſt.
A Letter to Mr. Creech at Oxford, Written in the laſt great Froſt.
Daphnis, becauſe I am your debtor,
(And other cauſes which are better)
I ſend you here my debt of Letter.
You ſhou’d have had a ſcrap of Nonſenſe,
You may remember left at Tonſons.
(Tho by the way that’s ſcurvy Rhime Sir,
But yet ’twill ſerve to Tagg a Line Sir.)A 74 F5v (74)
A Billet Deux I had deſign’d then,
But you may think I was in Wine then;
Becauſe it being cold, you know
We warm’d it with a Glaſs—or ſo,
I grant you that Shie Wine’s the Devil,
To make ones memory uncivil;
But when ’twixt every ſparkling Cup,
I ſo much brisker Wit took up;
Wit, able to inſpire a thinking;
And make one ſolemn even in Drinking;
Wit that would charm and ſtock a Poet,
Even inſtruct—who has no Wit;
Wit that was hearty, true, and Loyal,
Of Wit, like Bays Sir, that’s my Tryal;
I say ’twas moſt impoſſible,
That after that one ſhould be dull.
Therefore becauſe you may not blame me,
Take the whole Truth as—ſhall ſa’me.
From White-Hall Sir, as I was coming,
His Sacred Majeſty from Dunning;Who 75 F6r (75)
Who oft in Debt is, truth to tell,
For Tory Farce, or Doggerell,
When every Street as dangerous was,
As ever the Alpian Hills to paſs.
When melted Snow and Ice confound one,
Whether to break ones neck or drown one,
And Billet Deux in Pocket lay,
To drop as Coach ſhou’d Jolt that way,
Near to that place of Fame call’d Temple,
(Which I ſhall note by ſad Example)
Where Colledg Dunce is cur’d of Simple,
Againſt that Sign of Whore call’d Scarlet,
My Coachman fairly laid Pilgarlick.
Tho Scribling Fiſt was out of joynt,
And ev’ry Limb made great complaint;
Yet miſſing the dear Aſſignation,
Gave me moſt cauſe of Tribulation.
To Honeſt H――le I ſhou’d have ſhown ye,
A Wit that wou’d be proud t’have known ye;
A Wit uncommon, and Facetious,
A great admirer of Lucretius;But 76 F6v (76)
But tranſitory hopes do vary,
And high Deſignments oft miſcarry,
Ambition never climb’d ſo lofty,
But may deſcend too fair and ſoftly,
But would you’d ſeen how ſneakingly
I look’d with this Cataſtrophe.
So ſawcy Whigg, when Plot broke out,
Dejected hung his ſniv’ling ſnout;
So Oxford Member look’d, when Rowley
Kickt out the Rebel Crew ſo foully;
So Perkin once that God of Wapping,
Whom ſlippery turn of State took napping,
From hopes of James the ſecond fell
In to the native Scounderell.
So Lover look’d of Joy defeated,
When too much fire his Vigour cheated,
Even ſo look’d I, when Bliſs depriving,
Was caus’d by over-haſty driving,
Who ſaw me cou’d not chuſe but think,
I look’d like Brawn in ſowſing drink.Or 77 F7r (77)
Or Lazarello who was ſhow’d
For a ſtrange Fiſh, to’th’ gaping Crowd.
Thus you by fate (to me, Siniſter,
At Shop of Book my Billet miſt Sir.
And home I went as diſcontent,
As a new routed Parliament,
Not ſeeing Daphnis ere he went.
And ſure his grief beyond expreſſing,
Of Joy propos’d to want the Bleſſing;
Therefore to Pardon pray incline,
Since diſappointment all was mine;
Of Hell we have no other notion,
Than all the Joys of Heav’ns privation;
So Sir with Recommendments fervent,
I reſt your very humble Servant.
On Twelfth night Sir, by that good token
When lamentable Cake was broken,
You had a Friend, a Man of Wit,
A Man whom I ſhall ne’re forget;
For every word he did impart,
’Twas worth the keeping in a heart:
True Tory all! and when he ſpoke,
A God in Wit, tho Man in look.
—To this your Friend—Daphnis addreſs
The humbleſt of my Services;
Tell him how much—yet do not too,
My vaſt eſteem no words can ſhew;
Tell him—that he is worthy—you.
In praiſe of Folly. By Mr. R.A.
Happy the Man whoſe friendly want of Wit
Makes him for all things but contempt unfit.
Regardleſs of the burthen of the State,
He laughs at all who toil beneath its weight;
Whoſe Light, untroubled head does ſtill impart
A ſimpathetick briskneſs to the heart;
No Politick deſigns diſturb his reſt,
For thoughts are ſtrangers to his peaceful breaſt;
He acts whatever with his Will agrees,
And fears no Ill, becauſe he none foreſees;
In the worſt times he needs no more defence,
Than his own native harmleſs Innocence;
He never under a ſuſpicion lies,
The Fate of all who are reputed wiſe;His 80 F8v (80)
His feet and tongue from all reſtraint are free,
For there’s no danger in their Liberty;
Nature, at leaſt, made him with this intent,
That he ſhould do no Ill what e’re he meant;
But he means none, nor uſes any Art,
But in his words and actions ſhews his heart;
Through which his moſt reſerv’d deſigns appear,
As Stones throw Rivers that run low and clear.
So ſafe he is, that wiſe men to eſcape
Some threatned Miſchiefs, have aſſum’d his ſhape
Admit ſome term him what he is, a fool,
And ſtrive to turn him into redicule;
Yet he in this the wiſe man’s part does play,
And laughs at his own Follies more than they;
Nor can his want of wit diſturb his mind.
Since ’tis a want that he can never find.
For as the Ape no other form deſires,
So much her own ſhe above all deſires,
So he requires no wit, to make him wiſe,
His very Folly that defect ſupplys.81 G1r (81)
And, as the Fiſh, that having hid her head
Sees not her ſelf, does no eſpial dread,
So he who is to his own failings blind,
Ne’r apprehends the World ſhould any find;
Bleſs’d Adam thus before His Fig-leaf Dreſs,
Saw nought to bluſh at in his Nakedneſs;
But when alas! he knowing grew, and wiſe,
He ſoon became a Nuiſance to his eyes;
For Ignorance like Steel Mirrors repreſents
What pleaſes, but conceals what diſcontents;
While knowledg like the clear and flattering Glaſs,
Shews all the Imperfections of the Face.
And as by Studying we only know,
How great a part o’th’ World we’re ſtrangers too;
So ſtill the more in knowledge we advance,
We but the more perceive our Ignorance;
Hence ’tis that Fools have Fortune and Succeſs,
While men of Wit and Parts find nothing leſs;G For 82 G1v (82)
For they conſider what is fit to ſpeak,
Before they dare their awful ſilence break,
While the brisk Fop, juſt as Phanaticks Pray,
Talks moſt and loudeſt, that has leaſt to ſay,
And with the Vulgar, by a lucky hit,
This paſſes for a Zealot, that a Wit.
Hence then my Books obſtructers of my riſe,
Should I converſe with you, I ſhould grow wiſe
But I’ll not ſo long for preferment ſtay,
Since there’s a nearer, and a ſurer way;
I’ll be as empty as the ſhallow’ſt Pate,
And then perhaps ſhall be as Fortunate;
Then I may Houſes build, and Caſtles rear,
While wiſer Men have none but in the Air;
At leaſt I ſhall not undergo their Fate,
For ſawcy medling in Affairs of State,
Be fixt the Traitors ſcarecrow on the Gate.
Oh that at laſt theſe buſie men would ceaſe,
With Factious Politicks to diſturb our Peace!That 83 G2r (83)
That they no more would boldly and aloud,
With needleſs fears poſſeſs the heedleſs Crowd;
No more cajole their Sovereign, nor pretend
To wiſh his life, while they contrive his end;
Nor rudely pry, into his Royal Brothers mind,
A ſecret too divine for them to find;
For Princes thoughts like Heavn’s reſerv’d decrees,
Are too ſublime for Vulgar ſcrutinies.
But if the wholſom Phyſick of advice,
Cannot prevent the Ills of being too wiſe,
And they’ll Plot on—may Heav’n and Charles think fit,
To exalt their heads, for their pernicious Wit.
Friendſhip. By Mr. T.B.
Happy the brace of Souls that do conſpire
Againſt thoſe Tyrants, Body, and Deſire;
Chaſte as unthinking Virgins, pure as Veſtal Fire.
Of Noble Elemental Flames they’r made,
To nothing groſs, to nothing mean betray’d:
They give out Men, but Angels are in Maſquerade.
The Forms of Heavy Matter they deſpiſe,
In contemplation all their pleaſure lies,
Themſelves they ſeek, and their own Country of the Skies.
Together yoakt, ſo wou’d two Turtles move,
And draw the Chariot of unblemiſht Love.
So wou’d they Bill and Choo, until they rooſt above.
But let our Frolick Prodigals o’th’ Gown,
Dive for the Tawdry Petticoat alone,
And waſt Gods Image, to make others of their own.Let 85 G3r (85)
Let their foul Conſciences be written Ill,
Blotted with Woman, and her Peeviſh Will,
Let Am’rous Charms be there in Deviliſh Characters ſtill.
The Nobleſt Nature gave us, ſhe ſhall find
Free from the many frailties of Mankind;
My friend and I will ſweetly guide each others mind.
We’ll walk, and treat upon ſome calm delight,
We’l neither wrangle about wrong or right,
Quiet ſhall rule the Day, and Innocence the Night.
And then poor Fortune, what will be thy ſhare?
Alas! how ſmall an Empire muſt thou bear
When we divide each joy, and leſſen every care.
Thus liv’d methinks thoſe happy Youths of yore,
Thus Pilades embrac’d his friend before,
And thus, thus warm’d Oreſtes melts and loves the more.
A Song By Sir G. Etheridg.
Ye happy Swains whoſe hearts are free,
From Loves Imperial Chain,
Take warning and be taught by me,
T’avoid th’inchanting Pain;
Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,
Fierce winds to Bloſſoms prove,
To careleſs Sea-men hidden Rocks,
To human quiet Love.
Fly the fair Sex, if Bliſs you prize,
The Snake’s beneath the Flow’r,
Who ever gaz’d on Beauteous Eyes,
That taſted quiet more?
How Faithleſs is the Lovers Joy!
How conſtant is their Care!
The Kind with Falſhood do deſtroy,
The Cruel with Deſpair.
To Astrea On Her Poems.
For once kind Heav’n, permit me to lay by
The Sacred Badges of Divinity;
And you bleſt Heroine for once admit
A Country Curate, to admire your Wit.
Tho it be very Antick I confeſs,
For one t’appear in a Poetick Dreſs;
Whoſe hard misfortune ’tis (alas!) to keep
Only with Clod-pate Souls who talk of Sheep.G4 Yet 88 G4v (88)
Yet e’en the Gods the Woods would ſometimes brook
Sometimes the Mighty Charles a Shelter took,
Like the old Druids in a Sacred Oak.
And the bleſs’d Swains of old with charming Verſe,
Cou’d reach all heights and wondrous things rehearſe:
Nor doubt we but to ſee thoſe days again,
When a brisk fire ſhall actuate ev’ry Swain,
And Ruſticks be inſpir’d like other Men.
The bright Aſtrea’s pow’rful influence,
Shall make fat Clowns Immortal Bards commence,
Charm’d by her mighty numbers into ſenſe.
With fewer Charms of old a Thracian Lyre,
Did the rude World with peaceful thoughts inſpire;
Whole Herds of Men, and Savage Beaſts grew tame,
And Proſelytes to his vaſt Muſe became.But 89 G5r (89)
But England has a nobler task for you,
Not to tame Beaſts but the brute Whigs ſubdue,
A thing which yet the Pulpit cou’d not do.
Your Satyr muſt the Factious Age reclaim,
To ſee their Follies and confeſs their Shame;
But ah! by Fate they’re to a damned caſe,
The ſenſleſs Fops are paſt all Shame or Grace,
With frontleſs Impudence pretending Wit,
The Slaves dare think that noble Mark they hit,
When they like Baxter Proſe, and Verſe like S―― write,
S―― the Maſter of the Holborn Choir,
One, whom no Muſe but hunger does inſpire;
The Starving Crambo Poet of the Town,
Whoſe wit ne’r reach’d above a dull Lampoon;
The Prince of thoſe that write in Dogrell Rhimes,
S―― the Reverend Sternhold of the times.
Behold ye Whigs the Laurell only grows
And flouriſhes on Loyal Tory Brows.Whilſt 90 G5v (90)
Whilſt your Pretenſions to be Wits are ſhamm’d,
And all your Poets to the Hell of Nonſence damn’d.
When ſuch dull Slaves ſuch mighty Fabricks ſhow
As we ſee, bleſs’d Aſtrea rais’d by you,
I’ll e’n believe the World was made by Chance,
The Product of unthinking Atoms dance;
While they thro’ the unmeaſur’d Vacuum came,
And boxt themſelves into this Beauteous frame,
’Twas Divine Pow’r that made all thoſe combine
To raiſe this Pile; and it was wit divine
Could form ſuch mighty Verſe, great Nymph ’twas only thine.
And now let the fond Catholicks adore,
And vainly their deaf tutelar Saints implore;
Let ’em raiſe Temples to preſerve their name,
While we build Altars to Aſtrea’s Fame:
Triumphant Nymph! no other Saint ſhall know
The wing’d Paſſions of our Souls, but you,
While we are Bards, or Lovers Militant below.Divine 91 G6r (91)
Divine Aſtrea! Pardon this bold flight,
I’d fain a Lover be, and fain a Wit;
But Providence it ſeems deſign’d t’immure
M’aſpiring ſoul in a poor Country Cure;
Where I on Men in vain may ſpend my toil,
Dull as their heart, but far more barren than their ſoil;
Capritious Clowns, whoſe ſurly humours croſt,
’Tis ten to one my Sunday’s Pudding’s loſt.
1684-01-09Jan. 9. 1684.
Old England: or New Advice To A Painter. A Poem.
Come Painter, you and I, you know, dare do
What our Licentious fancy leads us to,
Talk is but talk, let Court and Country ſee,
None has ſuch Arbitrary Pow’r as we.Let’s 93 G7r (93)
Let’s club then for a Piece to hit the times,
While your Poetic Paint ſets off my Rhimes;
Old England for the Love of Vertue draw,
Hold, not our Brazen-fac’d Britannica;
Let Agin Court preſent a Warlike Scene,
Albeville Ford, or the fam’d Creſſy’s Plain;
Let the Black Prince his Engliſh Flag advance,
Or let Fifth Harry March o’re Conquer’d France;
Shew me thoſe Sons of Mars, for I’m affraid
Their Race is loſt; their Vallor quite decay’d.
Give the juſt Lines, and the proportion fit,
None but a Hero for this Piece can ſit.
Hold Painter, hold, thy forward hand does run
Beyond advice, what is it thou haſt done?
What Crowds of Pimps and Paraſites are here!
Ha! what a Politick Fop drinks Coffee there!
See how th’ Apoſtate plys his Trait’rous Text,
The Goſpel wrackt, and Church Hiſtorians vext;
Look, look, the Sovereign People here diſpenſe
The Laws of Empire, to an abſolute Prince;Their 94 G7v (6494)
Their Will is Law Divine, themſelves being own’d
To the Almighty in the Spiritual Fund;
Religious Rogues! new Light, new Worſhip teach,
Some St. Tereſia, ſome St. Beckman Preach;
Your very Prophets here hang between both,
’Twixt God and Baal, I and Aſtaroth;
Your Feather’d Buff is valiant but to fight,
Clodius within, or his ſoft Catamite:
But your promiſcuous Rout, at Change o’th’ Moon
Are Tory, Trimmer, Whigg, Fool, Knave, Buffoon;
Unhappy Iſle! who thus can view thy face,
And not lament thy baſe degenerate Race?
Thoſe Lines of Majeſty that Europe Aw’d,
Now ſhews a Caſt-off Miſs, late turn’d to Bawd;
’Twas not from hence thoſe Worthies fill’d their Veins,
That led at once two Potent Kings in Chains;That 95 G8r (95)
That crop’d the Flow’r-de luce with greater Pride,
Than ever Tarquin Switch a Poppy’s head;
Made Lyon Rampant Couch, that long did Reign,
The Pride o’th Wood, and Terror of the Plain;
Brought Cyprus King a willing Captive here,
While Britain did another World appear;
Gave Laws to all the Land and then with eaſe,
Led their Triumphant Flag o’re all the Seas:
Curſe on that Man of Mode, who with his Wine
Debauch’d and ſo debas’d the Britiſh Line.
Turn thy Stile Painter, let one gracious Blot,
Hide all that’s ſtain’d with Zealot, Villain, Scot.
Try thy skill once again, England Alas!
Draw as it is, if’t can’t be as it was.
Firſt let Confuſion her dear ſelf diſplay,
To whom th’unthinking Croud Obedience pay;
Next Horror, who the flying Standard bears,
Deckt with this Motto, Jealouſies and Fears;
Here let the Rabble in Allegiance meet,With 96 G8v (96)
With Lives and Fortunes at their Idols feet:
Arm every Brigadier with Sacred Sword,
Inſcrib’d, Come Fight the Battel of the Lord:
Let Trumpets now proclaim immortal hate,
Againſt all Order in the Church and State.
Shew not the Victim, that did lately fall
By Fool or Rogues, the Sons of Belial.
But let a Curtain of black Murder hide,
Till Time, or kinder Fate ſhall draw’t aſide.
Haſt ye Infernal Pow’rs from your dark Cell,
Pour out the Viols that were fill’d in Hell;
The Plagues of the Black Box the World invade,
Fathers by their unnatural Sons betray’d.
When thus the Kingdom’s by Confuſion rent
Let Youths of Gotham ſteer the Government
By kind Addreſs, or wiſe Petition ſent.
Here Painter let the Royal Eagle fly,
In State through her Dominions of the Skie;
Let all the Feather’d Legions of her Train,
March at a diſtance o’re th’ Etherial Plain;Some 97 H1r (97)
Some few through Zeal too near their Sovereign preſs,
Offending by a plauſible Addreſs;
Others their grievances aloud declare,
Filling with Cries each Region of the Air,
The Tyrant does her Innocent Subjects tear.
Let ſtill the Mighty Monarch Steer her way,
Regardleſs what or thoſe, or theſe can ſay;
Her Divine prudence and abounded skill
Will make all happy, tho againſt their will.
Now let the Moral to this Fable ſay,
Let none preſume to rule, who ſhou’d obey,
Yet if all Err let’s Err the ſafer way.
Indentures give no right to ſhake a Throne,
Nor muſt profane hands ſtay a tott’ring one;
In vain does Cæſar vindicate the Seas,
That Men may Traffique to what Coaſt they pleaſe;
If Univerſal Mart thus proudly brag,
That the Court-Sails muſt lower to City-Flag.H If 98 H1v (98)
If large conceſſions from Succeſſive Kings,
Be ſuch deſirable ſuch pow’rful things;
Pity that e’re to Cities they were made,
Whoſe Charter dares Prerogative invade.
Sure gratitude is but an empty name,
Or Pow’r wou’d guard that hand from whence it came,
The Coffee-Drums beat Priviledge aloud,
While Duty is not heard among the Crowd.
The Law, whoſe Influence is kind to all,
Admits diſtinctions when a Saint ſhou’d fall,
Then Magna Charta is Apocryphal.
Poor Loyal Hearts they Plot no other thing,
Than firſt to ſave, then make a Glorious King.
Yet againſt Evil Counſellors, I hope,
Force may be us’d, and ſo againſt the Pope;
That was the word, when once, for public good
Three Kingdoms Innocently flow’d in Blood;
So Felons when purſu’d, ſtop Thief they cry,
And by that Strategem they ſafely fly.Read 99 H2r (99)
Read well theſe Men, you’ll find for many years,
Who Cæſar’s favor wants, is ſure of theirs.
Who flyes diſgrac’d from Court, here popular grows,
And ſtill where Cæſar frowns the City bows;
The blackeſt Traytors here a refuge find,
For City-Painters ne’re draw Juſtice blind.
Now croſs thy ſelf my Dear, for now is come
Sir Pacolet with his Advice from Rome;
Saddle a Broom-ſtaff, tie it to his ſide,
For now ’tis nothing but get up and ride;
Yet if that Nagg don’t Pacolet befit,
Paint Pægaſus, for Pacolet aims at Wit;
Through all the liquid plains o’th’ Air he flies,
And dances a Coranto ’bove the Skies;
His Racer does out-ſtrip the Eaſtern Wind,
And leaves the Horſes of the Sun behind;
Swifter than Thought, from Tyber he’s at Thames,
Good Lord! what Caſtles of the Air he names,
What vaſt diſcoveries, does he there diſcry,
Unſeen by all but Salamanca’s Eye!H2 What 100 H2v (100)
What Lady’s there diſtreſs’d, what Knight’s in wall
Lockt up, yet Pacolet ſtill frees ’em all;
Talk not of Rome’s Zamzummims; he no more
Will make of them, than Bellarmine before.
Windmills, and Caſtles in the Air muſt down,
Quickſot and Hudibraſs here meet in one.
Is one Romantick Hero not enough?
Joyn Proteſtanti, Cardinalo-Puffe;
Theſe lead in Chains that Pagan Prieſt, that firſt
Invented Surplice, ever ſince accurſt;
For Pagan Prieſt of old, wore Veſts of white:
Ergo the Surplice is a Pagan Rite.
By the ſame Logick they might thus infer;
Pagans built Temples, Offer’d Praiſe and Pray’r:
ErgoPrayer, Praiſe, and Temples, Pagan are.
Good God! that ſuch unthinking things as theſe
Shou’d once pretend to write, and writing pleaſe!
Some little uſe might of their Books be made,
If Smithfield Fires they duly had diſplay’d;101 H3r (101)
If they’d expos’d, by telling Miracles
Of Legendary Saints, in naſty Cells;
Had their impartial Writings rendred plain
Mariana’s Politicks, and Mary’s Reign:
Had they in point of Doctrine Errors ſhew’d,
Idolatry in point of Worſhip, good:
But againſt Rome while they proclaim their War,
The Church of England does their Fury bear;
She wears the Mark o’th’ Beaſt upon her Seal,
For Titus does as well as John Reveal.
Sir Pacolet now boaſt, that the Holy fire
In all our Candleſticks does e’n expire;
Hence thou Profane, thoſe are above thy reach,
Why ſhou’d one Damn’d to th’ Cart preſume Preach?
Solicit on, for ſome ignoble Fee,
For I know Simon, Simon too knows me.
Come Painter, to th’ Crowd this thingum ſhew,
And to Saint Packolet let London Bow.H3 Yet 102 H3v (102)
Yet let a Loyal Prætor ſway the Sword,
That’s never rais’d but to exalt its Lord;
Happy to future Ages be his name,
And may it ſound from all the Trumps of Fame;
No popular Breath can Steer his proſp’rous Sails,
No Bribes of Zealous Gold do’s turn his Scales;
He ſits like Juſtice in his Chair of State,
Weighing the Cities, and the Kingdoms fate,
So is the Realm of London ſwoln of late.
To th’ height of Glory juſtly he aſpires,
Thrice happy is the Knight, not ſo his Squires;
They with a diff’rent Zeal from his do burn,
And to the Faction would the Ballance turn;
No Care to Duty or Allegiance had,
Yet One is more unfortunate than bad:
So meek his Meen, ſo circumſpectly low,
That he has taught his very Horſe to bow;
Yields to the Church, conforms to all her Laws,
Yet ſtill embarques in the Diſſenters Cauſe;To 103 H4r (103)
To Roman Idols he’ll ne’r ſay his Beads,
Yet if miſtaken Zeal this Vot’ry leads,
He’ll ſplit upon the very Rock he dreads:
His Tongue ſpeaks naked Swords, his Paſſion flames,
Not to be quench’d by all the Floods of Thames;
But yet that Tongue that once had felt the ſmart,
Holds no great correſpondence with his heart:
He from himſelf does ſtrangely diſagree,
Lives not that thing he talkes himſelf to be;
His Goodly Fabrick has been long poſſeſt,
And wants the help of ſome kind Exorciſt;
Clear is his Soul from all this Clamorous Din,
’Tis ſome Fanatick Demon raves within;
T’other by Bacchus well inſpir’d, can ſee
The Miſtic Charm of Lawleſs Prophecy;
When he is warm with Wine, and drunk with Zeal,
He’ll with an Euoi to his Synagogue reel,
And the indwellings of the Spirit reveal.H4 From 104 H4v (104)
From Kings commands, by Drink and Charter free,
He can diſtinguiſh our mixt Monarchy;
Ill Politicks that Empire can decide,
Between the Sov’reign and the Subjects ſide.
Nor Pope, nor People do this Scepter ſway,
Whate’r the Leman Lake or Tiber ſay.
Now Painter draw two Factions both allied
In blood, and ruine, tho they now divide;
Thoſe make for Rome, and brisk Winds fill their Sails,
Theſe for Anticyra with equal gales;
Both with Fanatick zeal, yet here’s the odds,
Thoſe make, then Worſhip, and then eat their Gods;
Theſe Brutiſh Bigots moſt unwilling come
To th’ God of Heav’n, ’cauſe he’s God of Rome:
With that Devotion to their Chaos bow,
That thoſe to Painted Deities do owe;
Both Parties boaſt a Star to lead their Train,
One but of late dropt out of Charles his Wane,Unhappy 105 H5r (105)
Unhappy Prince! (by Tapomurſky led
To feed on husks, before thy Fathers Bread!
Fly to his Arms, he like th’ Almighty ſtands,
Inviting Penitents with both his hands.
Let the true Proteſtant Frogs croke for a King,
Be not that Block, that deſpicable thing;
Diſdain the Sham of an Utopian Crown,
Put on thoſe Laurels you ſo early won;
Let Cæſar’s lawful Line the Scepter ſway,
Thine is as great a Glory to obey.
If, by that other Star Rome’s Pilot ſteer
O’re Sands and Rocks, that ſoon will diſappear,
And leave ’em to be ſwallow’d in deſpair.
The Jeſuits Politicks ne’re found a Seat
In that brave Soul, that is Divinely great;
May he ſtill next to Cæſar ſit at Helm,
Aſſiſting to confirm this floating Realm;
Delos at laſt on a firm Baſis ſtood,
Checking the rage of an impetuous Flood;T 106 H5v (106)
So the fair Sons of Leda ſtill diſpenſe
A happy Fate, by their joynt influence;
Who knows the weight of an Imperial Crown,
Would not for ever bear it all alone;
When the Celeſtial Globe from Age to Age,
Atlas his Shoulders ſingly did engage;
None ever envy’d him a little eaſe,
To ſit and reſt, and admire Hercules;
Both Poles, and all the Gods he ſtoutly bore,
Ev’n thoſe that ſqueez’d to make his burden more;
The Church on both hands threatning danger ſees,
Like Jaſon’s Ship ’twixt the Symplegades;
Nor doth this Panick fear leſs ſeize the State,
Content to periſh in one common Fate.
Mean-while lock Cæſars Temples faſt aſleep,
So ſlept the Almighty Pilot on the Deep;
When Winds and Waves the Sacred Veſſel toſt,
When Faith was ſinking, the Ship almoſt loſt.Sleep 107 H6r (107)
Sleep gently glide, and calm thoſe raging Storms,
That daily wrack his Soul with freſh Alarms;
Serene be all his Dreams, happy his reſt,
No Politick fright diſturb his thoughtful Breaſt:
This to ſecure, let the Cyllenian God
Stroke both his Temples with his charming Rod;
Let Morpheus at an Awful diſtance ſtand,
Obſervant of his Mighty Lords Command.
Now Painter, if thou’rt learn’d, with keen Effort
Give a bold Daſh of Pluto’s diſmal Court;
Arm that Black Guard t’attempt great Cæſar’s Life
With Conſecrated Gun, Devoted Knife.
Lert all the Factious Spirits i’th’ Furies Train
Shake all their Snakes, and all their Rods in vain;
While a Wing’d Boy with a Triumphant ſmile,
The mighty Genius of this Brittiſh Iſle,
Defend all Danger, this looſe ſleeping while.
Let all the Titans, thoſe bold Sons of Earth,
That challenge Heaven by their right of Birth;With 108 H6v (108)
With Fire and Thunder their own Force annoy,
Ægean’s hundred hands himſelf deſtroy;
Let ’em all dye by one anothers Sword,
So fall the Enemies of my dreadful Lord;
Then let the Angel o’re the Throne appear,
And with ſoft accents ſtrike his Sacred Ear;
Here if to Paint a Sound be a hard thing
Give me this Labell Painter—
—To the King.
Awake great Sir, thy Guardian prays thee “wake,
Who to ſecure thy reſt, no reſt can take;
See the Globe reels, the Scepter’s tumbling down,
One ſuch another Nod may loſe a Crown.
Awake great care of Heav’n, riſe, pay thy Vows
To him, that neither ſleep nor ſlumber knowsYet 109 H7r (109)
Yet if thy wearied head more reſt muſt have,
Secure the Croſier, ſo the Crown you ſave.
The Crouds of thy Court-Paraſites are gone,
With early zeal to meet the riſing Sun;
That Prince that ſhear’d thy Baniſhment, muſt now,
To yield to Popular Rage, an Exile go.
Till kinder Providence Commiſſion me,
To bring him ſafe to’s Country and to thee;
Then will appear the greatneſs of his mind,
Like Gold that in the fire is thrice refin’d.
Some Friends are left, whoſe importunity
Will give no reſt either to Heav’n or thee;
See a poor few alas at ſilent Prayers,
No Rhetorick ſure, like that of ſighs and tears;
Thoſe ſoft Addreſſes they will ne’re forſake
Nor I my juſt Alarms, Cæſar awake!
Awake great Care of Heav’n, riſe, pay thy Vows
To him who neither Sleep nor Slumber knows.
Now Painter force thy Art, thy utmoſt try,
Let day ariſe from Cæſar’s waking Eye;And 110 H7v (110)
And while he graſps the Scepter, put in’s hand
The long-loſt Reigns of Sovereign command;
Thus let the Beams of Majeſty out-run
The Morn, and be more glorious than the Sun.
Once Painter, when the bluſtring Winds grew rough,
And o’r the Seas did Domineer and Huff;
Great Neptune then thinking himſelf betray’d,
Since his Prerogative they durſt invade,
Sprung from the Deep, and with an awful Nod,
Confin’d the Slaves of the Æolian God;
Strait the proud Billows from their tumults ceaſe,
And all his watry Subjects flow in peace.
Let Cæſar thus ariſe, and thus the World,
That was to Ruin, and Confuſion hurl’d,
Retire to Order, and Alegiance pay
In the moſt Loyal, and Submiſſive way,
Now let the Piece with thy beſt Colours ſhine,
While every Man ſits under his own Vine;
Ye Siſters run this Thread t’an endleſs Date,
Now ev’ry one carves to himſelf his Fate;None 111 H8r (111)
None are unhappy but who force their woe,
Make themſelves wretched leaſt chance make ’em ſo,
As Fannius kill’d himſelf t’eſcape the Foe.
Now Juſtice flows to all in equal Streams,
Whilſt Liberty and Property, thoſe Themes
Canted by politick Bigots, quit the Schools,
Bluſhing their Patrons are ſuch bawling Fools.
Let the two Factions in one Intereſt joyn,
And that faln Star in his firſt Glory ſhine.
Reſtore thoſe Lights to their own Sphere again,
That falling Lucifer drew in his Train;
Let Court and Country now be underſtood
One Heart, one Hand, one Purſe, one common Good.
Let ev’ry faithful Shepherd tune his lays,
To Fold his Sheep, and to recall his Strays.
Let him ſearch ev’ry Down, climb ev’ry Rock,
And lead his ſtraglers to the Cath’lic Flock;
Let Towzer range the Plains (ſo ſome of late
Have termed Il Paſtor Fido’s conſtant Mate;)Stanch 112 H8v (112)
Stanch to his Scent, no Tonſor can diſguiſe
The Fox; the Wolf tho clad in Sheeps-skin dies
None of more Service, or of better uſe,
When Tityrus thinks fit to let him looſe.
Let the Plains laugh and ſing, the Hills rejoyce,
While ev’ry Sheep hears her own Shepherd’s voice:
Religion wears her proper Dreſs again:
Oh happy Fate, that thus has chang’d the Scene!
Such is the Force of Kings, when there’s no Cloud
To hide their Pow’r from the Tumultuous Crowd.
So Julius, when his Legions once Rebell’d,
With but a word, a look, the Mutiny quell’d.
Awake my Lute, of Cæſar is my Song,
Ah! Painter why did’ſt let him ſleep ſo long:
Cæſar gives life to Nature, fills each Soul
With Peace and Joy, while Plenty Crowns each Bowl:
Let great Apollo ſtrike his Delphic Lyre,
With all the well-tun’d Virgins of the Quire;Infuſe 113 I1r (113)
Infuſe ye Goddeſſes a Loyal Vein,
On all th’ Attendants of the Hippocrene;
Let not th’ Infection of uneaſie Times,
Pollute the Fountain with Seditious Rhimes;
Reſtrain Licentious Prophets, and let none
Come with unhallow’d Lays to Helicon;
May ſtill freſh Laurels round his Temples Spring,
That to the Royal Harp does ſit and ſing:
On wretched Oates Doeg his Lips ſhall wear,
And Murder his ill tunes that fright the Ear,
Beneath Apollo or the Muſes care.
When thus the Poet ſhall his Notes divide,
And never play but to the Juſter ſide;
The Painter ſhall his trembling Penſil bring,
To ſerve the moſt Auguſt and God-like King;
Yet all his Colours can’t ſet off this Scene,
Art in a piece of Nature, is a ſtain.
Now the great Month proceeds, this is that Spring
The Sibyll and the Mantuan Bard did ſing;I Let 114 I1v (114)
Let Saturn envy Cæſar’s greater Bliſs,
His Golden Age was but a Type of this;
Now all the Spheres in Peaceful Meaſures move,
The very Sectaries do order Love;
Old England I no more ſhall long to ſee,
We’re juſt as happy as we pleaſe to be;
No proſtituted Oaths our fears create,
No Pilgrims March alarms the Church or State.
Aſaph record theſe times, no more refuſe
The powr’ful impulſe of thy charming Muſe;
Thoſe Royal Heroes that attend the King,
None but an Aſaph may preſume to ſing.
When Hybla to the Bee ſhall Dew deny,
When Suppliants in vain to Cæſar fly.
Then ſhall this Age be loſt i’th’ Rolls of Time,
Then Aſaph’s Song ſhall be like Doeg’s Rhime.
In Æternam Rei Memoriam Notiſſimi ſcilicet Viri & Doctoris (Si diis placet) Titi Oates, Ad rectius intelligendum ſenſum Veteris de Ejus Nomine Anagrammatis, Testis Ovat. By Mr. E.A. M.A. Tabulam hanc & Carmina explicatoria Poſuit Philalethes.
1. Teſtis Ovat falſæ fruitur dum Crimine Linguæ,
Et referens ſceleris præmia Teſtis Ovat;
Teſtis Ovat, plorent liceat tria Regna; doloris
Autor, quam ſicco lumine Teſtis Ovat!
Teſtis Ovat quod Ierna perit; ruit Anglia; vires
Quod minuit proprias Scotia, Teſtis Ovat.I2 Teſtis 116 I2v (116)
Teſtis Ovat lætus Magnos diſjungere fratres,
Et pulſo è Patria Caſtore, Teſtis Ovat.
Teſtis Ovat, no cui dum pœna plectitur inſons,
Ebrius innocuo Sanguine Teſtis Ovat.
Teſtis Ovat: falſæ ſed qualis Oratio linguæ,
Qui quod iniquus, Ovat, quam malè Teſtis Ovat.
Titus Oates. I, O tu, Sat eſt. By Mr. R.A. M.A.
I, O tu, ſatis eſt Vocis turbata procellis
Anglia, ſat notos horret & illa ſonos.
I, O tu, ſatis eſt Prurigine facta Rebellis,
Scotia, peſtiferis plus ſatis apta malis!
I, O tu, ſatis eſt Linguæ Mendacis Ierna
Vulnera paſſa, tuam ſat timet illa ſidem.
I, fuge, & Angligenis, O tandem parcito Campis!
Peſtis es in patriam pernicioſa ſatis.
I,—Sed quo Mendax, ſed quo Perjuris abibis,
Ut lateant Linguæ perfida dicta tuæ?
Sanctorum contra te portas Inſula claudet,
Terra venenoſis non patet illa feris;I3 Neve 118 I3v (118)
Neve Caledonios præſtabit viſere fines,
Ni vis perfidiam predere Crura tuam.
Nulla remota ſatis Gens eſt, tam barbara nulla,
Nomine quæ nondum ſit tremebunda tuo;
Et cum Nulla tui Sceleris non conſcia tellus,
Crede mihi in turpem præſtat ab ire crucem.
On a Token ſent me by a Lady. By Mr. T.B.
I Kiſs’d the Preſent thrice, and thrice I ſaid,
As Witches do for Lovers that are fled,
Like this kind Medal may the Miſtris be,
And then again I kiſs’d in Effigie.
Rich is the Mettel now! and now Divine!
Unmark’d it ſcorns to mix with vulgar Coyn.
To the dull Lump, a Soul Corina gave,
A Soul unſeen, and not to taſte the Grave;
When Am’rous Jove put on the Lovers Shape,
That woo’d his Dana to a ſilent Rape;
The glittering Show’r had not a drop like this,
Gingle and Show got him the tawdry Miſs;
The Man is Damn’d to Death, and to Diſgrace,
Who ever dares the Royal Stamp deface:I4 But 120 I4v (120)
But as the humble Laws have thought it fit,
They are above reward who have Ennobled it.
Methinks I ſee her with a generous way,
Put life and motion in the ſhining Clay;
I hear how unaffected, and how free
She told my friend—let that be drunk for me.
Thus Simele perhaps (for Poets lye)
The only Charming Favourite of the Sky,
From the great Thunderer big with Bacchus came,
Thus lightned round, and ſhot a pleaſing Flame.
’Twas once diſputed which the ſtrongest were,
The Raiſie Liquors, or the ſparkling Fair;
All now agree it is the Womans due:
But Madam, they muſt pay their thanks to you;
Each Jovial Glaſs, your fair Idea gave,
Brighter than Venus from a Stormy Wave.
The Female Wits.
A Song, By a Lady of Quality.
Men with much Toil, and Time, and Pain,
At length at Fame arrive,
While we a nearer way obtain
The Palms for which they ſtrive.
We ſcorn to climb by Reaſons Rules
To the loud name of Wit,
And count them ſilly modeſt Fools,
Who to that Teſt ſubmit.
Our ſparkling way a Method knows,
More Airy and refin’d,
And ſhou’d dull Reaſon interpoſe,
Our lofty flight ’twould bind.
Then let us on—and ſtill believe;
A good bold Faith will do,
If we our ſelves can well deceive,
The World will follow too.
What matter tho the Witty few,
Our emptineſs do find,
They for their Int’reſt will be true,
’Cauſe we are brisk and kind.
From Ovid’s third Book Amor. Ele. 3. By Mr. T.B.
Falſe, Falſe, are the obliging things ſhe ſwore,
Yet ſhe’s as charming as ſhe was before;
Oh Gods! how ſhall I truſt you any more?
Young Cupid knows not what abuſes are,
But ſtill he plays and wantons in her hair:
The uſual white and red adorn her ſmile,
The Roſe and Lilly, ſhe deſerv’d ere while,
Flouriſh as well in the pernicious Soil.
Her Feet were pretty, and they are ſo yet,
No Judgments overtake her pretty Feet:
Thoſe Star-like Eyes their Luſtre ſtill retain,
By which ſhe ſwore, and I believ’d in vain:
To Woman-kind the Gods are wondrous free,
And Beauty’s boundleſs as a Deity;It 124 I6v (124)
It is: For I remember what ſhe ſaid,
By her own Eyes and mine, the Oath was made;
Her Star-like Eyes their Luſtre ſtill retain,
Mine, mine, Alas, muſt ſuffer all the Pain!
Say Gods, ſince you will pardon her Offence,
Say what injuſtice tortures Innocence:
Of that ſad kind let one Example do;
And e’en for that we curſe the Stars and you:
When fair Andromida to th’ Rock was ty’d,
An humble Maid damn’d for her Mother’s Pride.
Is’t not enough for the Pernicious Fair,
To ſcape you Injur’d Pow’rs who heard her Swear;
But muſt my Sorrows the Affront repair?
Muſt I my ſelf deceiv’d, the Attonement dye
Suffer, and ſuffer for her Perjury?
Gods! empty Names! that have their eflawed-reproductionapproximately 2 letters where
From a whole World of Folly, and of Fear;125 I7r (125)
Or ſhou’d they they have a Being of their own,
’Tis for the ſake of the ſoft Sex alone.
Almighty Worſhipers! there great command
Is meanly ſubject to a Female hand.
Mars threatens Man and Murdering Pallace two,
Jove hurls his Bolt, and Phœbus draws his Bow;
Yet all theſe Sparks will kindle at a Maid;
And where they fright not are themſelves afraid.
Is Man the Coward? Man deſign’d to frown?
Dares none for Safety pull their Altars down?
Whate’er is Holy Jove can never ſpare,
But Treacherous Women are his ſpecial care:
His Lightning glided o’re the guilty Dames,
’Tis fit kind Simily ſhould feel the Flames.
Had ſhe deceitful been and jilted Jove,
A well-grown God had bleſs’d her crafty Love.
Why do I ſpread Reproaches through the Skies?
And take from Heav’n the Priviledge of Lyes?Boſoms 126 I7v (126)
Boſoms for Love, the kinder Gods aſſume,
And Arm themſelves meerly teo be o’er-come.
Were I a God I’d keep my Deity,
For the falſe Creatures to proteſt for me:
To ev’ry thing they ſpoke I’d always ſwear,
And hate the Churliſh Gods that were ſevere.
Madam your Pow’r is great, but theflawed-reproductionapproximately 3 letters brave,
You ſtoop too low to vex your humble Slave.
Song, By Mrs. A.B.
Ceaſe, ceaſe, Aminta to complain
Thy Languiſhment give o’re,
Why ſhoud’ſt thou ſigh becauſe the Swain
Another does Adore.
Thoſe Charms fond Maid that vanquiſh’d thee,
Have many a Conqueſt won,
And ſure he could not cruel be,
And leave ’em all undon.
The Youth a Noble temper bears,
Soft and compaſſionate,
And thou canſt only blame thy Stars,
That made thee love too late;Yet 128 I8v (128)
Yet had their Influence all been kind,
They had not croſs’d my Fate,
The tend’reſt hours muſt have an end,
And Paſſion has its date.
The ſofteſt love grows cold and ſhy,
The face ſo late ador’d,
Now unregarded paſſes by,
Or grows at laſt abhor’d;
All things in Nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think ſo in time thy hopeleſs love
Will die, as Flowers decay.
Tityrus and Melibeus. From Virgil.
When Auguſtus had totally routed Brutus and Caſſius, who headed a Party againſt him, after they with ſeveral others, had Murdered Julius Cæſar in the Senate houſe; he divided Cremona and its Dependances among his Veterans, becauſe they had aided the Aſſaſſins, the diſtrict of Cremona was not thought ſufficient; and therefore part of Mantua was, where Virgil’s Eſtate fell to Arrius the Centurion; Virgil being outed of his Eſtate flyes to Rome, and Petitions Auguſtus, who gave him his Lands again.
M.Ah Tityrus, You can ſit beneath a tree,
And Pipe and Sing to make the Notes agree;
We quit our homes, and do to Exile go,
No more our Law, no more our Country know;K But 130 K1v (130)
But you at peace, and leiſure piping ſit,
While Amaryllis all the Woods repeat.
T.Ah! Melibeus ’tis a Power Divine,
That caus’d this leiſure and this peace of mine:
He is to me a God and I his Swaine,
With blood of Lambs, oft will his Altar ſtain.
Now that my ſtragling kine ſecurely graze,
To him I owe, to him my wanton lays.
M.This don’t my Envy but my wonder raiſe,
When ſuch a rout’s among the Shepherds made
You ſit at eaſe and quiet in the Shade.
I’m ſick and faint, and drive a ſickly Flock;
This t’other day left on a naked Rock,
The hopes of all my Stock a lovely pair
Of luſty Kids, the Dam is all my care
To get her on, I do almoſt deſpair.
But had I not infatuated been,
Fool as I am, this Miſchief I’d foreſeen;Jove 131 K2r (131)
Jove’s inauſpicious thunder told me ſo,
From the ſcorch’d Oak, ſo did the ominous Crow;
But who is that God, Tityrus, tell me, do;
T.That City, Melibeus, we call Rome
I wiſely thought was like our Town at home,
Where Shepherds with their Lambs to Market come.
Thus Whelps to th’ Dam, Kids I to th’ Goat compar’d,
Thus ſmall with great, a like proportion ſhar’d;
But Towring Rome all Cities far exceeds,
As above Shrubs proud Cedars raiſe their heads.
M.Prethee what buſineſs carry’d thee to Rome,
T.Freedom, ſweet Freedom which did ſlowly come:
When Winters Snow Age o’er my Beard had ſtrew’d,
Then Freedom all her Charming Beauty ſhew’d:
As Amarillis did my Court approve,
I quitted Gallatea’s Ruſtick Love;
Believ’t, while Gallatea me inſlav’d,
I car’d not how I liv’d, nor what I ſav’d;K2 Still 132 K2v (132)
Still from my Flock their Altar I ſupply’d,
With Cheeſe I pamper’d their ungrateful Pride;
I fill’d their Gods, and their ungodly Gut.
But never fill’d my Purſe, I’m ſure of that.
M.I wonder’d Gallatea hung her head,
And to the Gods ſo paſſionately pray’d,
For whom ſhe ſav’d her fruit; her lovely Boy
Tityrus was gon, Tityrus was all her Joy.
Still as the Nymph—Come my dear Tityrus, cry’d,
The Springs and Pines dear Tityrus reply’d.
T.What ſhould I do? I cou’d no freedom find
In any other place, nor Heav’n ſo kind.
Here did I ſee that God of whom I ſpoke,
To him once ev’ry Month my Altars ſmoak:
Here did I Offer up my firſt Addreſs,
Great my Petition and his Grace no leſs.
Go to your Farm ſaid he, ſecurely go,
There freely graze, there freely Plough and Sow.
M.Bleſt be thy latter days, oh happy Swain
Why then thy Downs and Flocks to thee remain?What 133 K3r (133)
What tho thy lawnes do Stones and Thiſtles bear,
Great thy Demeans, large thy Poſſeſſions are;
No noxious Graſs thy Flocks ſhall ever wrong,
Or make thy Ews caſt their untimely young;
When they have newly yean’d, are weak and faint,
No rot nor ſcabby Sheep thy Flocks ſhall taint;
Oh happy Swain! thou by ſome ſacred Spring,
Or well-known ſhady Brook ſhalt ſit and ſing;
Till from the River ſide and cooling Breeze,,,
And from the Willow-bloſſoms murmuring Bees;
Invite thy drouſie head to gentle ſleep.
Soft as thy Muſick, as the Fountain’s deep;
Nor yet is Myco wanting; t’other way,
He prunes, and ſings, and ſo he ſpends the day;
While there the Stock-Dove, here the Turtle moans;
And tells his Love in no unpleaſing Groans;
The Stags ſhall therefore feed on Plains i’th’ Air,
The Fiſh ſhall be no longer Neptune’s care;Arar 134 K3v (134)
Arar in Parthia the Charts ſhall lay,
And to the German Coaſt Tigris convey,
Before I can forget this God of mine,
His Grace ſo great, his face ſo all Divine;
Poor we alas to ſcorching Lybia go,
Some to the Scythian Hills of frozen Snow,
Some are for Creet, ſome Hey for Britain cry’d,
Britain divided from the World beſide.
Shall ever I come here again alas!
And ſee my Hutt, which once my Kingdom was?
Oh that i’th’ Rolls of Time there was one turn,
To bring me here to find a little Corn!
Shall theſe my Fallows, now ſo neatly laid,
Be the reward of a damn’d Veteran made?
Shall ſuch Rogues reap, what I have ſown, oh fate!
Whither have Civil Wars reduc’d the State?
Now Melibæus to thy Nurſery go,
Go dreſs thy Vines, graft Pears and Apples, do.
Go, go, my Goats, go ſtraggle o’re the Plain,
You once were happy in a careful Swain:I never 135 K4r (135)
I never more ſhall ſee ye climb the Rock,
From Moſſie grotto’s, my unhappy Flock;
No more on Thyme, or Sallow ſhall ye brouze,
Not mine at leaſt, that Fate no more allows;
No more ſhall I in tunes my Paſſion tell,
Farewell my Pipe, my Flocks, my Friends farewell.
T.Yet mayſt thou reſt thy ſelf this night with me,
Freſh graſs and new-faln leaves thy Bed ſhall be,
I have ſome Apples, and ſome Cheſnuts too,
But ſtore of Cheeſe-curds, friend, and all for you:
Beſides a Smoak for yonder Town does goe,
Shadows of Hills grow long, and the Sun low.
On The Death Of The Earl Of Rochester.
By an unknown Hand.
What words, what ſenſe, what Night piece can expreſs
The Worlds Obſcurity and Emptineſs?
Since Rocheſter withdrew his Vital Beams
From the great Chaos; fam’d for high Extreams
The Hero’s Talent, or in Good or Ill,
Dull Mediocrity misjudging ſtill.Seraphic 137 K5r (137)
Seraphic Lord! whom Heav’n for wonders meant,
The earlieſt Wit, and the moſt ſudden Saint.
What tho the Vulgar may traduce thy ways,
And ſtrive to rob thee of thy Moral Praiſe?
If, with thy Rival Solomon’s intent,
Thou fin’dſt a little for Experiment;
Or to maintain a Paradox, which none
Had Wit to anſwer but thy ſelf alone;
Thy Soul flew higher; that ſtrict ſacred tye
With thy Creator, time was to diſcry.
Thus pregnant Prophets us’d uncommon ways,
Play’d their wild pranks and made the Vulgar gaze.
Till their great Meſſage came to be declar’d:
They ſin in Types, that ſin ſo unprepar’d.
An unexpected change attracts all Eyes,
They needs muſt conquer that can well ſurpriſe.
Now Lechers whom the Pox cou’d ne’r convert,
kKnow where to fix a reſtleſs rambling heart.Drunkards 138 K5v (138)
Drunkards whoſe Souls, not their ſick Maws love Drink,
Confound their Glaſſes, and begin to think.
The Atheiſt now has nothing left to ſay,
His Arguments were lent for ſport not prey.
Like Guns to Clowns, or weapons to raſh Boys,
Reſum’d again for Miſchief, or for noiſe.
The Spark cries out now e’re he is aware,
(Making a Oath a Prologue to a Prayer)
Rochester ſaid ’twas true! it muſt be ſo!
He had no Diſpenſation from Below.
Thy dying words, (than thouſands of Harangues,
Urg’d with grimaces, fortifi’d with Bangs
On dreadful Pulpit) have made more recant,
Than Plague, or War, or Penitential want;
A Declaration ſo well tim’d, has gain’d
More Proſelytes than e’re thy wildneſs feign’d;
Mad Debochees, whom thou didſt but allure
With pleaſant Baits, and tempt ’em to their cure.Satan 139 K6r (139)
Satan rejoyc’d to ſee thee take his part,
His Malice not ſo proſperous as thy Art.
He took thee for his Pilot to convey
Thoſe eaſie ſouls he ſpirited away.
But to his great Confuſion ſaw thee ſhift
Thy ſwelling Sails, to take another drift,
With an Illuſtrious Train, imputed his,
To the bright Region of eternal Bliſs.
So have I ſeen a prudent General Act,
Whom Fate had forc’d with Rebels to contract
A hated League, Fight, Vote, Adhere, Obey,
Own the vile Cauſe as zealouſly as they;
Suppreſs the Loyal ſide, and pull all down,
With unreſiſted Force, that propt the Crown.
But when he found out the propitious hour,
To quit his Maſque, and own his Prince’s Power;
Boldly aſſerted his great Sovereign’s Cauſe,
And brought three Kingdoms to his Maſter’s Laws.
Song, By Mr. J.W.
FAaAir Nymphs, remember all your Scorn,
Will be by time repaid,
Thoſe Glories which that face Adorn,
And flouriſh like the riſing Morn,
Muſt one day ſett and fade;
Then all your cold diſdain to me,
Will but increaſe Deformity;
When ſtill the kind will lovely be,
Compaſſion is of laſting Praiſe,
For that’s the Beauty ne’r decays.
Fair Nymph, avoid thoſe Storms of Fate
Are to the cruel due,
The Powers above, tho ne’er ſo late,
Can be, when they revenge your hate,
As Pitileſs as you.
Know, Charming Maid, thoſe Powers Divine,
Did never ſuch ſoft Eyes deſign,
To wrong a heart ſo true as mine.
The Gods who my dear flame infus’d,
Will never ſee it thus abus’d.
Eve was the firſt Eſſay of unskilled Jove,
She Charm’d when Adam had none elſe to Love,
And compaſs’d Mans Deſtruction; which in vain
Her Daughters ſince have labour’d to maintain.
That Jove is perfect in creating now,
By his Aminta, to our coſt we know;
That eaſineſs, diffus’d through every part,
Shews the great Art, that can conceal the Art;
That unaffected ſoftneſs in her Eyes,
That Artleſs ſweetneſs in her looks and voice;
Thoſe tender words, and thoſe bewitching ſmiles
That of his painful ſting e’en Death beguiles.Makes 143 K8r (143)
Makes life ſteal gently off, while happy we,
Leave it before her in an Extaſie;
We are in love with ruin in her Dreſs,
And court th’Enchantment as our happineſs;
While the gay Feathers in her eyes appear,
Who can the killing end o’th’ Arrow fear?
We gaze at the bright place whence Lightning breaks,
Till the Bolt come in gaudy fiery ſtreaks.
Tho ſoft and ſweet, often a Southern wind
Laden with Plagues and Peſtilence we find.
Yet like a ſaving God-head I would be,
And take the Univerſal pain on me;
Deliver Mankind from a ſecond Fall,
And be the Victim to attone for all.
To a Vizard Maſque By the ſame hand.
Kind thou art, Oh ſhining thing!
To allay the Mettal thus;
Thus to draw a Cloud between
Thy Balefull influence and us.
But oh! I triumph’d much too ſoon,
The Lightning makes its way, and flies
On winged ruine, I’m undone
From the bright breakings of her Eyes.
I know ’tis Lightning, for my heart,
Which always has reſiſtance made,
Is broken all, tho not apart
O’th’ Scabbard touch’t, where it was laid.
The nimble fire an entrance found,
And has ſo ſubtilly wrought my fate,
T’has left no kind confeſſing wound,
My wretched ſtory to relate.
That flood of Beauty who withſtands,
Which pent up in ſo cloſe a place,
O’reflowing all the Neighbouring Lands,
Finds paſſage through ſo ſmall a ſpace.
So Burning Glaſſes do contract the Beams,
That did but gently warm before,
Kindles the Object into flames,
And feeds upon it till it is no more.
Song, By Mr. J.W.
What are thoſe lovely cruel Eyes to me?
Lightning that ſhines to kill;
Comets that bode the angry fates decree,
So wondrous bright, ſo wondrous cruel ſtill:
Ah Phillis! can you have
Pow’r to deſtroy, and yet no will to ſave.
That Face, thoſe Lips ſo Heavenly ſweet and fair,
Alas! what do they prove
To me? to me alone, Hell and Diſpair;
So curs’d is he that lives in hopeleſs Love:
Ill have the Gods deſign’d
To looks ſo Beautiful, thoughts ſo Unkind.
As thus Philander mourn’d his hopeleſs ſtate,
Ah wretched Swain! ſaid he,
Am I mark’d out to be the ſcorn of fate,
The only Object of her Cruelty?
Ah wretched Swain! he cry’d,
Then ſigh’d away his loving Soul, and di’d.
Palemon, Menalcus, Dametas. From Virgil.
M.Is this Dametas Melibeus Flock?
D.No Ægons, now I look to Ægons Stock.
M.Oh moſt unhappy Sheep! that jealous kind.
Leſt I his Rival ſhould more favor find.
His Paſſion night and day Neæra ſhews,
While this baſe Hireling hourly milks his Ewes,
Starves the young Lambs, and does the Dams abuſe.
D.No more of that, Menalcas you are rude,
And not to be endur’d by Fleſh and Blood;
You might give better Language, if you pleaſe,
No Man can bear ſuch rude affronts as theſe:I could 149 L3r (149)
I could diſcover, I know what I know,
Both when, and where, and who the Spark was too;
The Nymph I muſt confeſs ſaw’t with a ſmile,
But the He-Goats lookt all aſcue the while.
M.Then I suppoſe, when at friend Myco’s, I
Cut down his Vines, and ſpoil’d his Nurſery.
D.Or at the old Beeches, where Menalcas you,
Ill natur’d Chit, broke Daphnis Yewen Bow;
And all the Arrows that were given him two.
You would have had ’em, and for madneſs cry’d,
Had you not done him Miſchief, you had dy’d.
M.What will the Maſter ever bluſh to do,
When little Hirelings thus preſumptive grow!
You Raſcal, did you not ſteal Damon’s Goat,
When Mungrel bark’d; yo know? you did, I ſawt;
And when I cry’d, where runs that fellow there?
Tityrus eye the Flock, you hid for fear.
D.Shou’d he not pay me Shepherd when I won?
I did out pipe him, that the Youth will own.
I beat him fairly, and he yielded too,
And wou’d the price of Victory forgoe;
The Goat was mine whether you know’t or no.
M.You out-pipe him, ye Dunce, did ever yet
You dare pretend to Pipe or Flagelet,
Such as we Artiſts uſe? I think indeed,
I’ve heard thee tooting on a jarring Reed;
Is’t not your trade at Wake or Country Fair,
To Murder Tunes as common as the Air?
D.And ſay’ſt thou ſo, if’t be your Worſhip’s will,
Let you and I have one fair trial of skill,
I’ll lay this Cow, ſhe fills two pails aday,
And ſuckles twins, pray what is’t you dare lay?
M.Lay Kid or Lamb, I neither will nor dare,
My Father’s ſtrict, my ſtep-dame moſt ſevere;And 151 L4r (151)
And twice a day by both they’r ſtrictly told,
Shepherd I dare not with my Flock make bold:
But what in your own Eyes ſhall better be,
(Since you muſt play the fool and challenge me,)
I’ll lay two Beechen Bowls, of Art Divine;
Alcimidon wrought ’em, and then made ’em mine.
See how the Ivy to the Vine is laid,
To give each others Cluſters welcome ſhade;
This is the outſide Glory, look within
Two Mathematick Figures deck the Scene;
This Conon is, but who is that ſtands there,
Who with his ſtaff points out the various year?
What time for ſowing, what for reaping fit;
Spick and ſpan new, they ne’re were drunk in yet.
D.I have two Bowls of the ſame kind with thine,
The handles deckt with fragrant Jeſſamin;
Orpheus within does ſtrike his Thracian Lyre,
While the Woods danc’d, and liſtning Beaſts admire.L4 Believe 152 L4v (152)
Believe me, mine no Lip did e’re Prophane,
But to the Cow ſuch trifles are but vain.
M.You ſhan’t fly off, I’ll take y’at any rate,
Palemon if he pleaſe decide our Fate;
Shepherd I’ll make thee never challenge more.
D.Why then begin, come ſhew the Muſes ſtore,
I refuſe no Man, good Palemon hear
This weighty Cauſe with an attentive ear.
Pa.Strike up, on this green Liv’ry of the Spring
I’ll ſit and hear, while you two ſit and ſing;
Here the Woods bloſſom, and the Meadows there,
No time ſo beautiful of all the year.
Dametas, You begin, Menalcas, pray
Obſerve to anſwer th’ Amœbean way,
The Muſes love Alternate notes they ſay.
D.With Jove begin, my Muſe, give Jove his Praiſe,
He loves the Lawns and liſtens to my Lays.
M.Phœbus loves me, to Phœbus I will ſing,
And his loud Bays and Jacinth to him bring.
D.With Apples Gallatea pelts her Swain,
Then runs to hide, but hopes ſhe hides in vain.
M.My lov’d Amyntas does his Paſſion own,
Diana to my Hounds is not more known.
D.I know a Turtles Neſt, and ere be long,
I will preſent my Miſtris with the Young.
M.’Twas all I had, ten Wildings my poor ſtore
I ſent the Lad, to morrow I’ll ſend more.
D.Oh! in what Notes my Nymph does tell her love,
Carry, ye Winds, the tunes to th’Gods above.
M.What boots thy Love, kind youth, if I muſt yet,
While you purſue the Chace, but watch the Net?
D.My Birth-day’s come, ſend me my Phillis home,
At Ceres Feaſt Iola you ſhall come;
M.Phillis is mine, that parting tears can tell,
Farewell ſhe cryes, ah lovely Swain, farewell.
D.Winds blow down Trees, Storms lodge whole Fields of Corn,
Wolves ruin Folds, me Amaryllis ſcorns.
M.What Showers to new ſown-Corn, what Browz can be
To teeming Goats, Amyntas is to me.
D.Pollio, my Muſe, thy Ruſtic Song approves
His be that Heifer, ſince thy Notes he loves.
M.Pollio in Epics has a skilful hand,
His be that threatning Bull that paws the Sand.
D.Who Pollio loves, may h’ be as Pollio great,
His Thorns bear Roſes, his Oaks Honey ſweet.
M.Who hates not Bavy may on Mævy doat,
Plough with his Fox, and Milk his old He-Goat.
D.Who Aſaph, may he burn with Aſaphs fire,
May Baccar guard his Brow, and Laurels deck his Lyre.
M.Who hates not Og, Doeg may fancy thee,
May milk his Bull, and wiſe as Waltham be.
D.You that pick Flowers, and Strawberries, have a care
Fly, fly, my Lads, an Adder’s lurking there.
M.The Bank’s not ſafe, let not the Sheep come nigh,
The Ram himſelf fell in and’s hardly dry.
D.Tityrus, keep off the Kids from yonder Flood,
I’ll waſh ’em all my ſelf, when I ſee good.
M.Boys fly to Shades, if heat their Udders drein,
We may ev’n milk our Ewes again in vain.
D.How lean’s my Bull in a fat Paſture grown,
Love hath the Herd and Herdſman quite undone.
M.Mine are meer skin and bones, without Loves flames,
Some Magick Eye ſure has bewitch’d my Lambs.
D.Tell me, and thou ſhalt be my Delphick God,
Where Heaven’s no more than juſt three Cubits broad.
M.Tell me ſweet, heat, and Phillis be thine own,
Where Flowers the Royal names of Kings do Crown.
Pal.Shepherd, it is not in my Power to ſay
Which of the two ſhall bear the prize away.
M.You both ſhall march in Triumph o’er the Plain,
Not only you, but ev’ry Amorous Swain;
Who Cupid’s Smiles, or Cupid’s Frowns ſhall dread.
Damm the Brook lads, ye have well-flow’d the Mead.
On The Death Of Famous Mr. Hobbs OF Malmsbury.
Is he then dead at laſt, whom vain report,
So often feign’d immortal in meer ſport?
Whom we on Earth ſo long alive did ſee,
We thought he here had Immortality;
Or, as, like what he Writ, could not expire,
Whom all that did not love, did yet admire;For 158 L7v (158)
For who his Writings ſtill accus’d in vain,
Were taught by him, of whom they did complain.
Some Authors vented have more truths, but ſo,
If truths they be, ’tis more than we can know;
He with ſuch Art deceiv’d that none can ſay,
(If his be Errors,) where his Errors lay.
If he miſtakes, ’tis ſtill with ſo much wit
He Errs more pleaſingly than other hitt.
For there are Counterfeits of Truth which are
In ſhew more truths, than truths themſelves appear.
As Nature in meer ſport has fram’d ſome Apes
Nearer to Man than ſome in Human Shapes;
All were by him ſo charmingly miſled
They choſe to loſe the way with ſuch a Guide.
And wander pleaſantly rather than be
In the right way with duller Company:
With ill ſucceſs ſome fond diſputers ſtrove
What Doctrine he had planted, to remove:And 159 L8r (159)
And juſtly are they blam’d; for that diſeaſe
Is ill remov’d, which more than health does pleaſe.
And who delightful Frenzies entertain,
When undeceiv’d, do of their Cure complain.
With ſuch ſweet force he does our thoughts invade
That where he cannot teach he does invade;
And we that read his writings, wiſh ’em true,
If we do not believe ’em to be ſo.
If he be in the wrong we hold it ſtill,
Becauſe the right appears not half ſo well;
And who would mend his faults muſt make a blot,
May be more truths, but moſt will like it not.
For tho fair Vertue Plato wiſh’d to ſee,
Yet Vice as fair will pleaſe no leſs than ſhe.
Why are temptations names for what is ill,
But that her Charms are more prevailing ſtill?
Or Vice call’d Pleaſures, but to ſhew alone,
That Vice and Pleaſure in effect are one;Hence 160 L8v (160)
Hence come our Wits to think there is no Devil,
Or if he tempter was, he was not Evil;
And finding him dreſs’d in a different Faſhion,
According to the humour of each Nation.
And that the Indians were in this ſo civil
To whiten him we blacken for the Devil.
So Vice and Vertue both are our Opinion
And vari’d with the Laws of each Dominion;
To which who did conform, were underſtood
As their Mode differ’d, to be bad, or good.
A Song, By Mrs. A.B.
While, Iris, I at diſtance View,
And feed my greedy eyes,
That wounded heart, that dyes for you,
Dull gazing can’t ſuffice;
Hope is the Food of Love-ſick minds,
On that alone ’twill Feaſt,
The nobler part which Love refines,
No other can digeſt.
In vain, too nice and Charming Maid,
I did ſuppreſs my Cares;
In vain my riſing ſighs I ſtay’d,
And ſtop’d my falling tears;M The 162 M1v (162)
The Flood would ſwell, the Tempeſt riſe,
As my deſpair came on;
When from her Lovely cruel Eyes,
I found I was undone.
Yet at your feet while thus I lye,
And languiſh by your Eyes,
’Tis far more glorious here to dye,
Than gain another Prize.
Here let me ſigh, here let me gaze,
And wiſh at leaſt to find
As raptur’d nights, and tender days,
As he to whom you’re kind.
Out of Horace, Omitted in Mr. Creech. Ode III. Book III.
The Praiſe of Juſtice, and Conſtancy, for theſe Reaſons Juno declares Romulus a God, tho Deſcended from the Trojans, whom ſhe hated for Paris’s ſake.
The Man that dares his word maintain,
To what is ſtrictly juſt, and good confin’d,
To him Seditions Rage in vain.
Nor Tyrants Threats can ſhake his conſtant mind.
Let Auſter in the Adria rave,
Let Jove, and all his Thunder threaten fear;
Nay let the Heavens fall, this brave,
Will all the broken Orb undaunted bear.
This Pollux Deifi’d, and this
Led wandring Hercules to Jove’s abode,
Where great Auguſtus ſits in Bliſs,
And takes his round of Nectar, as a God.
By this did Bacchus Tygers tame,
And force their Necks the unknown Yoak to take;
This, this gave Romulus a Name,
That ſav’d Quirinus from the Stygian Lake.
A Council of the Gods was call’d,
Where Juno ſat Inthron’d to bleſs the day
And that the God might be Inſtall’d,
Thus in a gracious Speech was pleas’d to ſay:
Troy, Oh ye Gods! the wicked Troy
For Fame has now expos’d my naked Shame;
Th’Inceſtuous Judge did once deſtroy,
And a ſtrange Woman, that I hate to name.
Leomidon did ſome time ſince
Cheat the two Gods that built the wretched Town;
Which, with the People and the Prince,
I, and the Chaſte Minerva hate to own.
Now the ſpruce Youth to Styx is fled,
That ſtole his jilting Landlady away,
Priam and all his Sons are dead,
No more does Hector the brave Greeks deſtroy.
That War that was prolong’d by me,
Did long ſince end in a Victorious Peace;
I’ll now no more revengeful be,
And my inveterate Anger now ſhall ceaſe.
That Child which once I could not love,
Which Mars begot upon a Trojan Nun;
Shall now my gracious kindneſs prove;
While to the Father I reſign the Son.
Let him for me drink Nectar now,
And his Celeſtial Throne in Peace injoy;
Thus Juno will ſerene her Brow,
And in the Liſt of Gods enroll the Boy.
So long as raging Seas divide
The ruinated Troy, and riſing Rome;
I grant ’em all the World beſide,
And wiſh the Exil’d happy days to come.
So long as Beaſts their Tombs ſhall ſtain,
In ſpight of Paris, and of Priam’s Ghoſt;
So long as Cubs may ſafe prophane
Thoſe hated Monuments of curſed duſt.
May the proud Capitol of Rome
Above the Conquer’d World advance her head,
In Triumph may her Legions come,
And give new Laws to the poor Captive Mede.
Rome will extend her dreadful name,
While ev’ry Barbarous Land, and Foreign Iſle,
Her Glory ſhall aloud proclaim,
From the Streights Mouth, e’en to the Banks of Nile.
No Slave to Gold, which then is beſt
Confin’d to Earth, and Pluto’s dark Commands,
This Rome ſhall ſcorn, and never wreſt
To Humane uſe, with Sacrilegious hands.
From Eaſt to Weſt her Arms ſhall flie,
To both the Poles the Romans ſhall be known,
And to thoſe diſtant Climes that lie
Under the torrid, and the frozen Zone.
But yet on this Romes Fate depends,
That ſhe ben’t fond of what I did deſtroy,
And through Succeſs that ſtill attends,
Rebuild the ancient Walls of Curſed Troy.
Troy but preſume to riſe again,
Again it ſhall a heap of Aſhes prove,
While I to Plunder lead my Men,
Who am the Siſter and the Wife of Jove.
Thrice let it riſe to Walls of Braſs,
And Phœbus build ’em too, if he ſo pleaſe,
Yet thrice my Greeks ſhall burn the Place,
Thrice lead their Women Captive o’re the Seas.
Oh Stay thy flight my merry Lyre,
Where Soars my Muſe, don’t thou preſume to teach
What the Gods Sing in their great Choir;
And ſpoil a Subject far above thy reach.
A Description Of Holland. By Mr. NEVELL.
Thoſe wonderful Wiſe Men, Nick-nam’d Antiquaries,
Who to get Maggots, do Bugger old Worlds,
Spoiling Paper to prove how this and that varys,
Bring in to bear witneſs, ſome muſty Records;
In all that they ſcatter
Of former and latter,
Makes only this clear, they know nothing o’th’ matter,And 171 M6r (171)
And Eraſmus’s Statue, or Braſs Rotterdamus,
Has more Senſe than the beſt of that Tribe you can name us.
Now I gueſs ſome old Fellow, that’s given to poring,
Will wipe his Back-ſide with my Ballad in Spight,
And ſwear I’m ſome Rhimer delighted in Whoring,
And a thouſand to one in that he’s in the right.
But e’re he do ſo,
I’d have him to know,
It is for my own ſake, not his what I do;
For being by Fate caſt on Shore upon no Land,
I’m paſſing my time under Water in Holland.
Then not to be Idle, while here I am Smwimming,
I make obſervations on my fellow Fiſh,
And weighty Remarques of Antiquity bring in,
As uſeful as Cambden, that’s not worth a ruſh.The 172 M6v (172)
The Original Cauſe
Of their Cuſtoms and Laws,
And whence comes their Language, as ſure as Jack-Daws;
Such Wiſdom will prove, tho ’twere before a King,
Cut out for a Scholar, tho ſpoil’d in the making.
Then firſt I obſerve from the French-Man Des Cartes,
Men in the beginning like Cabbages grew;
You may ſay this Quotation not worth a F――rt is,
Tho he knew it as well as my ſelf to be true;
But when all is done,
’Tis as clear as the Sun,,
That Dutch-Men had that beginning, or none;
For like Pumpkins, I tell you, they grew out of Bogs,
And learnt their firſt words from the croaking of Frogs.
Should no other Nation Plant Men in their Siſters,
They wou’d not be reckon’d amongſt Fleſh and Blood,
Nor would have more Bones than our Colcheſter Oiſters;
For Dutch-men at firſt were huge skins of Mud;
At the top of which lay
Some Froth of the Sea,
Which harden’d to Brains, as Curds come from Whey.
Which looſen’d at Bottom, away they did go,
Juſt ſuch thinking Giants as Boys make of Snow.
You may wonder a little how I came to know it,
But wonder’s a ſign of Ignorance ſtill,
The Records of Nature, their Bodies, do ſhew it,
As he that goes there may know if he will;
And perhaps I might
Prove Hobbs in the right,
That Mankind by Nature wou’d fall to’t and Fight,For 174 M7v (175174)
For theſe things no ſooner each other did ſee,
But with Lobſters Claws they began Snicker Snee.
That Love and good Nature ſome Strangers bring hither.
With all their Arts they cou’d never inſpire,
For Guelt their ſole God, they would hang their own Father,
And Starving (if poor) would not make him a fire.
The firſt word they ſpoke,
(Or rather did Croke,)
And their laſt to, was Guelt, which they throatled i’th’ Throat,
All their Life-time a Bee’s not more buſie for Honey,
Than they are for raking and ſcraping for Money.
For that, or for nothing at firſt they united,
Religion ſo talk’d of ’s the leaſt of their care,
For’t being too coſtly they Popery ſlighted,
And wiſh’d, might they get by’t, the Alcoran there;They 175 M8r (174175)
They count it no Sin,
To deny Chriſt agen,
As they did at Japan, ſo more Guelt it brought in.
As Money at firſt did bring ’em together,
By Nature it keeps there a true State of War,
A Son will make nothing to Cudgel his Father,
For ſpending more of it than comes to his ſhare.
The Husbands and Wives,
Will out with their Knives,
And for keeping the Guelt will ſeek each others Lives;
So they only ingender when Nature commands,
And feel no Affection altho P――o ſtands.
Yet heated with Brandy they ſometimes do Fumble,
In the Sluce of that Bog, call’d the Belly of Spouſe,
Where Haunces in Kelder with Sooterkins tumble,
Sweet Babies like Pigs got by Stove on their Sows;For 176 M8v (176)
For with Dildo of fire
They ſtir up deſire,
And draw out the Water, or make it retire,
But for which invention of Ewfrows contriving,
The Sport might be better call’d Smimming than S――ing.
I ſtrove to diſcover the Freedom ſome prate on,
But with all my ſearching the Devil a bit,
Except it be this, that a Tapſter may beat one,
That will not t’an all-to-mall reckoning ſubmit;
The Schellums impoſe,
Both for Victuals and Cloaths,
For they hate all good dreſſing, as Quakers do Oaths;
As for a good Suit, if you’ll wear one, you may,
But fifty per cent it will coſt ev’ry day.
That ’tis a Republick can’t be forgotten,
’Tis felt in the Monſtrous Exciſes they raiſe,
Which keeps their Poor empty, like Herrings ſhotten,
For they Tax ’em, the Devil knows how many ways;
Not the Kermilk they eat,
Which is their beſt meat,
Nor their Water bewitch’d, but pays half to the State;
Oh may all Phanaticks run mad their own way,
That for ſuch Mock-freedoms, as freely will pay.
Their Government tho, thanks ſome Politick Neighbours,
With much ado makes a Shift for to ſtand,
Yet ſure ’t has been more than Hercules Labours,
So long to keep twiſted a meer Rope of Sand,N Where 178 N1v (178)
Where Fiſh-wives dare prate
Of matters of State,
And no Man is ſafe whom the Rabble does hate,
A ſpreading Infection, which threatens undoing
To ſome, who too often have kept them from ruine.
Song, From the French.
The other day a fair yong Maid,
Who in a Neighb’ring Cottage dwells,
Beneath the Shade was ſleeping laid,
To a ſoft Fountans mumuring Rills;
Her Robe was thin, and did diſcover
Enough to tempt the gazing Lover,
Which Am’rous ruffling Winds did move,
Diſcovering not in vain, the Throne of Love:
I need not tell you what they did,
Since Modeſty ſuch Tales forbid,
Without my aid you may preſume,
That Silvia had a pleaſant Dream.
She waking bluſh’d, and wou’d have fled;
But I retain’d her on the Graſſie Bed,
While I her Pardon did implore,
By oft repeating what we’d done before.
Eclogue, By Mr. J.W.
Hapleſs Philaſter in a Midnight Shade,
More dark and horrid by his Sorrows Made;
And yet as if too light for his Black thought,
The thickeſt Covert of the Forreſt ſought.
Where laid on the old Turf he ſeem’d to have
The neareſt Bed to his deſired Grave;
Silent as that, was then and there, the night,
And his Tyrannic Stars were all the light;
In this ſad ſtate thus the unhappy Swain,
All drown’d in tears did to himſelf complain;
Wretched Philaſter! to all griefs betray’d,
Whoſe paſt delights are double ſorrows made;Had 181 N3r (181)
Had I ne’re ſeen Aſtels lovely face,
Or in her favor never had a place;
Had I ne’re heard her ſoft charming Words,
Nor taſt all the ſweets her Lip affords,
I had not now been with this Hell oppreſt,
But in my Ignorance of Bliſs been bleſt;
Ah! how have I tranſgreſs’d ſo much amiſs?
What ſin, what horrid Sin cou’d merit this?
Was it my Love? I had, I muſt confeſs,
Been leſs offenſive, had my love been leſs;
If in true Love we any crime can find,
I am more guilty than all Humane kind:
Pardon ye Gods, and my Aſtella move,
Like you, to pardon the exceſs of Love;
Love may ferment too high, but ſure that fault
Can never be above Heav’ns pardon thought.
The Gods forgive, but ſhe alone denys,
Yet has ſo much of Heaven in her Eyes;
Thoſe ſoft ſweet looks want no Celeſtial Grace,
But Pity only in Philaſters caſe;N3 Oh 182 N3v (182)
Oh my Divine! but too too Cruel Saint,
Thus the ſad Shepherd ended his complaint.
When lo the Deity, Queen of that Grove
Appear’d, and thus to eaſe his Paſſion ſtrove;
Is there no mean in Love? what Charm appears
In Grief, to Wed you thus to Groans and Tears?
Conſider Shepherd how Aſtella goes,
Slighting your Love, and laughing at your Woes;
She ſcorns the tender Paſſion you expreſs,
And fancies moſt thoſe Swains that merit leſs;
The Nymph who thus unjuſtly falſe can prove,
Think her not worth your ſighs, leſs worth your Love.
Slowly at this the Youth his head did rear,
And ſaw (unmov’d) the lovely Dryade there;
(No Beauty, tho Divine, cou’d raiſe ſurprize
In him, who once had ſeen Aſtellas eyes)
Goddeſs, ſaid he, (for ſuch you needs muſt be,
Pity and Beauty ſpeak Divinity;)
In joy, enjoy your ever happy Loves,
And your eternal Revels in theſe Groves;Be 183 N4r (183)
Be ever by the Sylvian Gods admir’d,
And eaſe with Love, thoſe Flames by you inſpir’d,
But I alas! have ſuch a tortured heart,
All your Divinity can no Cure impart,
Aſtella only has that powerful Art.
By her I live, by her I ſoon ſhall die,
Ah would that ſilent hour were ſtill more nigh;
When back to my firſt Clay I ſhall arrive,
And be no more; yet ſhall my Love ſurvive.
That noble Flame, to which theſe tears are due,
Is as immortal, and Divine as you,
Firſt to their Fountains ſhall the Rivers flow,
Turtles forget to Mourn, thoſe Trees to grow;
Showers ſhall fall upwards from whence firſt they came,
Ere I forget the ſweet Aſtellas name.
Faint were thoſe words, but his laſt groans were ſtrong,
When Death, or ſomething like it, ſtop’d his tongue.
Song, By Mr. J.H.
In Cloris all ſoft Charms agree,
Inchanting Humour, Powerful Wit,
Beauty from Affectation free,
And for eternal Empire fit;
Where ere ſhe goes Love waites her Eyes,
The Women Envie, Men Adore;
But did ſhe leſs the Triumph prize,
She would deſerve the Conqueſt more.
The Pomp of Love ſo much prevails,
She begs, what none elſe wou’d deny her,
Makes ſuch advances with her Eyes,
The Hope ſhe gives prevents deſire;Catches 185 N5r (185)
Catches at every trifling heart,
Seems warm with every glimmering flame,
The common prey ſo deads the Dart,
It ſcarce can pierce a noble game.
I cou’d lie Ages at her feet,
Adore her, careleſs of my pain,
With tender Vows her rigours meet,
Diſpair, Love on, and not complain.
My Paſſion, from all change ſecure
No Favours raiſe, no Frowns controuls,
I any torment can indure,
But hoping with a Crowd of Fools.
Horace. Ode VI. Book III.
Of the Corrupt, and Degenerate Manners of this Age.
Rome, your Fore-fathers Sins you’ll rue,
Though you at preſent leſs the Gods provoke,
Unleſs you build their Temples new,
And purge their Images from Duſt and Smoak.
Your Piety your Empire gave,
From thence it ſprung and took this lofty flight;
But when the Gods no Worſhip have,
Repeated plagues poor Italy affright.
Twice did the Parthian beat our Troops,
’Cauſe we the Augurs and the Gods Profan’d,
And with Succeſs he Crowns his hopes,
And larger Bracelets now adorn his hand.
When Civil Wars provoke our Fate,
And Rome Aſſaulted Rome with freſh Alarms,
Egypt and Scythia rent the State,
That with a Fleet, and this with flying Arms.
This Age, in ſin now fruitful grown,
The Sacred Rites o’th’ Bed invaded firſt,
From thence our Miſeries all have flown,
Our Line’s degenerate, and our Race accurſt.
A tender Girl, ſcarce ripe for Man,
Learns the Ionic Mien, and wanton Dance,
Her Jilting hopefully comes on,
Till Sin to full Maturity advance.
Then while her Husband’s at his Wine,
She to her Bullys will her Pimps diſpatch,
Nor nicely in the dark aſſign,
Where none can ſee, or conſcious Lamp can watch;
But call’d, in ſight of Spouſe ſhe’ll go,
Whether ſome trifling Factor for her Wait,
Or elſe ſome Spaniſh Merchant, who
Will purchaſe his diſgrace at any rate.
Thoſe Heroes ne’re from hence did ſpring,
That dy’d the Seas with Carthaginian Blood;
That Pyrrhus beat, and Syria’s King,
And Annibal, who long Romes terror ſtood.
But Martial Youths, that in the Field
To exerciſe their Manly ſtrength delight,
Where all the day the Spade they wield,
And carry home their Mothers Wood at Night.
At night when Weſtern Sun is low,
And Trees and Mountains Shadows are increaſt,
When the tir’d Oxen quit the Plow,
And wearied Mortals go to welcome reſt.
What don’t deſtructive time decay?
Our Fathers did their Fathers Ill exceed,
And we are grown ſtill worſe than they,
And ſhall yet leave a more degen’rate Breed.
To Lesbia, Out Of Catullus.
By an unknown Hand.
Lets live, my Lesbia, while we may,
In Love let’s paſs the thoughtleſs day;
While Impotence, and Envie rage,
In Cold Cenſorious Duller Age,
Yonder Sun that ſets to night,
Returns to morrow with new Light;
But when once our day is done,
Our Pleaſures and our Joys are flown,One 191 N8r (191)
One poor ſtroke our hearts will ſever,
And we ſleep, we ſleep for ever,
A hundred kiſſes then my dear,
A thouſand more, nay yet I ſwear,
Another thouſand does remain;
Then t’ other hundred o’re again,
Then another thouſand more,
Then a hundred as before;
When many thouſands thus are paſt,
We’ll mix, we’ll ſhuffle ’em ſo at laſt,
That no Witch-craft blaſt our bliſs,
When our Joys are numberleſs.
On Alexander The Great.
No wonder that great Monarch did complain,
And weep there were no other Worlds to gain;
His grief and his complaints were not amiſs,
H’has cauſe to grieve, who gains no Worlds but this.
A Paraphrase On The Lords Prayer. By Mrs. A.B.
O Wondrous condeſcention of a God!
To poor unworthy ſinful fleſh and blood;
Leſt the high Miſtery of Divinity,
Thy ſacred Title, ſhou’d too Awful be;
Leſt trembling proſtrates ſhould not freely come,
As to their Parent, to their native home;O Leſt 194 O1v (194)
Leſt thy incomprehenſible God-head ſhou’d
Not by dull Man; be rightly underſtood;
Thou deignſt to take a name, that fits our ſenſe,
Yet leſſens not thy glorious Excellence.
Which art in Heaven,
Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didſt own
Poor loſt and out-caſt Man to be thy Son;
’Twas not enough the Father to diſpenſe,
In Heaven thou gav’ſt us an Inheritance;
A Province, where thou’ſt deign’d each Child a ſhare;
Advance my tim’rous ſoul, thou needſt not fear,
Thou haſt a God! a God and Father! there.
Hallowed be thy Name,
EFor ever be it, may my Pious Verſe,
That ſhall thy great and glorious name rehearſe,
By ſinging Angels ſtill repeated be,
And tune a Song that may be worthy thee;While 195 O2r (195)
While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n ſhall joyn,
To Magnifie a Being ſo Divine.
Thy Kingdom come,
Prepare my Soul ’gainſt that Triumphant day,
Adorn thy ſelf with all that’s Heavenly gay,
Pt on the Garment, which no ſpot can ſtain,
And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign;
When all the Joyful Court of Heaven ſhall be
One everlaſting day of Jubilee;
Make my Soul fit but there to find a room,
Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom come.
Thy Will be done
With all ſubmiſſion proſtrate I reſign
My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine;
For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wiſe, and Juſt,
And raiſing Man from forth the common duſt,O2 Haſt 196 O2v (196)
Haſt ſet thy Sacred Image on his Soul,
And ſhall the Pot the Potters hand controul?
Poor boaſting feeble Clay, that Error ſhun,
Submit and let th’Almighty’s Will be done.
In Earth as it is in Heaven.
For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce,
Reſigning all to the bleſt Heavenly Voice;
Behold the Seraphins his Will obey,
Wilt thou leſs humble be, fond Man than they?
Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine,
And all the Heavenly Hoſt in Homage joyn;
Shall their Submiſſion yield, and ſhall not thine?
Nay, ſhall even God ſubmit to Fleſh and Blood?
For our Redemption, our Eternal good,
Shall he ſubmit to ſtripes, nay even to die
A Death reproachful, and of Infamy?
Shall God himſelf ſubmit, and ſhall not I?
Vain, ſtubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on,
But as in Heav’n; on Earth Gods Will be done;
Give us this day our daily Bread,
For oh my God! as boaſting as we are,
We cannot live without thy heavenly care,
With all our Pride, not one poor Morſel’s gain’d,
Till by thy wondrous Bounty firſt obtain’d;
With all our flattered Wit, our fanci’d ſenſe,
We have not to one Mercy a pretence
Without the aid of thy Omnipotence.
Oh God, ſo fit my ſoul, that I may prove
A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love;
May my ſoul be with Heavenly Manna fed,
And deign my groſſer part thy daily bread.
And forgive us our Treſpaſſes
How prone we are to Sin, how ſweet were made
The pleaſures, our reſiſtleſs hearts invade!
Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws
Love, ſoft bewitching Love! has been the cauſe;O3 Of 198 O3v (198)
Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod,
That ſure will ſooneſt be forgiven of God;
If things on Earth may be to Heaven reſembled,
It muſt be love, pure, conſtant, undiſſembled:
But if to Sin by chance the Charmer preſs,
Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Treſpaſſes.
As we forgive them that Treſpaſs againſt us.
Oh that this grateful, little Charity,
Forgiving others all their Sins to me,
May with my God for mine attoning be.
I’ve ſought around, and found no foe in view,
Whom with the leaſt Revenge I would purſue,
My God, my God, diſpenſe thy Mercies too.
Lead us not into Temptation
Thou but permits it, Lord, ’tis we go on,
And give our ſelves the Provocation;
’Tis we, that prone to pleaſures which invite,
Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight;But 199 O4r (199)
But if without ſome Sin we cannot move,
May mine proceed no higher than to love;
And may thy vengeance be the leſs ſevere,
Since thou haſt made the object lov’d ſo far.
But deliver us from Evil.
From all the haſty Fury Paſſion breeds,
And into deaf and blinded Error leads,
From words that bear Damnation in the ſound,
And do the Soul as well as Honour wound,
That by degrees of Madneſs lead us on
To Indiſcretion, Shame, Confuſion;
From Fondneſs, Lying, and Hypocriſie,
From my neglect of what I ow to thee;
From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought,
And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought;
From black Ingratitude, and Treaſon, Lord,
Guard me, even in the leaſt unreverend word.O4 In 200 O4v (200)
In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may
Be guided in the true and rightful way,
And he that guides me may not go aſtray;
Do thou, oh Lord, inſtruct me how to know
Not whither, but which way I am to go;
For how ſhould I an unknown paſſage find,
When my iſtructing Guide himſelf is blind.
All Honour, Glory, and all Praiſe be givedn
To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.
In a ſad unfrequented Cyprus Grove,
With all the ſymptoms of neglected Love,
The fair Urania lay,
By a clear murmuring Rivers ſide,
Her tears increaſing the ſwift tide;
With Gales of ſighs I heard her ſay,
Some pitying Power oh eaſe my ſmart!
Or break at once my wretched heart.
Then ſtill as Death the Virgin ſate,
Loſt in a maze of thought,
But rouzing with a ſudden ſtart,
Uſher’d by a ſad Groan,
In Charming ſounds her Lute ſhe taught,
Her killing grief to moan.
Thus ſung the fair! ye Gods it cannot be,
Amintas is not, can’t be falſe to me;
Amintas he, who on my panting Breaſt,
So oft has lean’d his ſighing head,
And things ſo ſoft, ſo tender ſaid,
As rob’d me of my heart, and rob’d me of my reſt;
So oft he vow’d, that I believ’d,
For with that tongue the World might be deceiv’d.
He woo’d, he won with ſuch an Art,
To Love himſelf unknown,
Should he the fatal way impart,
All Maids were ſure undone;
Yet Heav’n to this poor Perjur’d Swain,
Grant all the bleſſings in your Pow’rs;
Health to his Flocks, and may no ſtain
Of falſhood blot his much-lov’d name;
That name Urania ſo adores:
Give him a fairer— Nymph almoſt ſhe ſaid,
But ſtoping cry’d,
Give him a thouſand, thouſand joys beſide.
Horace, Ode XXI. Book III.
He treats Coroine, and ſings the Praiſe of Wine.
Oh my dear Flask, of mine own year,
When Manly did the Rod and Axes bear,
Whether whining Love, or Jokes,
Or Rage, or Luſt, thy Spirit provokes,
Or kindly doſt with ſleep our heads repair?
What ever name thy Maſſic has,
Come down, thou wert reſerv’d for Holidays;
Coroine now expecting ſtands,
And I attend on his Commands,
Give’s mellow Wine, whoſe ſtrength its Age allays.
Shew not his Socratic Brow,
Let him be Stoic, he’ll be merry now:
Wine, ’tis ſaid, in former days
Oft times old Cato’s Spirit did raiſe,
And from the Bottle did his Vertue flow:
Thou doſt a gentle force commit,
To try rough Tempers, and refine their Wit;
Thou to Bacchus doſt reveal
The Secrets Wiſe Men would conceal;
For o’er the Glaſs, with open hearts we ſit.
When Souls dejected are with Cares,
Thou doſt exalt their Spirits, expell their fears;
The poor Man thou doſt briskly Arm,
Who full of Wine defies all harm,
From Tyrants Frowns, and Soldiers threatning fear.
Kind Venus ſhall with Bacchus joyn,
And all the Graces Revel now in Wine;
Lamps ſhall lengthen waſting night,
And Tapers lend a welcome Light,
Till Morning Sun ſhall come himſelf and ſhine.
Selinda and Cloris, Made in an Entertainment At Court. By Mrs. A.B.
As young Selinda led her Flock,
Beneath the Shelter of a ſhaded Rock,
The Melancholy Cloris by,
Thus to the Lovely Maid did ſighing cry.
Selinda you too lightly prize,
The powerful Glorys of your Eyes;You 207 O8r (207)
To ſuffer young Alexis to adore,
Alexis, whom Love made my ſlave before;
I firſt adorn’d him with my Chains,
He Sigh’d beneath the rigour of my Reign;
And can that Conqueſt now be worth your pain?
A Votary you deſerve who ne’er knew how,
To any Altars but your own to bow.
Is it your Friendſhip or your Jealouſie,
That brings this timely aid to me?
With Reaſon we that Empire quit,
Who ſo much Rigour ſhows,
And ’twould declare more Love than Wit,
Not to recall his Vows.
If Beauty could Alexis move,
He might as well be mine;
He ſaw the Errors of his Love,
He ſaw how long in vain he ſtrove,
And did your ſcorn decline;And 208 O8v (208)
And Cloris, I the Gods may imitate,
And humble Penitents receive, tho late.
Miſtaken Maid, can his Devotion prove
Agreeable or true,
Who only offers broken Vows of Love?
Vows, which Selinda, are my due.
How often proſtrate at my feet h’as lain,
Imploring Pity for his Pain?
My heart a thouſand ways he ſtrove to win,
Before it let the Charming Conqueror in;
Ah then how ſoon the Amorous heat was laid!
How ſoon he broke the Vows he made!
Slighting the Trophies he had won.
And ſmiling ſaw me ſigh for being undone.
Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid,
Enough, thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have ſaid,In 209 P1r (209)
In all the Groves, on all the Plains,
’Mongſt all the Shepherds, all the Swains,
I never ſaw the Charms cou’d move
My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love;
And tho a God Alexis were,
He ſhould not Rule the Empire here.
Then from his charming Language fly,
Or thou’rt undone as well as I;
The God of Love is ſure his Friend,
Who taught him all his Arts,
And when a Conqueſt he deſign’d,
He furniſh’d him with Darts;
His Quiver, and his gilded Bow,
To his aſſiſtance brings,
And having given the fatal Blow,
Lends him his fleeting wings.
Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be,
Before the Conqueſt, ſo ſubmiſs as he,P To 210 P1v (210)
To Fold your Sheep, to gather Flowers,
To Pipe and ſing, and ſigh away your hours;
Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads,
Or cooling ſhades, and Springs he Leads;
Weaves Garlands, or go ſeek your Lambs,
That ſtruggle from their bleating Dams,
Or any humble bus’neſs do,
But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too.
Cloris, ſuch little Services would prove
Too mean, to be repaid with Love;
A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that ſcore,
And ſhe deſerves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd more.
His new-blown Paſſion if Selindas Scorn,
Alexis may again to me return.
Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me
I ſend a Preſent, back to thee;Then 211 P2r (211)
Then we will ſing, in every Grove,
The greatneſs of your Mind,—
—And I your Love.
Both.And all the Day,
With Pride and Joy,
We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds ſee,
That none like us,
Did e’er expreſs,
The heights of Love and Amity;
And all the day, &c;
Verses Made By Sapho, Done from the Greek BY Boyleau, And from the French By A Lady of Quality.
Happy who near you ſigh, for you alone,
Who hears you ſpeak, or whom you ſmile upon:
You well for this might ſcorn a Starry Throne.To 213 P3r (213)
To this compar’d the Heavn’ly Bliſs they prove,
No Envy raiſes; for the Powers a Love
Ne’er taſted Joys, compar’d to ſuch above.
When ere I look on you, through every Vein,
Subtil as Lightning flies the nimble Flame,
I’m all o’er Rapture, while all over Pain.
And while my Soul does in theſe Tranſports ſtray,
My Voice diſdains to teach my Tongue its way;
Each faculty does now its truſt betray.
A Cloud of wild Confuſion veils my ſight,
Sounds vainly ſtrike my Ears, my Eyes the light,
Soft Languiſhment my Senſes diſ-unite,
Swift trembling ſtreight o’er all my Body flies,
Life frightned thence, Love dos his place ſupply,
Diſorder’d, Breathleſs, Pale, and Cold, I die.
Horace, Ode XXV Book III.
Warm with Wine, he reſolves to ſing the Praiſe of Auguſtus.
Whether Bacchus full of thee,
Oh Whether Bacchus wilt thou raviſh me?
To what Grove, or Laune muſt I,
Thus hurried on, by Inſpiration fly?
To what Cell ſhall I retire,
To raiſe great Cæſar to the Heav’nly Quire?
I will ſing what’s great and new,
What never any Roman Lyre yet knew;
Thus do’s Enias awake,
And think to view cold Thrace, and Hebers Lake;When 215 P4r (215)
When but in a Trance ſhe goes,
O’er Frozen Hills and Rodopeia Snows,
Oh how this my wonder moves,
To ſee theſe Rocks and ſolitary Groves!
Powerful God! at whoſe commands
Trees are Torn up by th’ Roots, by Womens hands,
Lofty ſtrains my Song ſhall be,
I’ll ſing what’s great, and what is worthy thee;
Lead on Bacchus, now lead on,
I’ll follow thee, what danger e’er I run.
A Pindaric To Mr. P. who ſings finely. By Mrs. A.B.
Damon, altho you waſte in vain,
That pretious breath of thine,
Where lies a Pow’r in every ſtrain,
To take in any other heart, but mine;
Yet do not ceaſe to ſing, that I may know,
By what ſoft Charms and Arts,
What more than Humane ’tis you do,
To take, and keep your hearts;Or 217 P5r (217)
Or have you Vow’d never to waſt your breath,
But when ſome Maid muſt fall a Sacrifice,
As Indian Prieſt prepare a death,
For Slaves t’addorn their Victories,
Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live,
For I as ſenſible ſhall be,
What wound you can, to all that hear you, give,
As if you wounded me;
And ſhall as much adore your wondrous skill,
As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.
And yet I ſhould not tempt my Fate,
Nor truſt my feeble ſtrength,
Which does with ev’ry ſoftning Note abate,
And may at length
Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate;
Tis ſtrnaange extremity in me
To venture on a doubtful Victory,
Where if you fail, I gain no more,But 218 P5v (218)
But ’twill certain comfort bring,
If I unconquer’d do eſcape from you;
If I can live, and hear you ſing,
No other Forces can my Soul ſubdue;
Sing Damon then, and let each Shade,
Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made,
Bear witneſs if my courage be not great,
To hear thee ſing, and make a ſafe retreat.
Francellias heart is ſtill the ſame,
Cold and hard as Winter Morning,
While my heart is always Burning,
But no frowns, or ſmiles can ever
Warm her Ice, or cool my Feaver.
How oft the Wood-Nymphs, Shades and Springs,
All the Meads, the Groves, and Fountains,
All the Rivers, Plaines, and Mountains,
Heard my ſighs when e’er I named her,
And the Eccho’s ſeem’d to blame her.
Set by Mr. Porter.
Know Aſtreas, time has wings
Swift as thought, or rays of light,
Let us then uſe the hours he brings,
While they’re here in ſoft delight;
The Mornings up, ſee where the Shepherd leads
His curled Flocks, into the Flowry Meads;
Then you’ll ſee him ſtreight retire,
(When the days increaſing fire
Burns the Fields,) into the Grove,
Where in his ſoft retreat,
He’ll cool his own and the days heat,
In ſome willing Virgins Love.
Let our Envy then purſue
Their Enjoyment all alone,
And uſe the happy Minutes too,
In kind Love that’s poſting on;Let 221 P7r (221)
Let us repent, my Fair, we made not ours
The moments loſt, and catch the coming hours,
Which we’ll waſt in wanton kiſſes,
Conquer’d with the ſhades of night,
We’ll lie on fragrant Beds
Of Flowers, where the Lilly ſheds
Odors to increaſe delight.
Ode XXVII. Book III.
He diſſwades Gallatea from going to Sea, from the Example of Eropa.
The Wicked Men a Journey make,
The chat’ring Pye her flight ſhall take,
A Bitch with Whelps ſhall be their Guide,
And Wolves and Foxes croſs their way beſide.
A Snake ſhall fly like firy Dart,
And fright their Horſe and make him ſtart;
But now for whom ſhall Horace fear,
Or play the Augur with a provident care?
Before the Crow come to the Fen,
And foretell Storms to cunning Men,
I the Prophetick Bird will rouze,
And to the Eaſt direct my early Vows.
Live, my dear, where e’er you be,
Still happy, and ſtill kind to me,
No Amorous Rook ſhall thee come near,
No Pye create my Gallatea’s fear.
But ſee Orion goes to ſet,
And threatens raging Winds and Wet,
What Adria is, I know and dread,
Calabrian Calms do ofttimes Storms precede.
May the unlucky riſing Kid,
Over Enemies Wives and Children ſpeed,
On foaming Seas, that rage and rave,
While the Shores tremble at each breaking Wave.
So once Europa needs would ride,
And did the Treacherous Bull beſtride;
But when the Waves, and Monſters plaid,
The daring Nymph began to be afraid.
Thus She, that picking Flow’rs of late,
To Crown the Nymphs i’th’ Meadows ſate,
In a Star-light night, can now
See nought, but Heaven above, and Seas below.
But when ſhe came to th’ Iſle of Crete,
Made by a hundred Cities great,
Father ſaid that Wicked I
Should that dear name, and my own duty flye!
Oh whence, Oh whether am I fled!
One Death can’t ſalve a Maiden-head;
Am I awake, and thus defil’d?
Or is my Innocence by Dreams beguil’d?
Dreams that through Gates of Ivory come,
Which Dreams tho vain are troubleſom,
What was beſt to croſs the Main,
Or pick the new-blown Flowers upon the Plain.
Oh would that wicked Bull were here!
Now when my rage exceeds my fear,
I’d ſcratch his horns, and break his pate,
Whom I, alas, ſo dearly lov’d of late.
Impudent Wench, that dar’d to fly,
That dar’d to ſin, yet fear to die!
If any God vouchſafe to hear,
Oh that I naked among Lyons were.
Before my Beauty fade away,
Before my tender Youth decay,
I wiſh, i’th’Pride of all my Charms,
To be embrac’d in a fierce Tygers Arms.
Baſe Coward, does her Father cry,
Thou wiſheſt Death, yet dar’ſt not die,
See here’s thy Girdle, there’s a Tree,
This fit to hang, and that to ſtrangle thee.
Or if thoſe Cliffs do rather pleaſe,
Hence thou maiſt headlong reach the Seas,
Unleſs thou’dſt baſely ſit and ſpin,
And a Kings Daughter ſtoop to Concubin.
Thus did the wretched Nymph complain,
Nor were her ſighs and tears in vain,
Dame Venus ſmiling came along,
Leading young Cupid, with his Bow unſtrung.
When ſhe a while had laugh’d and droll’d,
Peace, Nymph, ſaid ſhe, fie, do not ſcold,
This hated Bull ſhall come and ſtand,
And let thee ſtroke him, till thou tire thy hand.
What! know’ſt thou not thou’rt Wife to Jove?
Come do not ſigh, nor ſob my Love;
Learn, learn to bear thy ſtate for ſhame,
One part o’th’ World ſhall bear Europa’s name.
From Horace. Ode IV. Book IV.
The innate Valour of Noble Bede, which is yet improv’d by Education, in the Example of Druſus, and Tiberius, under the Diſcipline of Auguſtus.
As the young Eagle that Joves Thunder bears,
And of all Birds the name of Monarch wears,
Becauſe ſhe ſafe convey’d the Boy,
Fair Ganymed, the lovely Prince of Troy.
Her innate ſpirit, and growing courage drove
Out of her Neſt, unfledg’d, into the Grove,
Where ſhe as winds did gently blow,
Firſt learn’d to flye, flut’ring from bough to bough.
Then by degrees did ſtop to make her prey,
Now Sheep-folds to her Tallons Tribute pay,
Nor Dragons ſcape, that come in ſight,
Some fall for love of prey, and ſome for flawed-reproduction1 word
Or as a Kid in the rank Paſture ſpies,
A Lions Whelp, and from his Fury flies,
That now with rage purſues his game,
Becauſe he muſt no longer ſuck his Dam.
Such did the Rhætians, and Bavarians ſee
Druſus engage, and routed Armies flee;
I ne’er intend to ask my Muſe,
Why theſe the Amazonian ax do uſe.
None may know all, this once Victorious foe,
By Druſus tam’d, does by experience bow,
How breeding betters Royal Blood,
How great Auguſtus Soul animates young Boys to good.
The Valiant propagate their Valiant Seed,
The Bull, and Horſe follow their generous breed,
And no Records of time can prove,
That e’er the Eagle bred a tim’rous Dove.
Yet Diſcipline a native Vertue mends,
And from th’ Aſſaults of Vice the heart defends;
If Virtue once to Vice give place,
Baſe Actions do Ennobled Blood debaſe.
What then, O Rome! do’ſt to thy Neroes owe
Metaurus Streams, and Aſdrubal can ſhew;
Oh happy was that glorious day,
When the inſulting African gave way.
When Annibal from Town to Town did run,
Swift as the rapid Flames fly burning on,
Or the more Rapid Wind, that ſtorms and raves,
When Eurus rides o’er the Sicilian Waves.
Hence Rome enjoy’d a more propitious fate,
And wiſht Succeſs did on our Enſignes wait;
Our Gods more kind in Temples are,
Which were demoliſh’d in that Barbarous War.
In this Perfidious Annibal ſpoke true,
We are, ſaid he, like Dears, who Wolves purſue;
We haſten Fate, like mad-men die,
Force Fight on them, ’twere Victory to fly.
A People, that when Troy was laid in duſt,
By Tempeſt on the Tyrrhen Ocean toſt;
Their Sons, their Fathers, and their Gods
Brought to th’ Auſonian Coaſt to ſeek abodes.
A People, that as Palmes, the higher grow,
Being lop’d and prun’d, and thrive by ev’ry blow
Are made by their own ruine great,
By Fire, and Sword, and Ship-wreck grown compleat
So Hidra from her wounds ſtill ſtronger grows,
And ſtill new heads did Hercules oppoſe;
Such Monſters once at Colchos grew,
And ſuch a Crop at Thebes once Cadmus knew.
Sink ’em, they’l riſe more glorious and great,
Beat ’em, when routed they’l the Conqu’rors beat;
They’l fight to Triumph when undone,
And their Wives boaſt the Fields, their Husbands won.
To Carthage I no more proud Poſt ſhall ſend,
Our Punic Victories are at an end;
The Fortune of our Arms is fled,
Fled all our hopes, ſince Aſdrubal is dead.
There’s nothing can the Claudian Force abide,
When Jove himſelf declares on Nero’s ſide;
Or Force, or Stratagem is vain,
Their prudence will an eaſie Triumph gain.
On The Miraculous Eſcape Of His Royal Highness, Going into Scotland By Sea. By Mr. E.A. M.A.
Shall Heav’n in vain his great Credentials give,
And Faithleſs he ſtill ſcruple to believe?
Shall more than common proofs aſſert his Right,
While we alike ’gainſt Truth and Juſtice fight?And 233 Q5r (233)
And that great Prince from future Crowns debar,
Whoſe wondrous Scapes ſhew him preſerv’d to wear;
Can we forget that ſad and tedious while,
That home-bred Malice kept him in Exile,
And made him rather venture on the doom
Of Foreign than Uſurping Pow’rs at home,
Whoſe ſwelling Rage, within no bounds content,
Envy’d his Liberty of Baniſhment.
Adnd had not Strangers been more Juſt and Brave,
Had made his Sanctuary become his Grave;
But Providence, which ſaw how they wou’d need
That Hero’s help, whom they had doom’d to bleed,
Preſerv’d him to defend, and bleſs their Land,
If they the Bleſſing could but underſtand;
And tho our Foes aim’d at his Life alone,
(Knowing all ours concentred in that one)
Some ſecret power Deaths Meſſenger miſlead,
And turn’d their Fury from his Royal Head;So 234 Q5v (234)
So that untoucht this ſtately Cedar ſtood,
Whilſt Lightning blaſted all the under-wood.
But as if Fate by ſaving did intend
To bring him to a more ignoble end,
And ruine him by thoſe he did defend;
Ungrateful we abuſe that purchas’d Peace,
And wanton grown with Pleaſure and with Eaſe,
Wou’d now Exclude him that Paternal Throne,
Which next great Charles he ought to ſit, or none
To raiſe the Peoples Idolized Son.—
So once the true and Sacred Worſhip fear’d,
When ſuch great Nothings were at Bethel rear’d;
But Heav’n who knew his Cauſe to be its own,
Since Princes Rights depend on Heav’n alone,
Has pleaded, and appear’d for both in one;
And made that rage, which did his Reign oppoſe,
His beſt preſervative againſt his Foes;
And that throughout the World it might be heard,
How much he was by Providence indear’d,It 235 Q6r (235)
It left its Favourites to the Sea expos’d,
With Deaths as numerous as thoſe waves inclos’d,
Deaths which to him, and ſuch as he might want,
But to no other wou’d a Paſs-port grant;
To ſhew by this one Act, ſo far from Chance,
Its great Concern for his deliverance;
So our Bleſs’d Lord did not his Lazarus ſave,
Till he was near corrupting in the Grave,
That by his grief, the life he did reſtore,
Might ſeem more valu’d, and the wonder more.
But tho preſerv’d for Heavens immediate ſake,
His Life’s a Bleſſing, which we all partake,
And ought in Votive Tables to expreſs
The mighty Favor, and the Happineſs;
And ſo we will: but what have we to Vow?
Since more alas! than we can give, we owe.
But ’tis not all the worth of Sacrifice,
But the ſincere deſign that Heav’n does priſe;Then 236 Q6v (236)
Then ſince no more’s requir’d, let us bring
Of what we have, a chearful Offering;
And if the Scepter which great CHARLES did Sway,
Shou’d want his hand, (but far be that ſad day)
Then we in Vows of Loyalty muſt pray,
And Heavens great pleaſure in his Power obey.
From HORACE, A Secular Poem: A Hymn To Phœbus and Diana,
For the Proſperity of the Roman Empire.
Phœbus, and thou great Goddeſs of the Skies,
Whoſe Altars dully ſmoak with Sacrifice,
O grant us what we humbly pray,
On this your Solemn Holiday!When 238 Q7v (238)
When the old Sybills gave a ſtrict command,
That untouch’d Boys, and Virgins hand in hand
Should ſing a Hymn to thoſe kind Powers,
That love our Hills, and guard our Towers.
Great Sol who doſt both night and day divide,
Who daily new, do’ſt ſtill the ſame abide;
May you ne’er ſee, where e’er you come,
A Town more Great than Mighty Rome.
Gentle Diana, tho thy ſelf a Maid,
Thou giv’ſt all Travelling Wombs a timely aid;
Oh ſave our Mothers by thy care,
So Luna, or Lucina hear.
Encreaſe our Progeny, confirm all Laws
That do concern the Matrimonial Cauſe;
Let no Decree o’th’ Senate die,
That does invite to Multiply;And 239 Q8r (239)
And when twice Fifty years do end their date,
Rome ſhall theſe Hymns and ſolemn Plays repeat;
Three following Suns ſhall ſee theſe Rites
That are renew’d, the following Nights.
Ye Fates, whoſe ſacred truths command our Aw,
Let what’s decreed be an eternal Law;
Give to Romes Fortunes, that are paſt,
Supplys, that may for ever laſt;
May plenteous Crops and Folds the Fields adorn,
That Ceres may be Crown’d with Ears of Corn;
May wholſom Streams, and healthful Air,
Make all our Flocks look freſh and fair.
Apollo now lay by thy dreadful Bow,
And hear the Lads with a ſmooth pleaſant Brow;
Diana Queen of all the Stars,
As kindly hear the Virgins Prayers.If 240 Q8v (240)
If Rome was built by your Divine Command,
When the poor Trojans left their Native Land;
And long by Seas and Tempeſt toſt,
Arriv’d on the Etrurian Coaſt.
When through the Flames of Troy a dang’rous way,
Æneas ſafely did his Men convey,
And promis’d ſtill that they ſhould find
A better place than that behind;
Ye Gods! grant to your Youth what’s good and great,
Not to the old and peaceful calm retreat.
Our Children and our Wealth increaſe,
And Rome with honour ever bleſs.
Let Venus and Anchiſes Son obtain,
(Who with white Bullocks does your Altars ſtain)
To raiſe his Empire above all,
Still kind to pity thoſe that fall;The 241 R1r (241)
The Mede does now already trembling ſtand
In fear of Rome, Potent by Sea and Land;
The Scythians now our pleaſure wait,
And ſo the Indians did of late.
Faith, Peace, and Honour, now their Rules diſpenſe.
We’re Chaſte as in the time of Innocence;
Now Vertue does the State adorn,
And Rome is bleſs’d with Plenty’s Horn.
If he that future doubts, knows to divide,
Whoſe Golden Bow does beautifie his ſide;
Adorn’d by the Muſes, and no leſs
By thoſe that skill in Herbs profeſs;
If Phebus proſper the Palatian Towers,
Favor Rome’s Empire, and be wholly ours;
May he for ever bleſs the State,
And make it to all Ages great.R Diana 242 R1v (242)
Diana that upon the Aventine dwells,
And from Mount Algidus ſweet ſavor ſmells;
The thrice fierce Prieſt o’th’ Sibylls hear,
And to the Boys vouchſafe an Ear.
Now are we ſure our Prayers to Heaven are flown,
That Jove and all the Gods are now our own.
While we the Chorus Praiſes bring,
To Phœbus and Diana ſing.
On The University Of Cambridge.
A Dialogue Between Tutor and Pupil. By an Unknown Hand, 1684Annnnno 84.
Hither as to an Oracle I come
To be inform’d, and return wiſer home;
For from theſe Walls, this Conſecrated Place,
The God of Wit, to this day does not ceaſeR2 To 244 R2v (244)
To th’ wondring World Precepts Divine to give,
And teaches how to write, and teaches how to live.
The Place I own is much oblig’d to Fame,
Yet are its Merits great, as is its Name;
Here Wiſdom, Learning, and Religion thrives,
Here happy Innocence, and Virtue lives;
Virtue that is it ſelf its own reward,
And Innocence that never needs a Guard.
Happy the People, and belov’d of Heav’n,
To whom this ſweet, this ſafe retreat is given;
Free from the Noiſes Tumults of the Age,
Pens do their hands, and Books their minds engage;
No Faction’s known, no baſe Rebellion here,
But only to be wiſe, and loyal is their care.
Oh bleſt be ye indulgent Pow’rs, to you
This happy Seat, this ſacred Reſt we owe;
Here doth the God-like Albemarle preſide,
The Muſes Safety, and the Muſes Pride;
They him with everlaſting Praiſes bleſs,
And he ſecures their humble happineſs.
But he or to the Camp, or to the Court,
Zealous to ſerve his Prince ſtill makes reſort,
From thence by what inducements will you bring
Him, who ſo truly loves, and ſerves the King.
His Power remote protects us from all harm,
And, like the Sun, his Beams at diſtance warm.
But who deputed does the Muſes ſway?
Whom in his abſence do the Tribes obey?
They choſe him freely, but repent their Choice,
Ja――s is the Man, ſcarce fit to Govern Boys,
And yet he ſeems for Majeſty deſign’d,
And is a King, tho not in Power, in mind;
He’d Act according to his Haughty Soul,
Be abſolute, and Rule without controul;
But our wiſe Senate did his Pride condemn,
And made him better know himſelf, and them;
To counter-poiſe the Ballance, and to ſet
’Gainſt one great Ill, one Vertuouſly great.
Take him who does Divinity profeſs,
Whom all the glory of our Age confeſs,
And never ſatisfi’d with hearing Bleſs.
Beaumont, a Name the Learn’d with Reverence know,
And ſcarcely more to their own Hooker owe;
’Mongſt all his numerous, brave adopted Sons,
Barnes is his eldeſt Joy, that Barnes who moansThe 247 R4r (247)
The Martyr’d Charles; expoſes former Crimes,
And by an early care reclaims our Times;
Salisbury’s Youth, by ſuch Inſtructions led,
Does in the Nobleſt Paths of Honour tread;
His late unhappy Fathers Fate he mourns,
And wiſely from the hated Faction turns:
Mancheſter too, by Nature made to be
The beſt of Friends, or dreadful’ſt Enemy;
Always averſe to dull indifference,
Is here at once taught Loyalty and Senſe:
Add to theſe Heroes, one of equal worth,
Mountague, great in Learning as in Birth,
Whoſe early Merit juſt Preferment bears,
And greater Honours wait his riper years:
Next Aſculapian, Goſlin, Spencer, More,
The Martial Peachel, and the Learned Gower;
Men that will ne’er from threatning danger fly,
But rather than Rebel would bravely dye;
Men always ready, for the publick good,
To Sacrifice their Fortunes and their Blood;R4 Nor 248 R4v (248)
Nor let the Ingenious Eachard be forgot,
His Colledge intereſt ſtudious to promote;
Theſe grateful Walls will ſpeak his deathleſs Praiſe,
With them he does a fame more laſting raiſe:
Nor Exton, Exton knowing in the Laws,
And always zealous for the Royal Cauſe;
With theſe, and ſuch as theſe, ſome hours we ſpend,
True to our Prince, and Faithful to our Friend.
When weary, from our Studies we retire,
Repair loſt ſtrength, and quicken new deſire,
A Generous Bottle Crowns the Chearful Board,
Sweet the Diſcourſe, and uſeful every word.
But who’s the fam’d Phyſician, that thought fit
To Cenſure Loyalty, and Nobleſt Wit?
’Twas B――dy damn’d the never-dying Verſe,
That Albemarl’s juſt Praiſes did rehearſe;That 249 R5r (249)
That ſhow’d how bleſt we are in Charles’s his Reign,
And ſung the Rebels Fate with brave Diſdain;
And ſo he ſung, ſo charm’d us, that his Name
Shall ever live among the Sons of Fame,
Laſting as his, who abſent Cæia Mourns,
Or his whom ſcornful Sachariſſa burns;
They all of our great Learned Mother come,
The Ingenious Offspring of her fruitful Womb;
She Chaucer too, and Cowly firſt brought forth,
Before in time, but not before in worth;
In Dryden’s Mighty ſelf ſhe claims a part,
Tho he to Oxford has reſign’d his heart;
Thebes did his green unknowing youth ingage,
But he choſe Athens in his riper Age;
Not ſo the nobler C――on did diſown
This place, for which he left the Lewder Town,
Hither retir’d, and here in ſtudious reſt,
From Vice and Folly free, is truly bleſt.
But muſt I here be to a Gown confin’d?
No other good Aſſociate can I find,
Worthy a Mans Acquaintance? is there none
In all this numerous neighboring ſparkiſh Town.
Beware ah fond believing Youth! beware,
But leave theſe Walls, and ſtreight you’r in a ſnare;
Or to Mens Avarice you are made a Prey,
Or Womens Smiles will lead your heart aſtray,
Tho nothing ſhould leſs tempting be than they.
One boaſts that ſhe of Noble Lineage comes,
Tho all her Race were Chamber-maids and Grooms;
Another tho her Birth be mean, yet ſhe
(Thanks to her Stars) has ingenuity;
And bleſt ſhe is with ſuch a Beauteous face,
So charming, ſo reſiſtleſs, every Grace,
She’ll not to th’ proudeſt of her Sex give place.A 251 R6r (251)
A third her Portion boaſts, tho few there are,
That e’er will have that Sin to anſwer for;
Five hundred Pounds were by her Father left,
Got neither by Extortion, nor Theft;
Tho bare five ſhillings firſt the Villain had,
And honeſtly improv’d it by the Pad:
Such dirty Stuff as this, I charge ye ſhun,
And from the Town as from a Peſt-houſe run;
Keep cloſe within thy Colledg Walls, and there
Enjoy thy ſelf, Books only be thy care,
And ſuch few friends, by whoſe wiſe converſe you
To Man, and ſomething more than Man may grow.
On The Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The way to Health, Long Life, and Happiness. By Mrs. A.B.
Hail Learned Bard! who doſt thy power diſpence
And ſhow’ſt us the firſt State of Innocence.
In that bleſt golden Age, when Man was young,
When the whole Race was Vigorous and Strong;
When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give,
And taught the Noble Savage how to live;When 253 R7r (253)
When Chriſtal Streams, and every plenteous Wood
Afforded harmleſs drink, and wholſom food;
E’er that ingratitude in Man was found,
His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound;
When unconfin’d, the ſpacious Plains produc’d
What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d;
When every Senſe to innocent delight
Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite;
When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright,
And nothing horrid did perplex the ſight;
Unprun’d the Roſes and the Jes’min grew,
Nature each day dreſt all the World anew,
And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew;
Till wild Debauchery did Mens mind invade,
And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade;
Surer than War it laid whole Countrys waſt,
Not Plague nor Famine ruins half ſo faſt;
By ſwift degrees we took that Poiſon in,
Regarding not the danger, nor the ſin;Delightful 254 R7v (254)
Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait,
While Death did on th’inviting Pleaſure wait,
And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race,
Sickly their days, and thoſe declin’d apace,
Scarce Bloſſoms Blow, and Wither in leſs ſpace.
Till Nature thus declining by degrees,
We have recourſe to rich reſtoratives,
By dull advice from ſome of Learned Note,
We take the Poiſon for the Antidote;
Till ſinking Nature cloy’d with full ſupplys,
O’er charg’d grows fainter, Languiſhes and dies.
Theſe are the Plagues that o’er this Iſland reign,
And have ſo many threeſcore thouſands ſlain;
Till you the ſaving Angel, whoſe bleſt hand
Have ſheath’d that Sword, that threatned half the Land;
More than a Parent, Sir, we you muſt own,
They give but life, but you prolong it on;
You even an equal power with Heav’n do ſhew,
Give us long life, and laſting Vertue too:Such 255 R8r (255)
Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old,
Who God in all his Glory did behold,
Inſpir’d like you, they Heavens Inſtructions ſhow’d,
And were as Gods amidſt the wandring Croud;
Not he that bore th’ Almighty Wand cou’d give
Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live.
And ſo eſſential was this cleanly Food,
For Mans eternal health, eternal good,
That God did for his firſt-lov’d Race provide,
What thou by Gods example haſt preſcrib’d:
O mai’ſt thou live to juſtifie thy fame,
To Ages laſting as thy glorious Name!
May thy own life make thy vaſt Reaſons good,
(Philoſophy admir’d and underſtood,)
To every ſenſe ’tis plain, ’tis great, and clear,
And Divine Wiſdom does o’er all appear;Learn 256 R8v (256)
Learning and Knowledge do ſupport the whole,
And nothing can the mighty truth controul;
Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn,
I’ve tri’d thy Method, and adore thy Theme;
Adore the Soul that cou’d ſuch truths diſcern,
And ſcorn the fools that want the ſenſe to learn.
Epitaph On the Tombſtone of a Child, the laſt of Seven that died before. By Mrs. A.B.
This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was ſweet and innocent;
The ſofteſt pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Muſick and his Words a Song;
Which now each Liſt’ning Angel ſmiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compoſe the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
Had learn’d the little arts of doing harms;
Fair as young Cherubins, as ſoft and kind,
And tho tranſlated could not be refin’d;S The 258 S1v (258)
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to reſt in Heaven;
Where they the ſhining Hoſt of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and ſmile.
A Pindaric By The Honourable Edward Howard, To Mrs. B.
Occaſioned By a Copy ſhe made On His Play, Called The New Eutopia.
That Gift, which late you did beſtow
Upon a Hapleſs Play,
The Bounties of your Wit does ſhew,
Flowing in numbers of your Verſe,
Which like Rich Ornaments you caſt away,
T’adorn ſome undeſerving Herſe,S2 Which 260 S2v (260)
Which by Decree of Fate does fall
Into Deaths Arms, tho by a rude and haſty Funeral.
Your Wit, ’tis true, may well reprieve,
What the leſs knowing can condemn,
And Faction juſt Correction give,
Should its bold Tongue your Muſe Blaſpheme;
Tho ’tis too much in this you write,
To ſeem to bluſh in black and white,
Which were ingratitude in me to blame,
Since I muſt glory in your gift of Fame;
As who would not of Death Ambitious be,
If after he might boaſt to live,
When Wit, and Beauty, both agree
To Epitaph his Memory.
Fortune in wit prevails much more
Than all its Charms and Arts,
As ſome by chance, or trick do better ſtart,
Than they who run with skill and force,
Where vigorous Spirit does maintain the courſe,
Which your Muſe juſtly might deplore,
If ſcantily applauded of deſerts;
Tho its bright Triumphs to you bring
Such Glorys, never any ſhe could ſing;
While from the Copies of your wit and face,
The Nine muſt their own Beauteous Figures grace.
Would I implore again my hapleſs Muſe,
Invited by the Charms of yours,
Themes of your Wit I were oblig’d to chuſe,
Ennobling thence my more ignoble Pow’rs;
But ſince that Object is too great,
I needs muſt yield to my defeat,
Or Victory that’s gotten by retreat;S3 To 262 S3v (262)
To moſt, ſucceſsful wit
Proves like ſome Feaveriſh fitt,
Who has a cold one near attending it.
’Tis not the Vote, nor Faction of the Town,
That ſhall (if you approve) condemn my Pen,
Your Muſe inſtructs the knowing part of Men;
But I my humble thoughts lay down,
With ſuch ſubmiſſion, as you make
The Captives, which your Wit and Beauty take;
Yet dare not farther either hope or own.
Epilogue To The Jealous Lovers. By Mrs. Behn, in 16821682.
And how, and how Meſieurs! what do you ſay
To our good Moderate, Conſcientious Play?
Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence;
It Libels neither Patriot, Peer, nor Prince.
Nor Shrieve, nor Burgeſs, nor the Reverend Gown,
Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred pound;
Your Damage is at moſt but half a Crown:S4 Only 264 S4v (264)
Only this difference you muſt allow,
’Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too,
Wou’d Rebell Ward had manag’d matters ſo.
Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witneſſes,
We ſcorn ſuch out-of-Faſh’on’d-things as theſe;
They fail to be believ’d, and fail to pleaſe.
No Salamanca Doctor-ſhip abus’d,
Nor a Malicious Stateſ-man here accus’d;
No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs,
That make your City Wives in Love with Players.
But here are fools of every ſort and Faſhion,
Except State-Fools, the Tools of Reformation,
Or Cullys of the Court-Aſſociation.
And thoſe Originals decline ſo faſt,
We ſhall have none to Copy by at laſt;
Here’s Jo, and Jack a pair of whining Fools.
And Ligh and I brisk Laviſh keeping Fools.
He’s for Miſchief all, and carry’s it on
With Fawne and Sneere, as Jilting Whigg has done.
And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown.
Ovid to Julia. A Letter, By an Unknown Hand.
Fair Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone
To tell you how he drew his Ruin on;
By what degrees he took that Poiſon in,
That made him guilty of Promethius ſin;
Who from the Gods durſt ſteal Cœeſtial fire,
And tho with leſs ſucceſs, I did as high aſpire.
Oh why ye Gods! was ſhe of Mortal Race?
And why ’twixt her and me, was there ſo vaſt a ſpace?
Why was ſhe not above my Paſſion made
Some Star in Heaven, or Goddeſs of the Shade?And 266 S5v (266)
And yet my haughty Soul cou’d ne’er have bow’d
To any Beauty, of the common Crowd.
None but the Brow, that did expect a Crown
Cou’d Charm or Awe me with a Smile, or Frown;
I had the Envy of th’ Arcadian Plains,
Sought by the Nymphs, and bow’d to by the Swains;
Where I paſs’d, I ſwept the Fields along,
And gather’d round me all the gazing throng:
In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound,
And when I ſpread my wanton wiſhes round,
They wanted nothing but my being Crown’d.
Yet witneſs all ye ſpightful Powers above,
If my Ambition did not ſpring from Love!
Had you my Charming Julia been leſs fair,
Leſs Excellent, leſs Conqu’ring than you are,
I had my Glorious Loyalty retain’d,
My Noble Blood untainted had remain’d,Witneſs 267 S6r (267)
Witneſs ye Groves, witneſs ye Sacred Powers!
Ye ſhaded Rivers Banks, and Beds of Flowers,
Where the expecting Nymphs have paſt their hours.
Witneſs how oft, all careleſs of their Fame,
They languiſh’d for the Author of their flame,
And when I came reproach’d my cold reſerve;
Ask’d for what Nymph I did my Joys preſerve?
What ſighing Maid was next to be undone?
For whom I dreſt, and put my Graces on?
And never thought, (tho I feign’d every proof
Of tender Paſſion) that I lov’d enough.
While I with Love’s variety was cloy’d;
Or the faint pleaſure like a Dream injoy’d.
’Twas Julia’s brighter Eyes my ſoul alone
With everlaſting guſt, could feed upon.
From her firſt bloom my Fate I did purſue,
And from the tender fragrant Bud, I knew
The Charming Sweets it promis’d, when it Blew.
This gave me Love, and ’twas in vain I try’d
The Beauty from the Princeſs to divide;For 268 S6v (268)
For he at once muſt feel, whom you inſpire,
A ſoft Ambition, and a haughty fire,
And Hopes the Natural aid of young deſire.
My unconſidering Paſſion had not yet
Thought your Illuſtrious Birth for mine too great,
’Twas Love that I purſu’d, vaſt Love that leads
Sometimes the equall’d ſlave, to Princes Beds.
But I forgot that Sacred Flame muſt reſt
In your bright Soul, that makes th’ Adorer bleſt;
Your generous fire alone muſt you ſubdue,
And raiſe the Humbler Lover up to you;
Yet if by Chance m’ Ambition met a ſtop,
By any thought that check’d m’ advancing hope,
This new one ſtraight would all the reſt confound,
How ev’ry Coxcomb aim’d at being Crown’d;
The vain young Fool with all his Mothers parts,
(Who wanted wit enough for little Arts,)
With Crowds, and unmatch’d nonſenſe, lays a claim
To th’ Glorious title of a Sovereign;And 269 S7r (269)
And when for Gods ſuch wretched things ſet up,
Was it ſo great a crime in me to hope?
No Laws of Heaven, or Man my Vows reprove;
There is no Treaſon in Ambitious Love.
That Sacred Antidote, i’th’ poiſon’d Cup,
Quells the Contagion of each little drop,
I bring no Forces, but my ſighs and tears,
My Languiſhments, my ſoft complaints and Pray’rs,
Artillery which I ne’r ſent in vain,
Nor Sail’d where e’er addreſs’ſt, to wound with pain:
Here, only here! rebated they return,
Meeting the ſollid Armour of your Scorn;
Scorn! By the Gods! I any thing could bear,
The Rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War;
Long Winters Marches, or the Summer heat,
May even in Battel, from the Foe defeat;
Scars on my face, Scars, whoſe dull recompence,
Would ne’er attone, for what they rob from thence.Scandal 270 S7v (270)
Scandal of Coward, nay half witted too,
Or ſiding with the Pardon’d Rebell Crew;
Or any thing but ſcorn,—and yet frown on,
Your Slave was deſtin’d thus to be undone.
You the Avenging Deity appear,
And I a Victim fall to all the injur’d Fair.
A Warning To Lovers.
How Men may be wiſer than their Fore-Fathers. Made by a Gentleman in Bethlehem.
When you this Title read, I know you’l ask
Who ’tis that undertakes this weighty task?
Know then, ’tis I my ſelf, thus boldly dare!
And now you are no wiſer than you were,
Nor ſhall you be for me; for know, I prize,
At ſomething higher rate than ſo, my Eyes:
For ſhou’d the Women know me, without doubt,
In Malice, and revenge, they’d ſcratch ’em out.Take, 272 S8v (272)
Take, if you will, for nothing, my advice,
If you won’t, chuſe, I’ll ne’er ask you twice;
Contemn that gaudy Miſchief, Woman-kind,
Inſatiate as the Sea, falſe as the Wind;
Set out for Ruin, in gay flatt’ring Forms,
But rude, and as deſtructive too as Storms;
Ungenerous Cowards all, and do maintain
(As Cowards do, by lyes and Frauds,) a Name
Of their falſe Honour, here’s the only teſt;
She that deceives you moſt, and jilts you beſt,
Sets up for Fame and Honour ’bove the reſt;
Or ſhe the moſt convenient Coxcomb finds,
Whom his own Folly, not her Conduct blinds.
This paſſes for diſcreet, becauſe ſhe can
Delude ſo long the doating keeping Man;
While the unthinking World miſtakes the Cheat;
’Tis he’s a Block-head, and not ſhe a Wit.
Here a great Lord, imagin’d wiſe and nice
Thinks long-kept Phillis chaſte, as untouch’d ice;The 273 T1r (273)
The Beauty, and the Vertue of the Town,
To whom each Sonnet-making Fop is known,
Of whom each ſcowring Spark is weary grown;
While ſhe retains the neceſſary Tool,
Not ’cauſe ſhe’s Honeſt, but that he’s a Fool.
From the beginning, Men were Jilted all,
Witneſs our firſt, our wiſe Original.
Adam, to ſatisfie a Womans Luſt,
T’ himſelf, and to his Heirs, was ſo unjuſt,
He ſold the moſt intire, and bleſt Eſtate,
That Man e’er laviſh’d, at the pooreſt rate;
A trifling Apple; rather for a Core,
The Jilt had eat the beſt of it before;
And He, whom Heaven had made ſo Great and Wiſe,
Was Cully’d out of Glorious Paradice.
David was Pious, Wiſe, and Stout, yet ſee,
No Man was madder for a Wench than he;T A 274 T1v (274)
A Loyal Subject’s Faith he thus repay’d,
Firſt gave him Horns, and then his Life betray’d
For a vain peeviſh Woman; by your Leave;
Great Sir, this was to play both Fool and Knave.
King Solomon I find, in Holy Writ,
Cry’d up for Mighty Parts, for wondrous Wit;
Yet he to Women wholly bent his Mind,
Paſſion, that worſt of Errors, ſtruck him blind;
For Faithleſs Beauty, Heaven he did defie,
And gave a looſe to Love, and to Idolatry;
The Petticoat did make this wond’rous Man,
For all his Wiſdom, put the Fools-coat on.
Sampson made Foxes, (by a ſubtil ſlight)
His Enemies, for all his wrongs, requite;
And he mow’d down two, as the Story goes,
With th’ Jaw-bone of an Aſs, a thouſand foes;
Yet Woman, who’s a thing more trivial far
Than that Jaw-bone, o’ercame this Man of War;His 275 T2r (275)
His Paſſion all his Secrets open laid,
And by a Whore the Heroe was betray’d.
Susanna’s Judges did deſerve to die,
For their fond Doatage, not their Perjury;
For ſince they did but ’gainſt a Woman ſwear,
By Heaven, ten groats apiece was too ſevere;
But ſince fond Love was itching in their Blood,
Damn the old Fops, a Halter was too good.
Paris the Gods themſelves eſteem’d ſo wiſe,
They made him Judge between three Deities;
They bribe him high, all bribe him for the Prize:
Pallas would Wiſdom, Juno Kingdoms grant,
But Venus ſwore a Miſs he ſhould not want;
To Charming Helen ſhe the Swain would bring,
For whom the Youths of Greece were languiſhing:
Mad with his new-born hopes, her he preſents,
Rewards her for the worſt of Puniſhments;
For a falſe Woman, Wiſdom he refus’d,
And rather than a Crown, a Wench he chus’d.
The Macedonian Youth, whoſe Glorious Name
Stands firſt recorded in the Book of Fame;
He, who by Conqueſt all the World had won,
By Fair Deſtructive Woman was undone,
And all the Honours which his Youth did boaſt,
His Love! his damn’d bewitching Paſſion loſt.
In a Debauch, at a lewd Whores deſire,
He ſet the Fam’d Perſepolis on Fire.
Poor Tarquin; I lament thy Fate, ’bove all,
That e’er were ruin’d thus! thy Noble Fall
Forces my tears: for tho it were thy luck
With this unhappy blindneſs to be ſtruck;
Yet thou diſt ſcorn to Court a thing ſo baſe
As feeble Woman for a fond Embrace,
With whine and cringe, ſuch as dull Coxcombs uſe,
When Cunning and not Vertue does refuſe:
Dear Cœia, hear your Lover, or I die,
If you will ſtab me to the heart, deny.
Such Stuff diſdain’d, reſolv’d to win the Field,
He cry’d! I muſt enjoy, and you muſt yield.
This Vigorous Youth long Sieges could not bear
But, with his Dagger twiſted in her hair,
He did not Parley, but invade the Fair:
Great pity ’twas he was undone by this;
But ſhe too ſtab’d her ſelf, my comfort is.
Then all ye whining Fops, that e’er were born,
If you would wiſer be, theſe Vices ſcorn.
Out of TjIbullus, Book III. Elegy II. By H.Criſp, Fellow of Kings-College in Cambridge.
Cruel hard-hearted Man was he, who firſt
Lovers from their dear ſoft Embraces forc’d;
He too, was a hard-hearted Man, who liv’d,
Who dully liv’d, when of his Love depriv’d;
I ne’er will be that patient Coxcomb, I
Rob’d of my Miſtris, will reſolve to die:
Mean Souls may brook ſuch injuries as theſe,
When Cœia’s gone, take up with Doll, or Beſs,
Then all that’s Woman-kind, alike can pleaſe;
But if the brave, and generous Lover loſe
The Vertuous Darling Miſtriſs of his Vows;So 279 T4r (279)
So great’s the grief, ſo deſperate the wound,
No cure, but only in pale Death, is found.
Sad is the truth I ſpeak; alas! I own,
My Life’s a burden I would fain lay down;
Nor can that Man be truly ſaid to live,
The only bus’neſs of whoſe life’s to grieve:
Wretched Tibullus die, a ſpeedy fate
Does beſt become thy hopeleſs loſt eſtate;
But when I leave this hated Light, and go
To thoſe leſs cruel Regions below,
With Hair diſhevell’d in a mournful mien,
Let fair Neæra at my Grave be ſeen;
With her, her Mother, let ’em there bemoan
A hapleſs Husband, and a ſlaughter’d Son.
Thou weeping Stone, the diſmal ſtory tell,
By what untimely Fate Tybullus fell;
And that my Love may never be forgot,
Let this Inſcription on my Tomb be wrought:
Tibullus, when Næera was deny’d,
Thought nothing here worth living for, and dy’d.
Lesbia’s Sparrow Out of Catullus. By Mr. Hen. Criſp, Fellow of Kings-College, Cambridge.
Prettieſt of Birds, my Lesbia’s Favourite,
Her tuneful Joy, her innocent delight;
Her ſweet diverſion; always to her Breaſt
Kindly admitted a moſt welcome Gueſt;
Oft with her fair fore-fingers gently ſtroke,
Would ſhe thy eager Appetite provoke;
With thee my Bird, to quench her Amorous fire,
Lesbia, the brighteſt object of deſire,
Would often, I remember, ſport and play,
Beguile her paſſion, and deceive the day;Then 281 T5r (281)
I too, a happy partner of the Bliſs,
Could play with thee, when her I meant to kiſs:
Thee much lov’d Bird, thee did I often find
The beſt Phyſician of my Love-ſick mind;
Grateful to me, as to the Coy ſwift Maid
The Golden Apple was; that Apple which betray’d,
And drew the Virgin, to her Nuptial Bed.
Out of Catullus. The Death Of Lesbia’s Sparrow. By Mr. Hen. Criſp, of Kings-College Cambridge.
Come all ye Venuſes, ye Cupids all,
And whatſoe’er we gay or pretty call,
Come and lament my Lesbia’s Sparrow’s fall.
My Lesbia’s Sparrow’s dead! the ſweeteſt Bird,
The moſt delightful chirper e’er was heard;[So 283 T6r (283)
So much the Darling of my Charming Fair;
Scarce her own eyes were to her ſelf more dear.
No Child his Mother ever better knew
Than he his Miſtris, to whoſe Arms he flew,
There dwelt, and bid his fellow-Birds adieu;
There skipt about and plaid, and there was bleſt,
Her downy Boſom was his only Neſt;
All her diſcourſe to him he underſtood,
And kindly anſwer’d in what voice he cou’d:
But now he’s gone, gone to his ſilent Urn,
From whence, they ſay, none ever can return.
Curſe on ye all, ye darkeſt ſhades of Hell!
Ye envious Shades, by you my Sparrow fell.
Thus all the beſt, the prettieſt things we have,
Are made the Plunder of the greedy Grave;
Ah lovely hapleſs Bird! ſince thou art dead,
With tears my Lesbia’s ſwelling Eyes look red.
Ovids Amours, Book I. Elegy V. CORINA ENJOYED. By an Unknown Hand.
Warm was the Seaſon, ſpent was half the day,
Seeking repoſe, on ſofteſt Downe I lay;
Part of the Window ſhut, part open was,
Juſt ſuch a glim’ring light through Woods does paſs,
Such is the doubtful light, when ſets the Sun,
Or day ſcarce riſen, tho the night be gone;
’Tis to ſuch Light even baſhful Virgins yield,
And Modeſtly will venture ſo conceal’d,
When lo Corina enter’d, looſe her Gown,
Her hair was o’er her Beauteous Shoulders thrown;So 285 T7r (285)
So dreſt, ’tis ſaid, the fair Semiramis
Imbrac’d her Lover, and improv’d the Bliſs;
So bright, ſo charming, Lais did appear,
If Lais ſelf may be compar’d to her;
I with kind force her gentle Robe remove,
She to defend her ſecret Beauties ſtrove;
But ſo ſhe ſtrove, ſuch faint reſiſtance made,
She encourag’d me more fiercely to invade;
Her ſelf at length ſhe kindly did betray,
Eaſie the Conqueſt was, and rich the Prey:
But oh! When ſhe before me naked ſtood,
Heavens! how inflam’d in every vein, my blood
Boundleſs, as was my Paſſion, overflow’d;
What thoughts the bliſsful Object did inſpire,
Filling at once my wonder and deſire;
That Beauteous Shape I ſaw, thoſe Limbs did feel
Where Love, where all perfection ſeem’d to dwell;
Her Boſom did a Scent more grateful yield,
Than ever bleſt the ſweeteſt flowery field;Soft 286 T7v (286)
Soft were the downy Pillows of her Breaſt,
And fit by happy Lovers to be preſt;
Her Belly did in tempting Beauty ſpread,
And like ſome ſwelling Plain it ſelf diſplay’d;
At ſuch a ſight, whoſe Courage would not riſe?
So white a Neck, ſuch Arms, ſuch youthful Thighs:
What e’er I touch’d and ſaw, was all Divine;
Amazing Beauty in each part did ſhine;
I preſt her lovely Body cloſe to mine.
The reſt you know, grant ye kind Gods, that I
ſSuch happy Noons may every day injoy.
OUT OF Propertius, Book III. Elegy XIV. On His Imperious Miſtris. By Mr. Hen. Criſp, of Kings-College Cambridge.
Her Letter comes at Mid-night, and away
To Tiber ſummons me, without delay;
What ſhall I do, thro’ darkeſt ſhades of Night
Shall I, a daring Lover, take my flight?
Shall I all dangers for my Love deſpiſe;
Or leſs my Safety than my Miſtris prize?
What did I ſee! oh my unmanly fear!
As if I cou’d be ſafe, when from my dear:’Tis 288 T8v (288)
’Tis only dangerous to diſobey,
My fears for that foul ſin, muſt ſadly pay;
I diſobey’d her once, and Baniſh’d was,
A whole long tedious twelve Month, from her face;
For as there’s none than Cynthia more fair,
So none than Cynthia can be more ſevere.
I’ll go! what Cruel Barbarous Man would hurt
A harmleſs Lover? or prevent his ſport?
Me the kind Moon, the Stars will me direct,
Me Cupid, and the Queen of Love protect:
The Dogs, while I to Cynthia go, forget
Their native fierceneſs, and no longer bite;
Lovers at any time, in any place,
May to their Miſtris ſecurely paſs:
What Villain’s he, his Impious hands who ſtains
I’th’little Blood left in a Lovers Veins?
But yet suppoſe the worſt of things, ſuppoſe
(If Innocence has any ſuch) my FoesAſſault 289 U1r (289)
Aſſault and ſlay me, and a certain Fate
On the unhappy Wanderer ſhould wait;
’Tis ſuch a death that I would gladly die,
’Tis ſuch a death, with all I’m worth, I’d buy,
So dying, none can be ſo bleſt as I.
Then ſhall I be my deareſt Cinthia’s care.
She’ll bury me, and then at leaſt ſhe’ll ſhed a tear.
A Pastoral To Mr. Stafford, Under the Name of SILVIO,
On His Translation Of The Death of Camilla: Out Of VIRGIL. By Mrs. Behn.
Thirſis and Amarillis.
Why Amarillis doſt thou walk alone,
And the gay pleaſures of the Meadows ſhun?Why 291 U2r (291)
Why to the ſilent Groves doſt thou retire,
When uncompell’d by the Suns ſcorching fire?
Muſing with folded Arms, and down-caſt look,
Or penſive yield to thy ſupporting Hook:
Is Damon ſafe? and has his Vows betray’d,
And born the Trophies to ſome other Maid?
The Gods forbid I ſhould ſurvive to ſee
The fatal day he were unjuſt to me.
Nor is my Courage. or my Love ſo poor
T’out-live that Scorn’d, and miſerable hour;
Rather let Wolves my new yean’d Lambs devour
Wither ye Verdant Graſs, dry up ye Streams,
And let all Nature turn to vaſt extreams:
In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry,
And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring ſupply,
But with my Damons Love, Let all that’s charming die.
Why then this dull retreat, if he be true,
Or, Amarillis, is the change in you?
You love ſome Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks,
For none can be more powerful in his looks;
His ſhape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face,
And on the Plaines, none dances with his Grace;
’Tis true, in Piping he does leſs excell.
The Muſick of his Voice can charm as well,
When tun’d to words of Love, and ſighs among,
With the ſoft tremblings of his baſhful tongue,
And Thirſis, you accuſe my Faith in vain,
To think it wavering, for another Swain;
Tis admiration now that fills my ſoul,
And does ev’n love ſuſpend, if not controul.
My thoughts are ſolemn all, and do appear
With wonder in my Eyes, and not deſpair!My 293 U3r (293)
My heart is entertain’d with ſilent Joys,
And I am pleas’d above the Mirth of Noiſe.
What new-born pleaſure can divert you ſo,
Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.
Laſt night, by yonder purling ſtream I ſtood,
Pleas’d with the murmurs of the little Flood,
Who in its rapid glidings bore away
The fringing Flow’rs, that made the Bank ſo gay,
Which I compar’d to fickle Swains, who invade
Firſt this, then that deceiv’d, and yielding Maid:
Whoſe flattering Vows an eaſie paſſage find,
Then unregarded leave ’em far behind,
To ſigh their Ruin to the flying Wind.
So the ſolid flow’rs their rifled Beautes hung,
While the triumphant Raviſher paſſes on.
This while I ſighing view’d, I heard a voice
That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce.U3 Who 294 U3v (294)
Who eccho’d back the charming ſound again,
Answering the Muſick of each ſoftning ſtrain,
And told the wonder over all the Plain.
Young Silvio ’twas that tun’d his happy Pipe,
The beſt that ever grac’d a Shepherds Lip!
Silvio of Noble Race, yet not diſdains
To mix his harmony with Ruſtic Swains.
To th’ humble Shades th’Illuſtrious Youth reſorts,
Shunning the falſe delights of gaudy Courts,
For the more ſolid happineſs of Rural ſports.
Courts which his Noble Father long purſu’d,
And ſerv’d till he out-ſerv’d their gratitude.
Oh Amarillis, let that tale no more
Remembred be on the Arcadian Shore,
Leſt Mirth ſhould on our Meads no more be found,
But Stafford’s Story ſhould throughout reſound,
And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.
Arcadia keep your peace, but give me leave,
Who knew the Heroes Loyalty, to grieve;
Once Thirſis, by th’Arcadian Kings Commands,
I left theſe Shades, to viſit forein Lands;
Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs,
Unuſual with my Sex, or to my Years;
There ’twas my chance, ſo Fortune did ordain,
To ſee this great, this good, this God-like Man:
Brave, Pious, Loyal, Juſt, without conſtraint,
The Soul all Angell, and the Man a Saint;
His temper’d mind no Paſſion e’er inflamed,
But when his King and Countrey were profan’d;
Then oft I’ve ſeen his generous blood o’er ſpread
His awful face, with a reſenting Red,
In Anger quit the Room, and would diſdain
To herd with the Rebellious Publican.
But Thirſis ’twould a worſhip’d Volume fill,
If I the Heroes wondrous Life ſhould tell;U4 His 296 U4v (296)
His Vertues were his Crime, like God he bow’d
A neceſſary Victim to the frantick Croud;
So a tale ſheltring Oak that long had ſtood,
The mid-days ſhade, and the glory of the Wood;
Whoſe aged boughs a reverence did command,
Fell lop’d at laſt by an Ignoble hand:
And all his branches are in pieces torn,
That Victors grac’d, and did the Wood adorn.
—With him young Silvio, who compos’d his Joys,
The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes,
Inheriting the Vertues of his Sire,
But all his own is his Poetic fire;
When young the Gods of Love, and Wit did grace
The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face,
Which ripening years did to perfection bring,
And taught him how to Love, and how to Sing.
But what dear Amarillis, was the Theam
The Noble Silvio Sung by yonder Stream?
Not of the Shepherds, nor their Rural Loves,
The Song was Glorious tho ’twas ſung in Groves!
Camilla’s Death the skilful Youth inſpir’d,
As if th’Heroic Maid his ſoul had fir’d;
Such life was in his Song, ſuch heat, ſuch flight,
As he had ſeen the Royal Virgin fight.
He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art,
With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart,
And form’d her Courage to his own great heart.
Never was fighting in our Sex a Charm,
Till Silvio did the bright Camilla Arm;
With Noble Modeſty he ſhews us how
To be at once Hero, and Woman too.
Oh Conquering Maid! how much thy Fame has won,
In the Arcadian Language to be ſung,
And by a Swain ſo ſoft, ſo ſweet, ſo young.
Well haſt thou ſpoke the noble Silvio’s Praiſe,
For I have often heard his charming lays;
Oft has he bleſt the Shades with ſtrains Divine,
Took many a Virgins heart, and Raviſh’d mine.
Long may he ſing in every Field and Grove,
And teach the Swains to Pipe, the Maids to Love.
Daphnis, and Colin Pipe not half ſo well,
E’en Dions mighty ſelf he does excell;
As the laſt Lover of the Muſes, bleſt,
The laſt and young in Love are always beſt;
And She her darling Lover does requite
With all the ſofteſt Arts of Nobleſt Wit.
Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her!
Thus let ’em live, and love upon the ſquare,But 299 U6r (299)
But ſee Alexis homeward leads his Flock,
And brouzing Goats deſcend from yonder Rock;
The Sun is haſting on to Thetis Bed,
See his faint Beams have ſtreak’d the Sky with Red.
Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way,
You ſhall of Silvio ſing, while I will play.
Lysander having by chance met with a ſmall Piece in French, Intituled Moral Reflections; and finding many things concerning Virtue, ſomething contrary to your Notions of it, (fond of convincing all your little Errors of Judgment) I gave my ſelf the Liberty (I cannot ſay Trouble) of putting it into Engliſh, as there is not one Sentence but is applicable to ſome body or other, ſo you will find many that will touch your ſelf: and many more that I doubt not but you will lay at my door, eſpecially any Satyr on our Sex: but ſince there is wherewithal to quit Scores, do your worſt. I know too well you have abundance of Gravity, to the loſs and deſtruction of many an honeſt hour, which might have been paſt more gayly if you had pleaſed to have laid by that (ſometimes neceſſary) humour; and that face of 302 U7v of dull buſineſs, enough to mortifie all thoughts of Mirth about one. I know you have a great deal of that which my Reflections tell you paſſes for Vertue, nay even your ſelf it deludes with that Opinion, as well as the World: you ſhould be a Lover too, if one will believe you or your Complexion; and to my knowledge you have goodneſs enough to pardon all the faults you will find here, at leaſt you diſſemble it well, and that will do as well. Theſe Motives, joyned to the deſire I have to let you ſee you are more in my head than you imagine, oblige me to chuſe you from out the number of my few Friends, to addreſs this part of my handy-work to; called Senica Unmasqu’d: whether good or bad you have them almoſt as I found them; but if it be neceſſary that I ſhould render them acceptable by ſome better recommendation than barely telling you I tranſlated them: I give you to underſtand they are charged on a Great Man, and a great Wit of the French Court, the Duke of Ruſhfaucave but ſince I always diſtruſt the general voice, ’tis enough that the World has fixt ’em on him, to make me think that he knows nothing of ’em. So much for the original as to the Copy, (which I have drawn purely 303 U8r purely out of complacence to you, I can only ſay if it do not extremely reſemble the Original, at leaſt for ought I know it may be as good a Piece: and that may paſs as well. I would give you my ſentiments of the whole, but that I am affraid of ſhewing my ſelf a Critick; but no matter, I am ſo us’d to be impertinent in Lyſanders Company that ’twill appear no more ſtrange than what he is entertained with every time I have the happineſs of ſeeing him: where his grave ſilence, and ſcarcity of ſpeaking (afflicting enough to me) gives me an occaſion to run into the other Extream of talking all, purely to prevent a dumb Entertainment, for which I have many times met with wiſe Reproofs, as tis very likely I may now, and which will as little work upon the temper of a Woman of my humour, as Mercy to a hardned Whig: but I was going to tell you my opinion, and you are like to hear it; which is
That theſe Maxims, as ’tis eaſie to find at firſt ſight, were not deſign’d to be made publick, neither by the Author, nor your humble ſervant: (only by the laſt, for your entertainment, if you think it fit to eſteem it one) neitherther 304 U8v ther the one nor the other aſpiring here to the Glory of an Author: yet if it hapned that both have unwillingly contributed to their being expoſed to the World, let me tell you, ’twill ſpoil neither of our Reputations: ſince we both of us pretend to ſome other Pieces, that have indured the Teſt, and paſſed for Good and Currant Wit. yYou will ſay, perhaps, I boaſt now, and take too great a Preſumption on me, to name my ſelf with this ſuppoſed great Author: but as to that ’tis no wonder for an Author to praiſe himſelf, and extol his own works: how elſe do you think witty things ſhould be recommended to the unjudging part of the World, who by no other way can underſtand the true value of a thing: but if the Author himſelf vouches for it; why (they civilly cry) it muſt needs be good, for the Poet ſays ſo, and who can tell better than him that made it? Well then, ſuppoſe it, the Duke of Ruſhfaucave’s Original, and I ſpeaking for him, and my ſelf, in praiſe of it; which if you will believe me, (as you ſeldom do) I promiſe you, you will find here all the force and judgment of elevated thought (if I have not paul d it in the part I managed, as ’tis very likely, being as you know very 305 X1r very unlucky) a Circle of pretty Expreſſions and Obſervations, accompanied with a certain Air Gallant, which is not uſual with common Writers; ’tis true, you will not find that exact Order which might have been obſerved in the placing of ’em, and as one might have taken care to have done if deſigned for publick view; but for Perſons who write as Monſieur the Duke and I, (at this time) did, purely for Idleneſs, and our own Lazy Diverſion (I can ſpeak of nothing under Monſieur the Duke and I.
I think they are not concerned in ſuch a Caſe to follow Rules and Methods, it being as unneceſſary where People write but to eaſe their minds, and juſt as things fall into their thoughts, as to make ſet Speeches in Love, and ſtudy for Eloquence when there is none in Love like that of Love it ſelf: no, at this time we left Rule and Order to thoſe who write for advantage: the Dramatick poor Devils that depend on the uncertain Humours of the Stage and Town; or the Great who write for Honour, and make ſo dead a Trade of Wit, and are a ſort of Interlopers who run away with all the Glorious Game that others toil in vain for. This Irregularity and X diſorder 306 X1v diſorder nevertheleſs has its Graces, and thoſe Graces which Art cannot imitate, I know not whether you will be of my Opinion or not, but Lyſander, if you are I ought to take it for the greater Favour, ſince you ſo ſeldom are ſo: but for my part I muſt own I always prefer that unſtudied, and undeſigned way of writing (tho not ſo approved of by the Learned) which is uſed by a Courtier who has Wit, as that of the late Lord Rocheſter and preſent Lord Mulgrave to the Regularities tortured, and wrack’d, by many other ſtiff Writers, whoſe Judgment is better than their Wit or Natural Fancy; all which are to admiration found in all the Writings of the above-named Great Men, as alſo in thoſe little chance things of Sir Carr. Scroope, whoſe natural ſoftneſs ſo infinitely exceeded all the flights and Induſtry of moſt of thoſe who make a buſineſs of it, tho every where I muſt except the Charming and Incomparable Mr. Dryden, where wondrous wit, and wondrous meeting they have given him the Glory of having out-done all Ages paſt, and undone thoſe that ſhall arrive. But as I ſaid, there is nothing that a Witty Man of Quality ſays or writes (who ſcorns the Mechanick part the 307 X2r the drudgery of dull Method) but has an Air of Gallantry, a tenderneſſs Graceful, a ſoftneſs unaffected, and an eaſineſs animitible; and if there be Art, it lies ſo delicately veiled under natural expreſſions, as ’tis not at all diſcernable; while this exactneſs of Rule, which all Poets ſo boaſt of, (and which the beſt do not always purſue) has always in it an Air of ſtiffneſs and conſtraint harſh and diſreliſhable, and ’tis as eaſie to diſcern what belongs to a Man of Quality and Wit, and what to a trading Poet, as to diſtinguiſh a Citizen by his mien and dreſs from a Courtier tho all about him be as Rich and Faſhionable as on the other; and doubtleſs the real Beauty of Poetry is, when Art diſguiſes her ſelf under natural appearances, and that’s the Talent of Eaſie and Noble Writing, when ’tis like the deſcription of Armidas Pallace as Taſſo deſcribes it, ſays he, Art has no ſhare in this admirable Structure; Nature forming all the Place as if it were by chance, knows ſo well how to imitate the exactneſs of Art, that the Eye deceived with a fair Illuſion, believes ’tis Art that follows the Dictates of Nature. This I could have given you in Verſe if I had had a mind to it: but this will ſerve as well.X2 And 308 X2v
And this is my Opinion of the following Reflections in general: but what’s my Opinion to you? we never accorded in that point hitherto, and you’ll go near to carp at ſome of theſe Reflections for all my Opinion, and ſay many of ’em want weight, moſt of em wit, abundance of ’em Truth, and that they all tax even Virtue it ſelf; but I believe neither the Author nor your aſſured friend had any ſuch Malice to Mankind: tho he repreſents to you, that there are very few Virtues very pure in the World, and that in the greateſt part of our Actions, there is a mixture of Error, and Truth, of Perfection, and Imperfection, of Vice and of Virtue. He finds the heart of villanous Man corrupted by Pride, and Self-love, and ſurrounded with ill examples; and as in Towns beſieged, the Governor wanting Money makes it of Leather or Paſtboard, which bearing the Royal Image impreſſed of good and currant Money, paſſes at that rate amongſt the Beſieged in time of neceſſity, and for want of Gold or Silver: So do the Actions of the greateſt part of Mankind, which are eſteemed Virtuous, when moſt commonly they have but the Image and bare reſemblance of it: nevertheleſsleſs 309 X3r leſs they have their value, and appear worthy (in ſome degree) of our eſteem; it being a moſt difficult thing to meet with better, according to the courſe of the World; and indeed my Author does wiſely believe there is no Vertue true in Man, if you conſider him in his Humane Nature. Nor is he alone of that Opinion. But if I did not fear to boaſt of too much Learning for my Sex, I could cite you many Authors, as well Fathers of the Church as great Saints, who were of Opinion that Self-love, Intereſt, and Pride, was the cauſe of the moſt Glorious Actions of the greateſt Heroes of the World. Who applauded the Chaſtity of Lucretia (whom all the World now celebrates for a Vertuous Woman) till they made it a ſubject of private Revenge, and the occaſion of the Liberty of Rome? and which drew the wonder of ſo many Ages. Do you think it was Virtue in Junius Brutus to Sacrifice his own Sons to ſet up a Commonwealth? Or that the laſt Brutus Murdered his ſuppoſed Father JuliusCæſar, meerly from the Dictates of Virtue? which appears to me no other than Self-love, or Ambition; and after Ages may as well celebrate the Actions of a Modern Prince for Virtuous; which X3 in 310 X3v in ours to all good Men appears a Monſtrous Ingratitude and Folly; yet had he been almoſt Deifi’d with the new Saints, and Male-contents if his Deſigns had taken effect. Nay this ſort of Vertue is ſo wide (with the greateſt part of the People) from the appearance of Vice, that the deluſion has even blinded the Ambitious deceiver himſelf, who is I believe ſo far from perceiving the Cheat, even in his own heart, ſo diſtant from the thought that his Treaſon is a Vice, that he really is perſwaded ’tis a Meritorious Vertue: and poſſibly he may have advanced ſo far in this dull Error that he may really fancy that ’tis more to juſtifie his Vertue that he plays the ungrateful Traitor than to attain to the Glory of Empire; and there are thouſands who will like him be abuſed into the ſame Error, blinded with the appearance of Vertue and Religion: ſo that ’tis not only the Error of the Heathens, but even thoſe who have the advantage of profeſſing Chriſt. Do you think Seneca who made his wiſe Man equal with the Gods was wiſe himſelf? or that he could impoſe that belief on others? in ſpight of his Pride he would confeſs ’twas impoſſible to find a Vertue ſo accompliſhed in Man, and that the moſt perfectfect 311 X4r fect amongſt Men was he who had the leaſt faults: he was of that belief that Socrates himſelf was ſubject to Reproach, for that he had but a feigned friendſhip for Plato and Ariſtotle: that they were Covetous, that Epicurus was Prodigal, and Voluptuous; but yet he ſays at the ſame time, that we ſhould be too happy if we could but attain to the knowledge to be able to follow their Vices: this Grave Philoſopher had reaſon to ſay ſo much of his friends, who was ſo happy to laugh, as he did, at all Worldy Bleſſings, as Honours, Pleaſures, &c. Seeming to deſpiſe them, and yet to ſee himſelf Maſter of the Empire, as well as of the Emperor, and at the ſame time a lover of the Empreſs; to have Glorious Palaces, delightful Gardens, and all the joys of Magnificence and Love to uſe at his Pleaſure. I ſhould have loved to have been a Philoſopher at this rate, and could be contented amidſt ſuch an abundance, to have recommended and extoll’d Moderation and Poverty to the World; whilſt Riches, Power, and Love attended my deſire; tell me, dear Lyſander, do you think that this Learned Stoic who feigned ſo well to maſter his Paſſions, had not ſome Vices conceal’d under his Vertues? or 312 X4v Or when he cut his Veins (when commanded to kill himſelf by the Emperor) do you think he did not more than once repent that he had not killed his Diſciple, when in his power, that compelled him to it? and by His Death have prevented his own? Yes doubtleſs he did. Obſerve but the falſe bravery of this Man whoſe ſteddy Vertue has been and is ſo cry’d up in the World, and you will ſee notwithſtanding his great Reaſonings of the Immortality of the Soul, what mighty pains he took to appear above the fear of death; he muſtered up all his force to make a good ſhow (as did a Modern Hero lately) he bit his tongue for fear he ſhould confeſs that Death had a Sting; he who pretended that Reaſon can make a Man uncapable of Suffering, inſtead of humbling his Pride, he raiſed it above a Deity. He would much more have obliged us to have freely and franckly confeſſed the corruption and weakneſs of Mans heart, than to have taken ſo much pains to have deceived us. The Author of theſe Reflections does not cheat us ſo, he expoſes to light all the failings and frailties of Man: he ſhews that in ſpight of all the efforts of his Senſe and Reaſon, that Pride and Self- love 313 Y1r Love hide themſelves in his heart, and from thence diffuſe their Poiſon, unperceivably, into every of his Motions. Now perhaps you will be poſitive and aſſure me, that you know by experience a Man may be generous and good without deſign of Intereſt, or any other regard than that of Goodneſs. Not conſidering the good or the ill, but meerly out of a natural generous goodneſs of the heart which leads you (without thinking) to that which is good: would I could believe this of any Man that boaſts it upon his word; and that ’twere true that humane Nature had but reaſonable Motions, and that all our Actions were but naturally Virtuous: but how can we reconcile ſuch a belief to the Opinion of the Fathers of the Church, who have aſſerted that all our Virtues are but imperfect, that our Will being born blind, our deſires blind, and our conduct blind, ’tis no wonder that Man who wanders in ſo much darkneſs ſhould often rove, ſtumble, and fall: They ſay that all the wiſdom of Man is not able to foreſee what ſhall happen; how then ſhall he be able to prevent it? what humane force is able to defend it ſelf from an unwarning Enemy? how then ſhall we prevent an evil? Why, Y you’ll 314 Y1v you’ll ſay, by reſolution: but, as I ſaid before, ſelf- love is ſo mixed with every motion of the ſoul that one cannot reſolve without callllling that to Counſel, and that can ſuffer nothing to hurt it ſelf: that always inſenſibly debauches the Will, and you muſt take your Will along with you or you can do nothing: you’ll ſay your temperance ſhall guide you, but there’s ſo much ſelf-love even in temperance that that can neither reſolve nor condemn but what ſelf-love permits, and ſecretly, even unknown to your own Reaſon approves. In fine, fix your reſolve on what you will, you will if you with unbiaſſed judgement examine it, find ſelf-love enough there to debauch your niceſt Virtue; at leaſt to find there is an allay of ſelf-love that renders it not ſo pure as it ought; upon this ſubject I could enlarge much, but this is enough to put you upon tedious diſpute for a larger time than I am willing to loſe on ſo dull a ſubject, therefore I commit ’em to your ſerious conſideration, aſſuring you they have this good quality, that the more you look, the more you’ll like, I wiſh I could ſay ſo much of,
Lysander, Your real Friend and Servant
Seneca Unmasqued, Or Moral Reflections. From The French: By Mrs. A.B.
That which we take for Virtue, is moſt commonly but a mixture of divers Actions, and of ſeveral Intereſts, which Fortune, or our Induſtry knows how to ſet in order, and ’tis not Courage that makes a Y2 Man 316 Y2v (302316) Man Brave, nor Chaſtity that makes a Woman Honeſt.
The great and ſplendid Actions which dazle and amuſe the wondring Crowd, and which are repreſented by Polititians as great and glorious Deſigns, are indeed the effects of Humour, and private Paſſions. As the War of Auguſtus and MarkAnthony, (which ſerved and managed their Ambition, only to make themſelves Maſters of the Univerſe) was no other perhaps than an effect of Jealouſie.
Men are not only ſubject to forget good deeds, and Injuries, but they even bear a ſecret hate to thoſe that have moſt obliged them, and are often kind to thoſe that have done ’em outrages; and the buſineſs of recompenſing the good, and revenging the ill, is a ſlavery they hate to undergo.
The Clemency of Princes is uſually but a Policy to gain the Love of their Subjects.
5. Clemency, which is made a Virtue, is commonlymonly 317 Y3r (103317) monly practiſed out of Vanity, ſometimes out of Laſineſs, oft times out of Fear, and for the moſt part by all three together.
6.The Temper which we ſo admire in happy perſons, proceeds from the Calm which good Fortune procures ’em only, which puts ’em in Humour.
Moderation is the effects of a fear we have of being envied, and of falling under that contempt which they deſerve, who are infatuated with their own good Fortune. It is a vain boaſt of the ſtrength of their Wiſdom; and Temper in Men in their higheſt exaltation is only a pride and deſire to appear greater than what has raiſed them.
That which is called Conſtancy in the Grave and Wiſe, is only an Art to conceal the Sentiments of their hearts.
We have all ſtrength enough to bear the misfortunes of others.
Thoſe that are condemned to Death moſt times affect a Conſtancy, and contempt of Death, which is in effect a Vizarding of their ſentiments, and is in reality an effect of fear rather, which they diſguiſe to flatter themſelves and gain even then an Opinion from the Crowd.
11.Philoſophy eaſily triumphs over Ills paſt and
Ills to come, but preſent Ills triumph over that.
Very few perſons rightly apprehend Death, they do not ſuffer it from their Courage, but from a Stupidity, and all Men, even Seneca himſelf, died becauſe he could not avoid it.
When great Men ſuffer themſelves to languiſh under the continuation of a misfortune, they are rather ſupported by the power and ſtrength of their Ambition than that of their Souls.
We want more Vertue to ſupport our good fortune, than our ill.
We very often boaſt of the moſt Criminal Paſſion, but that of Envy is ſo Ungenerous and Shamefull a Paſſion we never dare own it.
Jealouſie is in ſome Perſons juſt and reaſonable, becauſe it tends to the preſervation of what is dear to us, or what we believe at leaſt belongs to us, but Hatred is a madneſs that will not indure to ſee others happy.
The Ills we act do not draw upon us ſo great afflictions and hatred, as our Virtues and Merits.
18. We have more ſtrength than wit, and oftentimes to excuſe our ſelves to our ſelves we imagine things impoſſible.
Our own Vices make us ſo ſevere and Satyrical on the remarques we take of thoſe in others.
We promiſe according to our hopes, and perform according to our fears.
Intereſt ſpeaks all ſorts of Languages, and acts all ſorts of Perſons, even to ſelf-denial; nay, we flatter even thoſe who have no intereſt at all.
Intereſt that blinds one, is the light of another.
Thoſe who apply themſelves to little trivial affairs make themſelves uncapable of great undertakings.
We have not power enough to follow all our Reaſon.
Men often think they govern themſelves with Wiſdom and Conduct, when at the ſame time they have ſo blind a ſight as not to perceive they are governed by others, and while his Wiſdom and Intereſt leads him to one Deſign, his heart inſenſibly Conducts him to another.
Force, and weakneſs of Wit, are miſtaken names, which are but in effect the good or ill diſpoſitions of the Organs of the Body.
The Capriſs of our Humors are more inconſtant than thoſe of Fortune.
Fancy ſets the Rate on things, and we value all the advantages Fortune brings, according to our Humours.
True happineſs is in the Guſt of a thing, not in the thing it ſelf, and to poſſeſs the Perſon my Love renders Lovely, is to me the height of Felicity,licity, 322 Y5v (308322) licity, and not the Perſon another thinks Charming.
One is never ſo happy or unhappy as one thinks.
They who believe themſelves moſt Meritorious eſteem it a Glory to be unfortunate, both to perſwade others and themſelves that they alone are worthy to be the mockery and object of the capriſs of Fortune, and are proud and vain of ſuffering.
Nothing ought to leſſen our ſatisfaction and the opinion we have of our ſelves ſo much as the inconſtancy of our Tempers, and to find we love and approve at one time, what we are cold to, and diſapprove at another.
Whatſoever difference may appear to be in Mens Fortunes, yet there is ſtill an ill to allay the good, and ſome good to recompence the ill, which renders all equal.
What advantages ſoever Nature beſtows in Courage, 323 Y6r (309323) Courage, Beauty, Wit, and Virtue, ’tis not thoſe, but Fortune alone that makes a Hero.
The Scorn and Contempt of Riches among the Philoſophers, was but a hidden deſire to revenge themſelves on the injuſtice of Fortune, by ſeeming to deſpiſe what that deprives ’em of; ’tis a ſecret to cure themſelves of thoſe Reproaches and Contempts which Poverty brings, and the beſt way to defend ’em from the conſideration and deſire of Riches.
To hate the Favourite is no other than to be in love with Favour; and they comfort and pleaſe themſelves with the contempt of what they cannot enjoy, and denying thoſe their reſpect whom they are not able to deprive of their Honour, they withdraw from the World; whilſt their ſullenneſs and ill-natur’d Pride paſſes for Vertue.
To be well eſtabliſhed in the World, one ought to appear as if one were already well eſtabliſh’d there.
Tho Men flatter themſelves with the greatneſs and 324 Y6v (013324) and bravery of their Actions, yet they are not ſo often the effects of great deſign, as they are of chance or hazard.
Our Actions ſeem to be influenced by the lucky unlucky aſpect of our Stars, to which we owe a great part of the Praiſe, or diſpraiſe that is given us, and not to Merit.
There is no Accident ſo unfortunate from which a Perſon of Wit and Induſtry will not draw an advantage, nor none ſo lucky but imprudent People may turn to their prejudice.
Fortune diſpoſes all things to the advantages of thoſe ſhe favours.
The happineſs or unhappineſs of Men depend more on their Humour than Fortune.
Sincerity is an opening and frankneſs of the Soul which is rarely to be found, and that Friendſhip ſo in faſhion, is only diſſembled to draw a confidence and ſecret from another.
The averſion we ſeem to have for Lying, Deceit, Cunning, and Hypocriſie, is only to render what we ſay and do our ſelves the more conſiderable, and to procure for our ſelves that reſpect we pay the Juſt and Religious.
Truth it ſelf does not ſo much good, or appears ſo grateful to the World as the appearance of it only does ill.
There is no praiſe ſo great as what we give to prudence; yet great as its Vertue is it cannot aſſure us of a juſt moderation and evenneſs in our tempers, becauſe ’tis applyed to Man who is the moſt inconſtant thing in Nature.
A diſcreet Man ought to regulate the courſe of his deſigns, and to model them into good order, for our greedy deſires often perplex and make us undertake too many things at once: and while we aim at that of the leaſt importance, we neglect thoſe the moſt conſiderable.
The handſome Mien and genteel Carriage of the Body is as advantagious as the underſtanding of the mind.
Silence is the ſureſt friend to him who ſtands at defiance with himſelf.
To reconcile our ſelves to our Enemy is only a politick deſign to render our condition better, after the fatigues of War, or fears of ill chance.
Our own miſtruſts and Jealouſies juſtifie the cheats of another.
Every body complains of his want of memory; but few, or none, of their want of Judgment.
There are of thoſe ſeemingly diligent and buſie Coxcombs, who are eternally preſſing and vexing even thoſe they know unfit for buſineſs, only that without Scandal they may be lazy themſelves.
The Ambitious never ſhew greater marks of Pride than when they have miſt of their end whereto they aſpired.
To undeceive a Man pre-poſſeſſed of his own Merit, renders him as ill a turn, as he did the Athenian Fool, who fancied all the Ships in the Haven belonged to him.
The Aged love to give good Precepts, only to comfort themſelves for being not in an eſtate to give ill Examples.
A great and glorious Title to a Coxcomb ſerves but to render him the more deſpiſable.
The greateſt mark of an extraordinary Merit, is to find even thoſe that envy them, praiſe ’em.
’Tis a great miſtake to think Wit, and Judgmentment 328 Y8v (314328) ment two different things. Judgment is only the great Light of the Mind: this Light penetrates into the depth of things, there it remarques all that one ought to obſerve, and diſcovers thoſe things that ſeem not to be perceived, ſo that ’tis this light of the Mind which produces all thoſe effects that are attributed to Wit.
He that conſults his own, heart dares not applaud his own Wit.
Refined Wit conſiſts in thinking and ſpeaking things ſmooth, and excellent.
The excellence of Wit, is to flatter after an agreeable manner.
Thoſe pieces that appear the moſt finiſht and perfect to our Judgments, cannot be by the moſt witty accompliſh’d without a great deal of Toil and Artifice.
Wit is the Folly of the heart.
’Tis not all thoſe who know their wit know their heart.
Men and their affairs muſt have different perſpectives, there are thoſe who muſt ſee near at hand to judge well, and others who can never judge ſo well as at a diſtance.
He is not reaſonable who takes his meaſures from Chance, but he who knows ’em, diſcerns ’em, and proves ’em.
To underſtand things well one ought to underſtand particulars, and they are almoſt infinite, ſo our knowledge is ſuperficial and imperfect.
’Tis a fooliſh gayity to take notice of things that put others to the bluſh.
Wit cannot play long upon a good natur’d perſon.
Youth changes its Palate by its heat of blood, and old Age preſerve theirs by long Cuſtom.
One gives nothing ſo liberally as Counſel.
The defects of Wit increaſe in growing old as well as thoſe of the Face.
There are good Marriages, but few happy or delightful.
We cannot indure to be abus’d by our Enemies, nor betray’d by our Friends; yet we are very well pleas’d when we cozen and cheat our ſelves.
’Tis very eaſie to cheat ones ſelf, and never take notice of it, but hard to cheat another without being found out.
There is nothing leſs ſincere than thoſe that take and give Counſel; he that asks it, ſeems to ſubmit himſelf with reſpect to the advice of his friend; when at the ſame time his deſign and Vanity is to have his friend approve and admire his conduct, and he that Counſels, gives it in all appearance with an unintereſted zeal, when indeed ’tis only a Pride to ſhew his power, or ſome advantage and glory he ſeeks.
The moſt artful of all Subtilty is to feign being taken in the Snare that’s laid for you, for a Man is never ſo eaſily deceiv’d, as when he thinks to deceive’ others.
Our intention never to deceive, renders us the more liable and eaſie to be deceived.
We are ſo accuſtomed to diſſemble, that we often jilt ourſelves.
We do as often commit Treaſon through weakneſs and folly, as through wickedneſs or deſign.
We oftner do good to have the better pretence to cover our ill, than for Charity, or Vertue.
He loſes much ſatisfaction, who does not both flatter himſelf, and is not flattered by others.
The wiſeſt Men are ever condemning the ſubtilty and cunning of others, that they may the better ſerve themſelves upon all great deſigns and intereſts.
He that makes a Trade of Cunning deals in very little Wit; ’tis a poorneſs of Spirit and is ſtill diſcovered in one place, tho it be ſucceſsful in another.
Treaſon, and Cunning are both the effects of want of Judgment.
The true way to be deceived is to fancy you have more cunning than another.
Too great Subtilty is a falſe diſcretion; but true Wiſdom is a ſolid and moderate Subtilty.
’Tis very expedient ſometimes to appear dull, to avoid being deceived by a Perſon of Wit.
Folly is the only fault incorrigible.
’Tis eaſier to be wiſer for others than for our ſelves.
The only good Copy is that which ſhews the Ridicule and Faults of an ill Original.
We are never ſo ridiculous by the qualities we have by Nature, as we are by thoſe we affect to have.
We are oftentimes farther from knowing our ſelves than we are from that of others.
One ſeldom ſpeaks, but for the vanity of ſpeaking.
Rather than not be ſpeaking one will ſpeak ill of ones ſelf.
That which makes ſo few appear witty in converſation is, that there is ſcarce one who thinks before he ſpeaks, which is the reaſon he ſeldom anſwers to purpoſe to what is ſaid, the wiſeſt, and moſt complaiſant are content to be attentive; yet at the ſame time even in thoſe you may obſerve in their eyes and their minds as it were a kind of eagerneſs of ſpeaking, as if they were impatient to be ſhewing their wit and parts: and to hear with patience, and anſwer aptly, is the greateſt perfection of Converſation.
A witty perſon would be often diſappointed but for the company of fools.
We often boaſt we are never dull, and yet we are too proud to own we keep company with Coxcombs.
As ’tis the character of a great Wit to expreſs much in few words, ſo ’tis of a little wit, to talk much to little purpoſe.
’Tis rather from the vanity we have of our own Judgments, that we applaud the good qualities of another, than from any eſteem we have of their Merits, and tis only to procure praiſes to our ſelves, that we ever beſtow ’em on others.
We never love to give praiſes to others, and when we do, ’tis ſtill with ſome deſign, Praiſe is a kind of delicate conceal’d flattery, which differently ſatisfies him that gives it, and him that receivesZ4 ceives 336 Z4v (122336) ceives it; for this receives it as due to his Merit, and the other gives it as a teſtimony of his Juſtice and Judgment.
We often by too much praiſe, and over-flattery make thoſe faults appear in thoſe we praiſe which it were rudeneſs to diſcover any other way.
Moſt commonly we praiſe but to be commended.
There are few perſons ſo wiſe to prefer the little reproaching Counſel that advantages them, before the praiſes which betray them.
There are praiſes which diſcommend, and reproaches which commend.
To refuſe a praiſe, is only to invite and draw on another.
The deſire to Merit the Praiſes that are given us do 337 Z5r ()123337) do increaſe and fortifie our Vertue, and thoſe encomiums that are given our Wit and Beauty contribute to advance ’em.
’Tis more difficult to prevent our being Governed than to Govern others.
If we did not flatter our ſelves, the flatteries of others would not hurt us.
Nature gives the Merit, but ’tis Fortune that makes it appear, and become ſucceſsful.
Fortune corrects many faults, which Reaſon cannot.
Some are diſſatisfied with their own Merits, and others are delighted and pleaſed with their faults.
There are a ſort of People who affect ſpeaking and 338 Z5v (324338) and acting fooliſh things, which turn to their profit, and who would ſpoil all their intereſt, if they ſhould change their Method and Cuſtom.
A Glorious Great Man ought always to take his Maſures, from thoſe rules of which he has already ſerv’d himſelf to acquire that Glory.
Kings eſteem of Men as they do of Money, they ſet what value they pleaſe on ’em, and one is obliged to take ’em at their rate, and not according to their intrinſic value.
’Tis not enough to have great Parts, but one ought to have Government and Conduct too.
Tho an Action be never ſo glorious, yet it ought not to paſs for great when it tends not to a great deſign.
There ought to be a certain proportion between the Action and the Deſign, if one would draw 339 Z6r (325339) draw from them all the effects they would produce.
The artful doing of an indifferent thing ſometimes gains a perſon as much Reputation as true Merit.
There are an infinite number of things that appear ridiculous, whoſe ſecret Reaſons are very wiſe and very ſolid.
’Tis more eaſie to appear worthy an imployment one has not, than that which one already has.
Our Merits draw to us the eſteem of the brave and good, and our Stars that of the Mobily.
The World recompences oftner the appearance of Merit than Merit it ſelf.
Avarice is more oppoſite to good Husbandry, than Liberality.
Tho Hope be Faithleſs and Flattering, yet it fails not however to bring us to the end of life’s tedious Journey by an agreeable way.
While Cowardize and Fear keeps us Honeſt and Loyal, our Vertues get the Honour on’t.
’Tis hard to Judge whether Honeſt, Sincere proceeding between Man and Man be the effect of Juſtice and Vertue, or Pride and Ability.
Vertue loſes it ſelf in Intereſt, as Rivers are loſt in the Sea.
We are ſo pre-ingaged in favour of our ſelves, that often what we take for Vertue is but Vice in the ſhape of Vertue; diſguiſed by our Self- love.
There are divers kinds of Curioſities, one is that of Intereſt, that carries us to a deſire to learn that which may advantage us; another is of Pride, which comes from a deſire to know that which others are Ignorant of.
’Tis better to imploy ones thoughts how to ſupport well our preſent Ills, than to look forward on thoſe that may arrive to us.
To perſiſt in a thing that is neither worthy praiſe, nor diſpraiſe, is but to maintain a dull diſpute, that neither inſtructs nor improves ye.
Repentance is not ſo much the effects of regret for what we have done, as ’tis from the fear of a puniſhment that may befall us.
There is an inconſtancy that proceeds from the levity of the mind, which makes one ſtill of the opinion 342 Z7v (328342) opinion of him, or them that ſpoke laſt; and there is another that is more excuſable, that proceeds from the diſlike and diſopinion of things.
Vices mingle themſelves in the compound of Vertue, as Poiſons are mixed in the compoſition of Medicines. Prudence puts ’em together, and tempers ’em, and ſhe knows what’s moſt proper againſt the diſeaſe of life.
There are certain Crimes become Innocent, by their noiſe, their number, and their exceſs; from hence it comes that publick Robbers gather ſtrength, take Provinces, and call it Glorious Conqueſt.
We juſtifie our faults, to be thought innocent in the opinion of others.
There are Heroes in an Inglorious Cauſe as well as a Glorious.
We do not deſpiſe all thoſe that are Vicious, but we contemn thoſe that have no Vertues at all.
The name of Vertue advances ones Intereſt more effectually than either real Vertue, or Vice.
The health of the Soul is as uncertain as that of the Body; and tho one ſeems to be far from Paſſions, yet one is in no leſs danger of falling into ’em than to fall ſick when one is in perfect health.
It appears that Nature has preſcribed every Body from their Birth limits for their Virtues and their Vices.
Vices are moſt viſible in the Great.
We may ſay that Vice attends us in the courſe of our lives, as the Hoſt at whoſe Inne we lodge ſucceſſively, and I believe Experience would make us avoid many of ’em, if we went twice the ſame way.
When Vice leaves us, we flatter our ſelves that we leave Vice.
There are Relapſes in the Diſeaſes of the ſoul as there is in thoſe of the Body. That which we take for our cure is very often but a releaſe from one Ill to another.
The defects of the Soul, are like the ill healed wounds of the Body; the Scar will ſtill remain, and they are always in danger to be opened.
That which hinders us from giving our ſelves up to one only Vice, is becauſe we have ſo many to imploy our ſelves in.
We eaſily forget our faults when they are known to no body but our ſelves.
There are ſome whom we cannot imagine guilty of 345 Aa1r (331345) of any fault, unleſs we ſaw ’em commit it, but none ought to wonder when they ſee faults committed.
We extol the Glory of one, by debaſing that of another, and we are ever apt to under rate that of a King, if we do not down-right Libel him.
The deſire of being accompliſh’d often times hinders us from being ſo, as the half-wited Spark by going into France becomes a Fop.
Vertue would not go aſtray if Vanity did not keep her company, and debauch her.
The truly Vertuous good Man, is he who has a prejudice to nothing, and to nobody.
Pride in a Woman is as neceſſary as Painting: One ſets a value on her Humour, the other on her Face.
An Honeſt Loyal Man, and a Vertuous Woman are Judged by the Company they keep.
Folly purſues us all the Courſe of our Lives, and if any one appear wiſe ’tis becauſe his Follys are ſuited to his Age, his Fortune, and his Circumſtances.
There are Fools, and Coxcombs who underſtand themſelves well enough to make their intereſt, and can advantagiouſly imploy their Cunning, Folly, and Foppery.
He that lives without Folly is not ſo wiſe as he thinks himſelf.
In growing old, one becomes more fooliſh, and more wiſe.
The Love of Glory, the fear of Shame, the deſign 347 Aa2r (333347) deſign to make our Fortunes, the deſire to live agreeably, and our Pride to humble others, are the cauſes of that Valor ſo celebrated among Men.
Valor in a Soldier is a Perillous trade; and he every day ventures life to live.
True Valor and compleat Cowardize are two extremes, to which one ſeldom arrives, the diſtance between ’em is very great, and contains all the leſſer degrees of Courage, between which there is as much difference as between the Humor and the Face of Men; there are ſome who bravely expoſe themſelves at the firſt onſet of a Battel, and who cunningly retire and give back if it laſt long, and grow hot. There are others who being accuſtomed to little dangers, puſh on their Courage and expoſe themſelves to the greateſt: and there are thoſe who are well-pleaſed to ſet up their reſt when they have given the World one ſingle proof of their Courage and Honour; and there are thoſe alſo who are brave at the Sword, and yet fear the ſhot of a Muſquet: ſome can fight in a Battel, but cannot fight in a Duel: there are others who are not always Maſters of their Fear, others that will ſuffer themſelves to be wholly overcome by their terror, others will Aa2 Charge 348 Aa2v (334348) Charge becauſe they dare not ſtay in their Poſts: all theſe kinds of Valor agree in this, that the night increaſes their fears, and hiding both the good and the bad Actions, gives them the liberty to manage all for the beſt: there is yet a more general way of managing of Valor, a certain good Husbandry in Bravery, which makes few Men do what they dare, and can do upon occaſion when they are ſure to come off without danger, for the fear of Death takes away from Valour.
True Valour, is to act without witneſs, what one dares do in the face of the Sun, and ſight of the World.
Reſolution is an extraordinary force of the Soul which raiſes us above the troubles and diſorders of life, and thoſe Perils and Dangers Humane life is ſubject to, and ’tis by force of this that the greateſt Heroes ſupport themſelves in a peaceable ſtate, and preſerve their reaſon intire for more ſurpriſing Accidents.
Hypocriſie is the Homage that Vice pays to Vertue.
Moſt Men expoſe themſelves to dangers to advance their Honour, but few expoſe themſelves as they ought, to advance the deſign for which they are expoſed.
Vanity and Shame are in all people, and they alone make Men Valiant, and Women Honeſt.
We are not willing to buy Glory at the price of our Live’s; and the Brave have more addreſs and contrivance to put off Death than the Tradeſman has to put off his falſe Wares.
There are very few Perſons who in the declenſion of their Age can tell, whether the imperfections of the Body, or thoſe of the mind fail and decay firſt.
There is a ſort of acknowledgment, who keeps a Trade going upon Credit; and when they truſt, or pay, ’tis not from Charity, or Juſtice, but becauſe others ſhould do the like to them.
We ought not to boaſt of our grateful acknowledgments for Favours received, nor cry we have acquitted our ſelves as we ought, for ’tis a ſelf-flattery even to baſeneſs, and a gratitude even to ingratitude.
That which makes a miſunderſtanding between thoſe that do favors, and thoſe that return them, is that the Pride of the giver, and the Pride of the receiver cannot agree upon the price of the good done.
The too great care one has or haſt one makes of acquitting ones ſelf of an obligation, is a ſort Ingratitude and Scorn of being obliged.
We are more eaſily perſwaded to give limits to our acknowledgments than our hopes and deſires.
Pride will not owe, nor Self-love will not pay.
The good we receive ſhould attone for the Ills that are done us by others.
Nothing is ſo contagious as example, yet it neither procures us great good, or great harm, nor produces nothing that does not reſemble it, for we imitate the good by Emulation, and the bad by the Malignity of our Nature; for what Shame conceals and retains Example divulges and ſets at liberty.
’Tis a very great Folly to be wiſe by our ſelves that is, ſingular, or particular.
What pretext ſoever we have for our afflictions ’tis moſt times the effects of Vanity or Intereſt.
There is in affliction divers ſorts of Hipocriſie; in one, under pretence of bewailing a perſon dead, we bewail our ſelves, ’tis the loſs of ſome intereſt or pleaſure, or what makes as conſiderable,ble, 352 Aa4v (338352) ble, while the dead have only the honour of thoſe tears which indeed are ſhed for the living; this is a ſort of Hipocriſie in which we ever deceive our ſelves.
There is another affliction in which there is an other ſort of Hipocriſie, leſs innocent than the former, becauſe it impoſes upon all the World; ’tis the affliction of thoſe who aſpire to a great and immortal grief; and tho the cauſe be gone, paſt and conſumed, and ceaſes to be, they ſtill continue obſtinate in their ſighs, tears, and complaints, aſſuming a mournful face, a languiſhing look, and certain forc’d retirement to endeavour to perſwade the beholders by their Actions that their grief ſhall never finiſh but with their lives. This tireſom, melancholy vanity is found moſt prevalent with Ambitious Women, For as they being by their Sex uncapable by any other way to arrive at Glory, they will force an applauſe and celebration by the means of an extraordinary grief, and an unconſolable Affliction.
There is alſo another ſort of Sorrow, and weeping, which like a little ſcource will run, and be as eaſily ſtopt; for there are thoſe that ſhed tears to gain the reputation of being tender; ſome will weep to be pitied, and ſome will weep to make others weep, in fine, they will weep to evade the ſhame of being thought incapable not to weep at all.
We do not always lament the loſs of our friends by the conſideration of their Merits, but that of our own Pleaſure and Neceſſity, and for the good opinion they had of us.
Good Nature is the Cully of Self-love, and while we think to oblige others we take the ſureſt way to arrive at our own proper ends, ’tis a ſort of lending on Uſury, under pretence of giving, and ’tis a ſubtil delicate way to deceive the World.
No Perſon merits the Praiſe of being good, if he have not the power of doing ill, all other goodneſs is but the effect of Lazineſs and induſtry and the want of power and will.
Nothing flatters our Pride ſo much as that the Great confide in us, which we believe the effects of our Merits, when indeed ’tis only the vanity or want of power to keep the ſecret in him that tells it, who perhaps diſcharges it to lighten his Soul of a preſſure that over-burdens it.
One may juſtly ſay when Beauty wants its little artifices it loſes all its rules and graces of natural Beauty, and ſecret attractions are undiſcovered and loſt for want of thoſe to point ’em out to the World. ’Tis the Air and Mien that is the Rhetorick that perſwades and makes Beauty agreeable, that would elſe be awkward and diſagreeable.
To be a Cocket (or talkative) is the humour moſt natural to Women, tho ’tis not practiſed by all. The deſire of talking is reſtrained in ſome out of Reaſon, and in others out of fear or deſign.
We often incommode others when we believe we cannot be troubleſome.
There are few things impoſſible in themſelves, and ’tis the application we make to bring it to perfection fails, and not the project.
The height of Policy conſiſts in knowing the true value of things.
The greateſt Cunning conſiſts in knowing how to conceal that Cunning.
A ſeeming generoſity is no other than Ambition diſguis’d, which deſpiſes little intereſts to arrive at greater.
That Fidelity which appears in moſt Men is but an invention of Self-love, to procure us a confidence or knowledg of the ſecrets of another, and to make our ſelves the depoſitories of the moſt important affairs.
Magnanimity deſpiſes all to gain all.
There is as much Eloquence in the tone of the Voice as there is in the choice of words.
True Eloquence conſiſts in ſaying all that one may, not all that one can.
There are thoſe whoſe very faults are lucky to ’em, and procure ’em advantage; and others whoſe good qualities rendring ’em unhappy fall into diſgrace.
’Tis ordinary to change ones Palate, but extraordinary to change ones Inclinations.
Intereſt ſets at work all ſorts of Vertues, and all ſorts of Vices.
Humility is no other than a feigned Submiſſion which we make uſe of to oblige others to ſubmit to us, ’tis an artifice of Pride to ſtoop that we may riſe, we may transform our ſelves into a thouſand Shapes to make our ſelves popular, but we are never better diſguiſed nor more capable of deceiving than when we aſſume that of Humility.
Every ſentiment has a particular tone of the Voice, Geſture and Mien proper for their purpoſe; and the manner of ſpeaking more than the matter, renders the thing agreeable or diſagreeable as ’tis deſign’d.
In all profeſſions every Man affects an extraordinary or peculiar Mien, to expreſs what he would have us believe him to be, ſo that one may ſay the whole World is compoſed of Grimmas and Mimicry.
Gravity is a Myſtery of the Body invented to hide the imperfections of the mind.
There is great Eloquence in the Eyes and Air of a Perſon, that prevails as much as fine diſcourſe.
Civility is only a deſire to receive Civility, and to be eſteemed accompliſh’d and well bred.
That Education which is generally given to Youth, is to inſpire ’em with Self-love.
110210. That which we count Liberality, is no other than the vanity of giving, and the love of giving is much more than that of receiving.
Pity is only the ſenſe of our own ſelf-ills, which we behold in the Ills of another, ’tis a dexterous foreſight of misfortunes, whereto we our ſelves may fall, and when we ſuccour others, ’tis becauſe they ſhould do the ſame to us on the like occaſion.
’Tis the meanneſs of the Wit that renders a Man obſtinate and conceited of himſelf, and ’tis not eaſie to perſwade ſuch an one to a belief of any thing but what he ſees.
We deceive our ſelves if we believe there are no Paſſions but what are violent and laſting, ſince Lazineſs 359 Aa8r (345359) Lazineſs, as feeble and languiſhing as it is predominates over even Love and Ambition, thoſe powerful Triumphers over all the other Paſſions, nay it uſurps ſometimes even over all the deſires and actions of our Lives and deſtroys and conſumes inſenſibly all other Paſſions, and Vertues.
An eagerneſs to believe Ill, without examining the matter well, is an effect of Pride and Lazineſs, they find the guilt without giving themſelves the trouble of inquiring into the Crime.
We reject Counſel upon a very ſlight Intereſt, or concern, and will not have our Reputations depend on the Judgments of other Men, which proceeds either from Contradiction, Jealouſie, deſign to foreſtall us, and we often Sacrifice our Fortunes, repoſe or lives, that Men may judge in favour of us.
There are few Men ſo cunning to know all the Ills they do.
One is much more cautious of acquired Honour than of that one is born to.
Youth is a continual Debauchery and Feaver to Reaſon.
We love to preſage the fate of others, but hate they ſhould preſage that of ours.
There are a ſort of People whoſe Merit is that they are Vicious, much approved of, and ſerve to entertain the World beſt.
’Tis a dull Diſeaſe that Laſciviouſneſs muſt cure.
They that make the greateſt boaſt of their good Nature, are moſt eaſie, and with the ſmalleſt intereſt drawn away.
That which makes us ſo often diſſatisfied with thoſe we trurſt in affairs, is, that they regard not ſo much the intereſt of thoſe that employ ’em as they 361 Bb1r (347361) they do the vanity of ſucceeding: which redounds to their Honour, in having ſo accompliſhed what they undertook.
All the Arts we uſe to increaſe the tenderneſs our friends have for us, is not ſo much out of gratitude and acknowledgment, as a deſire to recommend our own Merits, and make them Judges of it.
The approbation we give young Men that are coming into the world, proceeds often from a ſecret Envy we have to thoſe that are eſtabliſhed in it already.
Pride that inſpires us with Envie ſerves us very often to moderate it.
There is a falſity diſguis’d, which ſo well repreſents the Truth, that it always deceives with the beſt ſucceſs.
There needs as much diſcretion to know how to profit by good Counſel, as there is to counſel well ones ſelf.
There is a ſort of Malicious, Vicious People in the World, who would be leſs dangerous if they had no good qualities at all.
Magnanimity is defin’d by its name, and one may ſay ’tis the beſt ſence of Pride, and the moſt noble way of gaining Praiſes.
’Tis not ſo much the quickneſs of Wit, or the flowing of our Underſtanding that makes us find out ſo many expedients for one and the ſame buſineſs; as it is a defect of Judgment, or a glimmering light of things that ſtops us at every thought that preſents it ſelf, and hindering the imagination from diſcerning at preſent which is beſt.
There are Affairs like Diſeaſes, that are rendred worſe by applying Remedies unſeaſonably: and the greateſt cunning of a Man is to know beſt when ’tis moſt Proper and moſt neceſſary to apply them.
An affected Innocence and ſimplicity is a ſly Impoſture.
There is more defects in the Humour, than in the Wit.
Mens Merits have their ſeaſons as well as fruits.
One may ſay of Mens Humours as of Buildings, that they have divers faces, ſome agreeable and ſome uniform.
Moderation can never have the Glory of Conquering Ambition, becauſe they never dwell together, for Moderation is the languiſhing Lazineſs of the Soul, and Ambition is the fire, Activity, vigour, and ardour of it.
’Tis not convenient for us to know the force and ſtrength of our own Wills.
The Humours of our Bodies have an extraordinary Courſe, which unperceivably turns and moves our Wills, they roul and rove together and uſurp ſucceſſively a ſecret Empire within us in ſo abſolute a manner, that they Tyrannize over all our Actions, almoſt without our knowledge.
Publick acknowledgments in Men, are for the moſt part but a ſecret deſire of receiving a greater good.
Every body takes care to acquit themſelves of little obligations with pleaſure, and ſome will pay great acknowledgments for indifferent favors, but there is ſcarce any body who does not return great ones with ingratitude.
There are Follies as catching as Contagious Diſeaſes.
We ſeem to deſpiſe thoſe Excellencies we can never attain to.
In all things where our Intereſt is concerned, we catch at every trifling hope, and are deluded by every little appearance.
We have ſo good an opinion of our ſelves that they tell us no news who ſpeak well of us.
How eaſily we forgive thoſe that injure others, and how unwillingly thoſe that injure us.
Intereſt, which is reckoned among our Crimes, ought to be eſteemed as one of our good actions.
We find few ungrateful while we are in a condition to oblige.
’Tis as neceſſary and reaſonable to have Pride ones ſelf, as ’tis ridiculous to ſhew it to others.
Some have made a Vertue of Moderation, to limit the moderation of the great, and to comfort and conſole the generality in their mean and ſcanted Fortunes, and their little Merits.
There are in both Sexes a ſort of People deſtin’d to be Fools and Fops, and Coxcombs, and who do not only commit fopperies by choice, but even Fate it ſelf conſtrains ’em to it.
Sometimes there arrives in ones life accidents, wherein one muſt appear ignorant, to withdraw ones ſelf from thoſe troubles, that may befall us by underſtanding ’em.
If there be a Man on Earth who has not committed a weakneſs that may render him ridiculous it is becauſe others have not looked narrowly into his Actions, or made good obſervations upon them.
We have memory enough to retain the leaſt injury done us, but have not enough to remember what we have done to others.
The extreme pleaſure we take in talking of our ſelves, ſhould make us ſo modeſt as to fear we give but little to thoſe that hear us.
That which hinders us from letting our friends know the bottom of our hearts, is not ſo much out of a diſtruſt of ’em, as of our ſelves.
Half-witted People can never be ſincere.
’Tis not ſo great a misfortune to oblige the ungrateful as to be obliged by a knave, which is inſupportable.
One may be cur’d of Folly, but never of a ſullen conceited obſtinacy.
We can never preſerve the eſteem we have of our friends if we uſe our ſelves to ſpeak often of their defects.
To praiſe a Prince for Virtues he has not, is to do him an unpuniſhable Injury.
Our Will is no leſs at the mercy of Fortune than our good and happineſs.
We oftner comfort our ſelves by the weakneſs of our Ills, than by the ſtrength of our Reaſon.
The leaſt fault a Man can have, is to perſwade himſelf he has no great ones.
Deſire is more irreconcilable than hate.
We often believe we hate flatttttery, but we only hate the manner of being flattered.
Women know not all their Cocketry, and impertinence.
Women have never a compleat Severity without an averſion.
There are certain good Qualities like our ſenſes, which when we are deprived of, we cannot ſo much as comprehend what they are.
We reſent our good or ill Fortune proportionable to our Self-love.
The Wit of the greateſt part of Women, ſerves more to fortifie and demonſtrate their Folly, than their Reaſon.
We know the Paſſions of Youth, and the Dotage of Age are equally oppoſite to Salvation.
The accent of the Country where we are born lives in our hearts, and minds, as well as on our tongues and in our Language.
To know how to be great, we muſt know how to reap a profit from all fortunes, and to make good uſe of an indifferent one is the way to arrive at a greater.
The moſt part of Men have a quality like that of Plants, whoſe proper Talent is to hide their Vertue, and ’tis with hazard and difficulty they are diſcovered.
We allow no body to be a perſon of good ſenſe if they be not of our opinion.
That which makes us rail at thoſe that ſeem to be very cunning, is, becauſe they think themſelves wiſer than we.
’Tis the meanneſs of our Soul that makes us afflict our ſelves at little accidents, while great Wits and Noble Spirits know all and bear all unhurt.
What diſtruſt ſoever we have of the Sincerity of thoſe we converſe with, we ſtill fancy they ſpeak more truth to us than to others.
There are few Cowards that are ſenſible of their own fear.
We may give Counſel, but cannot inſpire Conduct.
When our Merits are leſſened, our Spirits are debaſed.
Good Fortune makes our Vertues, and our Vices appear as the light makes all objects.
The Actions of the great are ſo publick, that it expoſes ’em to the praiſe and reproaches of the Vulgar, ſo that there is a neceſſity for a Stateſman to be indued with great Fortitude and Reſolution.
The deſire of ſpeaking of our ſelves, and to make our faults appear on that ſide we would have ’em ſhown, makes a great part of our ſincerity.
We ought not to be ſurpriſed at any thing unleſs we can ſurprize.
None ſuffer ſo many Injuries as thoſe that can do none.
A Coxcomb has not Materials to be good.
If Vanity do not intirely overthrow Virtue, at leaſt it has power to ſhake it.
That which renders the Vanity of others inſupportable is becauſe it reproaches ours, for we hate to ſee that ill figure in others which we our ſelves make.
We are more eaſily perſwaded to renounce our vanity than our pleaſures.
Fortune never is repreſented blind but to the unfortunate.
You muſt manage your Fortune as you do your health, enjoy it while it is good, and be patient when ’tis ill; and never apply great Remedies but in great Extremities.
A Fop may loſe his affectation in a Champagn, but never in a Court.
One may be wiſer ſometimes than ſome; but never wiſer than all.
We are aſhamed to ſay we are abſolutely without faults, or that our Enemies are wholly without Vertues, but however we believe both.
Of all our defects, that which agrees beſt with us is Idleneſs, we perſwade our ſelves that keeps our Vertues calm, when it only keeps ’em ſuſpended and ſubjected to that alone.
There is an advancement that does not depend on Fortune, ’tis a certain Air of Authority that ſeems to deſtine us for greatneſs, and ſuperiority, ’tis a price we ſet unperceivably upon our ſelves. ’Tis by this Air, by this quality that we oblige or compell advancement from others, and ’tis this which commonly puts us much above thoſe of Merit, Birth, or Dignity.
There is too often Merit without Advancement, but rarely Advancement without ſome Merit.
Advancement is to merit as a graceful dreſs to the fair.
Fortune ſerves her ſelf with our defects to raiſe us, and there are Men (whoſe Merit is not recompenced) very troubleſome and incommode, inſomuch that one is obliged to purchaſe their abſence, and advance ’em to ſend ’em away pleas’d.
It ſeems as if Nature had hid in the moſt profound parts of our minds, a Talent of Knowledg, and Reaſon that we are not ſenſible of, and ’tis Paſſions only that have more right to diſcover them (and to give us a more certain inſight into them, and bring them to perfection) than Art has power to do.
Pride never loſes ſo much as when it renounces Vanity.
The Proud are ever complaining of that Vice in others.
Pride is equal in all Perſons, only ſome have an art to diſſemble it better than others.
Nature has taken ſo wiſe an order in the diſpoſition of the Organs of the Body to render us happy, that ſhe has kindly given us Pride to contemn the grief of knowing our imperfections.
Pride has a greater ſhare than Vertue or good nature in the Counſels of thoſe who condemn faults, and we do not ſo often reprehend them ſo much from a deſire to correct them, as to perſwade them we our ſelves are not guilty.
There arrives to us in all ages, and all times of our lives ſomething new, ſo that we want experience ſtill in ſpight of the number of years.
’Tis certain that thoſe who are caught by our cunning and deceit, do not appear ſo ridiculous as we do to our ſelves, when the ſubtilty of others has intrapped us.
We ſhould often be aſhamed of moſt of our Actions, if the World ſaw and knew all the motives that produce ’em.
’Tis not the greateſt mark of friendſhip to diſcover all our defects to a friend, unleſs in return he make known his own.
We have few faults that are not more Pardonable than the meanneſs we make uſe of to hide ’em, what ſhame ſoever we have deſerved, ’tis almoſt in our own power to re-eſtabliſh our Reputations.
313. The date of our Paſſions depends no more on us than the date of our lives.
Paſſion finds a paſſage to the ſouls of the greateſt and wiſeſt of Men, and very often renders even the greateſt Fools accompliſhed.
The Paſſion of Love is the Orator that always beſt perſwades; ’tis an Art in Nature whoſe Rules are infallible, and the moſt ſimple perſon in Love prevails more than the moſt Eloquent that is not ſo inſpired.
Paſſion has a kind of injuſtice and ſelf-intereſt, which makes it dangerous to purſue it, and one ought the moſt to reſiſt it when it appears the moſt reaſonable.
There is in Humane Nature a perpetual Generation of Paſſions, inſomuch that the ruine of one is the eſtabliſhment of another.
Paſſions very often beget their contraries. Avarice ſometimes begets Prodigality; and Profuſeneſsfuſeneſs 379 Cc2r (365379) fuſeneſs Covetouſneſs, and one is often more ſteadfaſt by weakneſs, and more cbold by fear.
Whatſoever care we take to hide our Paſſions with the appearance of Piety and Vertue, yet they always diſcover themſelves through their Veils.
Jealouſie nouriſhed with doubt becomes a Fury; but dies when it paſſes from doubt to certainty.
’Tis hard to define Love, and at laſt all that can be ſaid of it, is that ’tis a tender Paſſion that Reigns in the Soul and ſoftens all its roughneſs. In the Mind it is a Sympathy, and in the Body a curious hidden deſire to enjoy what one loves, after a great deal of myſterious trouble and expectations.
If there be a purity in Love unmixed with other Paſſions, ’tis that which lies hid in the bottom of our hearts, and is hardly made known to our ſelves.
But there is no diſguiſe can conceal true Love where it is, nor can feign it where ’tis not.
Since we can neither be in Love, nor ceaſe to Love when we liſt, ’tis with injuſtice the Lover complains on the fickleneſs of his Miſtris.
If we judge of Love by the greateſt part of its effects, it more reſembles hatred than friendſhip.
We may find Women who have never been in Love, but ’tis rare to find thoſe who never had but one Lover.
There is but one kind of Love, but there are a thouſand different Copies.
Love is like fire; this cannot ſubſiſt without Air, 381 Cc3r (367381) 329. Air, and t’other ceaſes to live when it ceaſes to hope or fear.
It is with Love as with Apparitions, all the World talks of ’em, but few have ſeen ’em.
Love lends his name to an infinite number of Traders that would be thought to commerce with him, but have indeed no more to do with him than the Duke of Venice hath with the Senate.
Love of Juſtice is in moſt Men but a fear of ſuffering Injuſtice.
Silence is the ſureſt friend to him that ſtands at defiance with himſelf.
That which renders us ſo inconſtant in our Love is, becauſe ’tis very difficult to know the qualities of the ſoul, and eaſie to know thoſe of the Inclinations.
Even the moſt unintereſted Love is no other than a Commerce where our Self-love propoſes a Gain.
When we are weary of a Lover, we are very well pleaſed to find him unfaithful, that we may be diſingaged from our Fidelity.
’Tis leſs Shame to be deceived by a Lover than to be defi’d by him.
We often perſwade our ſelves that we love perſons more powerful and great than our ſelves, when ’tis only ſelf-intereſt that is the production of it, and we do not offer ’em our devoirs for any good we would do ’em, but to ſerve our own Intereſts.
Our own Diſtruſts and Jealouſies juſtifie the Jilts of another.
’Tis a certain ſign of a decay in Love in our ſelves 383 Cc4r (369383) ſelves not to take notice of the coldneſs of a Lover.
The more I love Lyſander, the readier I am to hate him.
If we can reſiſt our Paſſions, ’tis more from the weakneſs of them than our own Vertues.
The leaſt fault of thoſe who have abandoned themſelves to Love, is to be in Love.
I ſhould never have been in Love if People had not talked of Love to me.
To be Conſtant in Love, is to be always Inconſtant, for it compells a concern in our Souls for all the Qualities and Actions of the Perſon Beloved, giving an eſteem ſometimes to one, ſometimes to another, and ’tis no other than a ſtay’d Inconſtancy which is ſhut up and confin’d to one.
There are two Conſtancies in Love, one is from the eternal diſcoveries we make of new Charms in the Object beloved, the other is from a punctilio of Honour not to be inconſtant.
That which makes us love new Lovers is not ſo much out of wearineſs of the old, or the pleaſure of changing for new, but an apprehenſion that we are not enough admired by thoſe that know us, and a vanity and hope of being more by thoſe that know us leſs.
We often complain of the coldneſs of our Lovers, to excuſe our own to them.
There is no Paſſion where ſelf-love Reigns ſo abſolutely as in that of Love, and we are always more inclin’d to Sacrifice the repoſe of what we love than to loſe the leaſt part of our own.
The pleaſure of Love is to Love, and I am more happy in my Paſſion for Lyſander than in that which I believe he has for me.
Abſence diminiſhes an indifferent Paſſion, but increaſes a great one, like the wind that blows out a Flambeau, but kindles a Fire.
Women often believe they Love when they do not the buſineſs of Love, of intrieguing. The motions of their minds and the exerciſing their wit gives them a natural deſire of Gallantry, and the extreme pleaſure of being beloved perſwades ’em (rather than want the vanity of Lovers) that they have a tenderneſs for ’em, when indeed ’tis only a deſire of Courtſhip.
We certainly love thoſe we admire, but we do not always love them that admire us.
’Tis not convenient for us to know the force and ſtrength of our own hearts.
’Tis very difficult to love thoſe we do not eſteem, and no leſs difficult to love thoſe we eſteem more than we do our ſelves.
That which makes a Lover and his Miſtris never weary of being together is, becauſe they are ſtill ſpeaking of themſelves, and ſtill good of themſelves.
We are more apt to love even thoſe that hate us, than thoſe that love us more than we deſire.
There are none but thoſe that are really deſpiſable, that fear to be deſpiſed.
There is in Jealouſie more of Self-love than Love.
As long as we Love we Pardon. A Woman can leſs overcome her Coquetry or little impertinence than her Paſſion.
Women have never a compleat Severity without Averſion.
The little deceits of Lovers exceed their diſtruſts.
There is a certain ſort of Love, whoſe Exceſs hinders its Jealouſie.
There can be no Rule or Conſtancy in the heart of a Woman, if her temper and inclinations do not accord.
When we Love, we often doubt what we deſire moſt to believe.
The greateſt Miracle of Love is to cure Foppery and Impertinence.
I have found a great deal of trouble to break off with thoſe I lov’d no more.
We are always weary of thoſe we are not permitted to be weary of.
The wiſeſt Men may be permitted to love even to Folly but not to a degree of being beſotted or jilted.
Love, Fear, Hope, and Jealouſie are never aſunder, but when Hope decays, all the reſt dies.
Infidelity ought to extinguiſh Love, and he ought no longer to be Jealous, who knows he has reaſon to be ſo, and none ought to give us Jealouſie, but thoſe that are worthy of our Jealouſie.
Infidelity never afflicts us but when it comes home to us, and concerns our ſelves.
Jealouſie is always born with Love, but does not always dye with it.
The moſt part of Women do not ſo much weep for their Lovers becauſe they loved ’em, as they do to appear more worthy of being beloved again.
You ought to ſay but little of your Wife, and leſs to her.
There are few Honeſt Women who are not weary of their Trade.
The greateſt part of honeſt Women are like hidden Treaſure, which is ſafe only becauſe no body ſearches after it.
The Violence we are forced to uſe to prevent Loving, proves often more cruel than the Rigors of thoſe we Love.
’Tis always the fate of Lovers not to know they are not beloved.
We dread always to ſee thoſe we love, when we come from making Love elſewhere.
There are certain fears which deceive our ſelves, after having deceived others.
If you believe you love Amynta, for the love of Amynta, you are much deceived.
You ought to indure and bear with that fault in Amynta, which ſhe has Wit and Candor enough to own.
Deſire is deſtroyed by true friendſhip, as Impertinence and Coquetry is by true Love.
Too deep a penetration is a fault, eſpecially into things that concern our repoſe.
The Violence we uſe to continue faithful to thoſe we love, is little better than an Infidelity.
I am more happy in being deceived by Lyſander than in being undeceived.
We may remain conſtant a long time in Love, if we do not ſeek a change.
The leaſt part of Gallantry is Love. Thoſe that are Coquets make it a piece of Honour to be Jealous of thoſe they pretend to Love, to concealceal 392 Cc8v (378392) ceal from ’em the deſires they have for others.
The moſt ridiculous thing in a decay’d Beauty that has been fine and amiable, is, to forget that ſhe is now no more charming.
Self-love is the greateſt of Flatteries.
Self-love will jilt ye ſooner than the moſt ſubtil of Women.
The Self lover ſuffers more impatiently the deprivation of his pleaſure than his opinion.
Self-love increaſes or diminiſhes the good qualities of our Friends proportionable to the ſatisfaction we have in ’em, and we judge of their Merits by their manner of living with us.
Death and the Sun ought not to be gazed on with open Eyes.
After having ſpoken of the falſe appearance of Vertue, ’tis fit we ſay ſometes hing of the falſe contempt. I have heard talk of a contempt of Death which the Romans boaſted to have had, purely proceeding from the bravery of the mind, without the leaſt hope of a better life, but there is a great difference between ſuffering death with a conſtant Reſolution, and that of a Contempt: The firſt is common, but I believe the laſt is never Sincere: and tho there are thoſe that have written all that might perſwade the World that Death has no Sting, and tho the weakeſt Men as well as the braveſt Heroes have given a thouſand celebrated Examples, to confirm and eſtabliſh this Opinion in the World; yet I queſtion whether any reaſonable Man ever believes it; and the great pains ſome Men take to perſwade others as well as themſelves, makes us plainly ſee that this Faith is not ſo eaſily eſtabliſhed amongſt Men of common Senſe. ’Tis true, there may many Dd accidents 394 Dd1v (380394) accidents fall out to give us a diſguſt of Life, but none that can make us have a contempt of Death, nay even thoſe that have given themſelves a violent Death are not ſo eaſily contented, or go ſo chearful, and are aſtoniſhed and dejected when it arrives to ’em by any other way than what they have choſen.
The difference that is obſervable in an infinite number of Valiant Men, ſhews that Death repreſents it ſelf in different forms to their imaginations; and appears more formidable at one time than another. So that it often falls out, that after having contemned what we know not, we fear what we do know: and there is no poſſible way to die with any reaſonable courage, but to fancy that Death is not the worſt of Ills.
The moſt Brave and Wiſe are thoſe that take all occaſions to hinder themſelves from the conſideration of Death. But all that ſeriouſly conſider find the neceſſity of dying, a moſt dreadful thing, and full of Horror, tho Arm’d with the Conſtancy of a Philoſopher. They believe they muſt, and ought to go with a good Grace, when they cannot hinder themſelves from going: and not being able to make themſelves Immortal, there is nothing they will not endeavour and force themſelves to do, to Immortallize their Fame, thinking to ſave that from Ship-wreck which cannot be preſerved.
Well then, ſince we cannot make that appearance we would, at leaſt let us make the beſt we can, 395 Dd2r (381395) can, and not tell our ſelves all we think in the affair of Death, and hope more from our moderation than from thoſe weak reaſons, which would make us believe we can approach death with indifference, the glory of dying with a brave reſolution, ths hope of being lamented, the deſire to leave a good Reputation behind us, the aſſurance of being ſet free from the miſeries of Life, and to depend no more upon the Capriſs of Fortune, are advantages that ought not to be rejected; but yet we need not believe theſe Remedies infallible againſt the fear of Death.
As in a time of War, the Routed Hero ſees at diſtance ſome flattering Refuge in an adjacent covert of a ſeeming gloomy thicket, where he fancies to find a ſhelter from the fury of the purſuing Conqueror, but approaching it more near he finds the lowly Shrubs too feeble a defence alas againſt the Victor. So is that ſelf-flattery of ours, that would perſwade us Death ſeems to be the ſame thing near at hand which it appeared to us at diſtance and far off. And that our ſentiments which are but weak, are of a temper ſtrong enough to indure that rough and ſullen ſtroke. And we depend too much upon our own Self-flattery and Opinion, to think they can aſſiſt us to out-brave that which muſt render us to be no more; and Reaſon to which we have (as we believe) recourſe, is too feeble to perſwade us in this encounter to what we wiſh to believe: On the contrary, ’tis reaſon that moſt often betrays, and inſteadDd2 ſtead 396 (382396) ſtead of inſpiring us with a neglect of Death, ſerves only to diſcover to us all that it has of terrible and dreadful.
All then that Reaſon can do for us in this laſt effort is, to counſel us to turn our eyes, and fix ’em upon other objects—any thing but the Image of Death, Cato and Brutus choſe an Illuſtrious Death, and dy’d bravely—ſo did El.—nay, I have ſeen a Lackey dance upon the Scaffold which he aſcended to be broken on a Wheel, and Vrats dy’d as well as L.――R. herein you may ſee tho the quality and motives be different, yet that they may produce the ſame effects. So that whatever diſproportion you ſee between the Hero and the Traitor, the Man of Quality and the Scoundrell, we have a thouſand times ſeen both the one and the other receive Death with the ſame face, and with the ſame unconcern or dejection mount the Scaffold, or the Gibbet; but ’tis with this difference, that the contempt the great Man ſeems to have for Death is the Vanity of Glory, which blinds him, and in the humbler Criminal ’tis no other than the effects of Ignorance; which hinders him from being ſenſible of the greatneſs of his pain or ſhame, and leaves him the liberty to think of other things.