Mrs. Anne Killigrew. Painted by her self I Beckett fecit
1685-09-30Sept. 30. 1685. Ro. L’Eſtrange.
Printed for Samuel Lowndes, over againſt Exeter Exchange in
the Strand. 16861686.
The Publisher To the Reader
Reader, doſt ask, What Work we here diſplay?
What fair and Novel Piece ſalutes the Day?
Know, that a Virgin bright this Poem writ,
A Grace for Beauty, and a Muſe for Wit!
Who, when none higher in Loves Courts might ſway,
Deſpis’d the Mertile, for the nobler Bay!
Nor could Apollo or Minerva tell,
Whither her Pen or Pencil did excel!
But while theſe Pow’rs laid both to her their Claime,
Behold, a Matron of a Heavenly Frame,
Antique, but Great and Comely in her Meen,
Upon whoſe gorgeous Robe inſcrib’d was ſeen
Divine Vertue, took her from both away,
And thus with Anger and Diſdain did ſay,
Of me ſhe Learn’d, with you ſhe did but Play.
To the Pious Memory Of the Accompliſht Young Lady Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the two Siſter-Arts of Poëſie, and Painting. An Ode.
Thou Youngeſt Virgin-Daughter of the Skies,
Made in the laſt Promotion of the Bleſt;
Whoſe Palmes, new pluckt from Paradiſe,
In ſpreading Branches more ſublimely riſe,
Rich with Immortal Green above the reſt:
Whether, adopted to ſome Neighbouring Star,
Thou rol’ſt above us, in thy wand’ring Race,
Or, in Proceſſion fixt and regular,
Mov’d with the Heavens Majeſtick Pace;
Or, call’d to more Superiour Bliſs,
Thou treadſ’t, with Seraphims, the vaſt abyſs.What vii a2r
What ever happy Region be thy place,
Ceaſe thy Celeſtial Song a little ſpace;
(Thou wilt have Time enough for Hymns Divine,
Since Heav’ns Eternal Year is thine.)
Hear then a Mortal Muſe thy Praiſe rehearſe,
In no ignoble Verſe;
But ſuch as thy own voice did practiſe here,
When thy firſt Fruits of Poeſie were giv’n;
To make thy ſelf a welcome Inmate there:
While yet a young Probationer,
And Candidate of Heav’n.
If by Traduction came thy Mind,
Our Wonder is the leſs to find
A Soul ſo charming from a Stock ſo good;
Thy Father was transfuſ’d into thy Blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful ſtrain,
(An early, rich, and inexhauſted Vain.)
But if thy Præexiſting Soul
Was form’d, at firſt, with Myriads more,
It did through all the Mighty Poets roul,* a2 Who viii a2v
Who Greek or Latine Laurels wore.
And was that Sappho laſt, which once it was before.
If ſo, then ceaſe thy flight, O Heav’n-born Mind!
Thou haſt no Droſs to purge from thy Rich Ore:
Nor can thy Soul a fairer Manſion find,
Than was the Beauteous Frame ſhe left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the Quire, of thy Celeſtial kind.
May we preſume to ſay, that at thy Birth,
New joy was ſprung in Heav’n, as well as here on Earth.
For ſure the Milder Planets did combine
On thy Auſpicious Horoſcope to ſhine,
And ev’n the moſt Malicious were in Trine.
Thy Brother-Angels at thy Birth
Strung each his Lyre, and tun’d it high,
That all the People of the Skie
Might know a Poeteſs was born on Earth.
And then if ever, Mortal Ears
Had heard the Muſick of the Spheres!
And if no cluſt’ring Swarm of Bees
On thy ſweet Mouth diſtill’d their golden Dew,’Twas ix a3r
’Twas that, ſuch vulgar Miracles,
Heav’n had not Leaſure to renew:
For all the Bleſt Fraternity of Love
Solemniz’d there thy Birth, and kept thy Holyday above.
O Gracious God! How far have we
Prophan’d thy Heav’nly Gift of Poeſy?
Made proſtitute and profligate the Muſe,
Debas’d to each obſcene and impious uſe,
Whoſe Harmony was firſt ordain’d Above
For Tongues of Angels, and for Hymns of Love?
O wretched We! why were we hurry’d down
This lubrique and adult’rate age,
(Nay added fat Pollutions of our own)
T’increaſe the ſteaming Ordures of the Stage?
What can we ſay t’excuſe our Second Fall?
Let this thy Veſtal, Heav’n, attone for all!
Her Arethuſian Stream remains unſoil’d,
Unmixt with Forreign Filth, and undefil’d,
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!
For Nature did that Want supply,
So rich in Treaſures of her Own,
She might our boaſted Stores defy:
Such Noble Vigour did her Verſe adorn,
That it ſeem’d borrow’d, where ’twas only born.
Her Morals too were in her Boſome bred
By great Examples daily fed,
What in the beſt of Books, her Fathers Life, ſhe read.
And to be read her ſelf ſhe need not fear,
Each Teſt, and ev’ry Light, her Muſe will bear,
Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there.
Ev’n Love (for Love ſometimes her Muſe expreſt)
Was but a Lambent-flame which play’d about her Breſt:
Light as the Vapours of a Mourning Dream,
So cold herſelf, whilſt ſhe ſuch Warmth expreſt,
’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s Stream.
Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine,
One would have thought, ſhe ſhould have been content
To manage well that Mighty Government:
But what can young ambitious Souls confine?
To the next Realm ſhe ſtretcht her Sway,
For Painture neer adjoyning lay,
A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.
A Chamber of Dependences was fram’d,
(As Conquerors will never want Pretence,
When arm’d, to juſtice the Offence)
And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry ſhe claim’d.
The Country open lay without Defence:
For Poets frequent In-rodes there had made,
And perfectly could repreſent
The Shape, the Face, with ev’re Lineament;
And all the large Demains which the Dumb-ſiſter ſway’d,
All bow’d beneath her Government,
Receiv’d in Triumph whereſoe’re ſhe went.
Her Pencil drew, what e’re her Soul deſign’d,
And oft the happy Draught ſurpaſs’d the Image in her Mind.The xii a4v
The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks,
And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,
Of ſhallow Brooks that flow’d ſo clear,
The Bottom did the Top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler Flouds,
Which as in Mirrors, ſhew’d the Woods;
Of lofty Trees with Sacred Shades,
And Perſpectives of pleaſant Glades,
Where Nymphs of brighteſt Form appear,
And ſhaggy Satyrs ſtanding neer,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The Ruines too of ſome Majeſtick Piece,
Boaſting the Pow’r of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whoſe Statues, Freezes, Columns broken lie,
And though deface’t, the Wonder of the Eie,
What Nature, Art, bold Fiction e’re durſt frame,
Her forming Hand gave Shape unto the Name.
So ſtrange a Concourſe ne’re was ſeen before,
But when the peopl’d Ark the whole Creation bore.
The Scene then chang’d, with bold Erected Look
Our Martial King the Eye with Reverence ſtrook:
For not content t’expreſs his Outward Part,
Her hand call’d out the Image of his Heart,
His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,
His High-diſigning Thoughts, were figur’d there,
As when, by Magick, Ghoſts are made appear.
Our Phenix Queen was portrai’d too ſo bright,
Beauty alone could Beauty take ſo right:
Her Dreſs, her Shape, her matchleſs Grace,
Were all obſerv’d, as well as heav’nly Face.
With ſuch a Peerleſs Majeſty ſhe ſtands,
As in that Day ſhe took from Sacred hands
The Crown; ’mong num’rous Heroins was ſeen,
More yet in Beauty, than in Rank, the Queen!
Thus nothing to her Genius was deny’d,
But like a Ball of Fire the further thrown,
Still with a greater Blaze ſhe ſhone,
And her bright Soul broke out on ev’ry ſide.* b What xiv b1v
What next ſhe had deſign’d, Heaven only knows,
To ſuch Immod’rate Growth her Conqueſt roſe,
That Fate alone their Progreſs could oppoſe.
Now all thoſe Charmes, that blooming Grace,
The well-proportion’d Shape, and beauteous Face,
Shall never more be ſeen by Mortal Eyes;
In Earth the much lamented Virgin lies!
Not Wit, nor Piety could Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Deſtiny content
To finiſh all the Murder at a Blow,
To ſweep at once her Life, and Beauty too;
But, like a hardn’d Fellon, took a pride
To work more Miſchievouſly ſlow,
And plunder’d firſt, and then deſtroyed.
O double Sacriledge on things Divine,
To rob the Relique, and deface the Shrine!
But thus Orinda dy’d:
Heav’n, by the ſame Diſeaſe, did both tranſlate,
As equal were their Souls, ſo equal was their Fate.
Mean time her Warlike Brother on the Seas
His waving Streamers to the Winds diſplays,
And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays.
Ah, Generous Youth, that Wiſh forbear,
The Winds too ſoon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy Sailes, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know’ſt not, Thou art wreck’d at home!
No more ſhalt thou behold thy Siſters Face,
Thou haſt already had her laſt Embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken’ſt from far,
Among the Pleiad’s a New-kindl’d Star,
If any ſparkles, than the reſt, more bright,
’Tis ſhe that ſhines in that propitious Light.
When in mid-Aire, the Golden Trump ſhall ſound,
To raiſe the Nations under ground;
When in the Valley of Jehoſaphat,
The Judging God ſhall cloſe the Book of Fate;
And there the laſt Aſſizes keep,
For thoſe who Wake, and thoſe who Sleep;* b2 When xvi b2v
When ratling Bones together fly,
From the four Corners of the Skie,
When Sinews o’re the Skeletons are ſpread,
Thoſe cloath’d with Fleſh, and Life inſpires the Dead;
The Sacred Poets firſt ſhall hear the Sound,
And formoſt from the Tomb ſhall bound:
For they are cover’d with the lighteſt Ground
And ſtreight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing,
Like mounting Larkes, to the New Morning ſing.
There Thou, Sweet Saint, before the Quire ſhalt go,
As Harbinger of Heav’n, the Way to ſhow,
The Way which thou ſo well haſt learn’d below.
The Epitaph Engraved on her Tomb.P.M.S. Annæ Killigrew, Doctoris Killigrew Filiæ, Quæ in ipſo Ætatis flore Obiit. 1685-06-16Junii 16. 1685. Heu jacet, fato victa,Quæ ſtabat ubique victrixForma, ingenio, religione;Plura collegrat in ſe Unâ,Quà vel ſparſa mireris in omnibus!Talem quis pingat, niſi penicillo quod tractavit?Antxviiib3vAnt quis canat, niſi Poëta ſui ſimilis?Cum tanta ſciret, hoc Unum ignoravit,Quanta, nempe, eſſet;Aut ſi norit,Mirare Modeſtiam,Tantis incorruptam dotibus.Laudes meruiſſe ſatis illi fuit,Has ne vel audiret, laudatores omnes fugerat,Contenta paterno Lare,Dum & ſibi Aula patebat adulatrix.Mundum ſapere an potuit,Quæ ab infantia Chriſtum ſapuerat?Non modo semper Virgo,Sed & virginum Exemplar.Gentis ſuæ Decus,Ævi Splendor,Sexus Miraculum.Nulla Vertute inferior cuiquam,Cuilibet ſuperior multâ.Optimi Deliciæ patris,Etiam numerosâ optimâque prole fortunatiſſimi:Priorem tamen invidit nemo,(Seuxixb4r(Seu frater, ſeu ſoror)Quin potius coluere omnes, omnibus ſuavem & officioſam,Amoriſque commune Vinculum & Centrum.Vix iſta credes, Hanc ſi neſcieris;Gredet majora, qui ſcierit.Abi Viator, & Plange:Si eam plangi oporteat,Cui, tam piè morienti,Vel Cœlites plaſerint.
The ſame Turned into Engliſh.
By Death, alas, here Conquer’d lies,
She who from All late bore the Prize
In Beauty, Wit, Vertue Divine:
In whom thoſe Graces did combine,
Which we admir’d in others ſee,
When they but ſingly ſcatter’d be!
Who her, ſo Great, can paint beſide,
The Pencil her own Hand did guide?
What Verſe can celebrate her Fame,
But ſuch as She herſelf did frame?
Though much Excellence ſhe did ſhow,
And many Qualities did know,
Yet this, alone, ſhe could not tell,
To wit, How much ſhe did excel.Or xxi c1r
Or if her Worth ſhe rightly knew,
More to her Modeſty was due,
That Parts in her no Pride could raiſe
Deſirous ſtill to merit Praiſe,
But fled, as ſhe deſerv’d, the Bays.
Contented always to retire,
Court Glory ſhe did not admire;
Although it lay ſo neer and faire,
It’s Grace to none more open were:
But with the World how ſhould ſhe cloſe,
Who Chriſt in her firſt Childhood choſe?
So with her Parents ſhe did live,
That they to Her did Honour give,
As ſhe to them. In a Num’rous Race
And Vertuous, the higheſt Place
None envy’d her: Siſters, Brothers
Her Admirers were and Lovers:
She was to all s’obliging ſweet,
All in One Love to her did meet.
A Virgin-Life not only led,
But it’s Example might be ſaid.c The xxii c1v
The Ages Ornament, the Name
That gave her Sex and Country Fame.
Thoſe who her Perſon never knew,
Will hardly think theſe things are true:
But thoſe that did, will More believe,
And higher things of her conveive.
Thy Eyes in tears now, Reader, ſteep:
For her if’t lawful be to weep,
Whoſe bleſſed and Seraphique End
Angels in Triumph did attend.
I Sing the Man that never Equal knew,
Whoſe Mighty Arms all Aſia did ſubdue,
Whoſe Conqueſts through the ſpacious World do ring,
That City-Raſer, King-deſtroying King,
Who o’re the Warlike Macedons did Reign,
And worthily the Name of Great did gain.
This is the Prince (if Fame you will believe,
To ancient Story any credit give.)
Who when the Globe of Earth he had ſubdu’d,
With Tears the eaſie Victory purſu’d;
Becauſe that no more Worlds there were to win,
No further Scene to act his Glorys in.
Ah that ſome pitying Muſe would now inſpire
My frozen ſtyle with a Poetique fire,
And Raptures worthy of his Matchleſs Fame,
Whoſe Deeds I ſing, whoſe never fading Name* B Long 2 B1v 2
Long as the world ſhall freſh and deathleſs laſt,
No leſs to future Ages, then the paſt.
Great my preſumption is, I muſt confeſs,
But if I thrive, my Glory’s ne’re the leſs;
Nor will it from his Conqueſts derogate
A Female Pen his Acts did celebrate.
If thou O Muſe wilt thy aſſiſtance give,
Such as made Naſo and great Maro live,
With him whom Melas fertile Banks did bear,
Live, though their Bodies duſt and aſhes are;
Whoſe Laurels were not freſher, than their Fame
Is now, and will for ever be the ſame.
If the like favour thou wilt grant to me,
O Queen of Verſe, I’ll not ungrateful be,
My choiceſt hours to thee I’ll Dedicate,
’Tis thou ſhalt rule, ’tis thou ſhalt be my Fate.
But if Coy Goddeſs thou ſhalt this deny,
And from my humble ſuit diſdaining fly,
I’ll ſtoop and beg no more, ſince I know this,
Writing of him, I cannot write amiſs:
His lofty Deeds will raiſe each feeble line,
And God-like Acts will make my Verſe Divine.
’Twas at the time the golden Sun doth riſe,
And with his Beams enlights the azure skies,
When lo a Troop in Silver Arms drew near,
The glorious Sun did nere ſo bright appear;
Dire Scarlet Plumes adorn’d their haughty Creſts,
And creſcent Shields did ſhade their ſhining Breſts;
Down from their ſhoulders hung a Panthers Hide,
A Bow and Quiver ratled by their ſide;
Their hands a knotty well try’d Speare did bear,
Jocund they ſeem’d, and quite devoyd of fear.
Theſe warlike Virgins were, that do reſide
Near Thermodons ſmooth Banks and verdant ſide,
The Plains of Themiſcyre their Birth do boaſt,
Thaleſtris now did head the beauteous Hoſt;
She emulating that Illuſtrious Dame,
Who to the aid of Troy and Priam came,
And her who the Retulian Prince did aid,
Though dearly both for their Aſſiſtance paid.
But fear ſhe ſcorn’d, nor the like fate did dread,
Her Hoſt ſhe often to the field had lead,
As oft in Triumph had return’d again,
Glory ſhe only ſought for all her pain.
This Martial Queen had heard how lowdly fame,
Eccho’d our Conquerors redoubted Name,
Her Soul his Conduct and his Courage fir’d,
To ſee the Heroe ſhe ſo much admir’d;
And to Hyrcania for this cauſe ſhe went,
Where Alexander (wholly then intent
On Triumphs and ſuch Military ſport)
At Truce with War held both his Camp and Court.
And while before the Town ſhe did attend
Her Meſſengers return, ſhe ſaw aſcend
A cloud of Duſt, that cover’d all the skie,
And ſtill at every pauſe there ſtroke her eye.
The interrupted Beams of Burniſht Gold,
As duſt the Splendour hid, or did unfold;
Loud Neighings of the Steeds, and Trumpets ſound
Fill’d all the Air, and eccho’d from the ground:
The gallant Greeks with a brisk March drew near,
And their great Chief did at their Head appear.
And now come up to th’ Amazonian Band,
They made a Hault and a reſpectful Stand:
And both the Troops (with like amazement ſtrook)
Did each on other with deep ſilence look.Th’Heroick 5 B3r 5
Th’Heroick Queen (whoſe high pretence to War
Cancell’d the baſhful Laws and nicer Bar
Of Modeſty, which did her Sex reſtrain)
Firſt boldly did advance before her Train,
And thus ſhe ſpake. All but a God in Name,
And that a debt Time owes unto thy Fame.
To the Queen
As thoſe who paſs the Alps do ſay,
The Rocks which firſt oppoſe their way,
And ſo amazing-High do ſhow,
By freſh Aſcents appear but low,
And when they come unto the laſt,
They ſcorn the dwarfiſh Hills th’ave paſt.
So though my Muſe at her firſt flight,
Thought ſhe had choſe the greateſt height,
And (imp’d with Alexander’s Name)
Believ’d there was no further Fame:
Behold an Eye wholly Divine
Vouchſaf’d upon my Verſe to Shine!
And from that time I’gan to treat
With Pitty him the World call’d Great;
To ſmile at his exalted Fate,
Unequal (though Gigantick) State.I 7 B4r 7
I ſaw that Pitch was not ſublime,
Compar’d with this which now I climb;
His Glories ſunk, and were unſeen,
When once appear’d the Heav’n-born Queen:
Victories, Laurels, Conquer’d Kings,
Took place among the inferiour things.
Now ſurely I ſhall reach the Clouds,
For none beſides ſuch Vertue ſhrouds:
Having ſcal’d this with holy Strains,
Nought higher but the Heaven remains!
No more I’ll praiſe on them beſtow,
Who to ill Deeds their Glories owe;
Who build their Babels of Renown,
Upon the poor oppreſſed Crown,
Whole Kingdoms do depopulate,
To raiſe a Proud and ſhort-Liv’d State:
I prize no more ſuch Frantick Might,
Than his that did with Wind-Mills Fight:
No, give me Proweſs, that with Charms
Of Grace and Goodneſs, not with Harms,Erects 8 B4v 8
Erects a Throne i’th’ inward Parts,
And Rules mens Wills, but with their Hearts;
Who with Piety and Vertue thus
Propitiates God, and Conquers us.
O that now like Araunah here,
Altars of Praiſes I could rear,
Suiting her worth, which might be ſeen
Like a Queens Preſent, to a Queen!
‘Alone ſhe ſtands for Vertues Cauſe,
‘When all decry, upholds her Laws:
‘When to Baniſh her is the Strife,
‘Keeps her unexil’d in her Life;
‘Guarding her matchleſs Innocence
‘From Storms of boldeſt Impudence;
‘In ſpight of all the Scoffs and Rage,
‘And Perſecutions of the Age,
‘Owns Vertues Altar, feeds the Flame,
‘Adores her much-derided Name;
‘While impiouſly her hands they tie,
‘Loves her in her Captivity;‘Like 9 C1r 9
‘Like Perſeus ſaves her, when ſhe ſtands
‘Expos’d to the Leviathans.
‘So did bright Lamps once live in Urns,
‘So Camphire in the water burns,
‘So Ætna’s Flames do ne’er go out,
How dares bold Vice unmasked walk,
And like a Giant proudly ſtalk?
When Vertue’s ſo exalted ſeen,
Arm’d and Triumphant in the Queen?
How dares its Ulcerous Face appear,
When Heavenly Beauty is ſo near?
But ſo when God was cloſe at hand,
And the bright Cloud did threatening ſtand
(In ſight of Iſrael) on the Tent,
They on in their Rebellion went.
O that I once ſo happy were,
To find a nearer Shelter there!
Till then poor Dove, I wandering fly
Between the Deluge and the Skie:* C Till 10 C1v 10
Till then I Mourn, but do not ſing,
And oft ſhall plunge my wearied wing:
If her bleſs’d hand vouchſafe the Grace,
I’th’ Ark with her to give a place,
I ſafe from danger ſhall be found,
When Vice and Folly others drown’d.
A Paſtoral Dialogue
DorindaSabæan Perfumes fragrant Roſes bring,
With all the Flowers that Paint the gaudy Spring:
Scatter them all in young Alexis’s way,
With all that’s ſweet and (like himſelf) that’s Gay.
AlexisImmortal Laurels and as laſting Praiſe,
Crown the Divine Dorinda’s matchleſs Laies:
May all Hearts ſtoop, where mine would gladly yield,
Had not Lycoris prepoſſeſt the Field.
DorWould my Alexis meet my noble Flame,
In all Auſonia neither Youth nor Dame,
Should ſo renown’d in Deathleſs Numbers ſhine,
As thy exalted Name ſhould do in mine.
AlexHe’ll need no Trophie nor ambitious Hearſe,
Who ſhall be honour’d by Dorinda’s Verſe;
But where it is inſcrib’d, That here doth lie
Lycoris’s Love. That Fame can never die.
DorOn Tyber’s Bank I Thyrſis did eſpie,
And by his ſide did bright Lycoris lie;
She Crown’d his Head, and Kiſt his amorous Brow,
Ah Poor Alexis! Ah then where wer’t thou?
AlexWhen thou ſaw’ſt that, I ne’r had ſeen my Fair,
And what paſs’d then ought not to be my Care;
I liv’d not then, but firſt began to be,
When I Lycoris Lov’d, and ſhe Lov’d me.
DorAh chooſe a Faith, a Faith that’s like thine own,
A Virgin Love, a Love that’s newly blown:
’Tis not enough a Maidens Heart is chaſt,
It muſt be Single, and not once miſ-plac’t.
AlexThus do our Prieſts of Heavenly Paſtures tell,
Eternal Groves, all Earthly, that excel:And 13 C3r 13
And think to wean us from our Loves below,
By dazling Objects which we cannot know.
Tell me thou ſafeſt End of all our Woe,
Why wreched Mortals do avoid thee ſo:
Thou gentle drier o’th’ afflicteds Tears,
Thou noble ender of the Cowards Fears;
Thou ſweet Repoſe to Lovers ſad diſpaire,
Thou Calm t’Ambitions rough Tempeſtuous Care.
If in regard of Bliſs thou wert a Curſe,
And then the Joys of Paradiſe art worſe;
Yet after Man from his firſt Station fell,
And God from Eden Adam did expel,
Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief;
The Balm and Cure to ev’ry Humane Grief:
Through thee (what Man had forfeited before)
He now enjoys, and ne’r can looſe it more.No 14 C3v 14
No ſubtile Serpents in the Grave betray,
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;
No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright,
No Coz’ning Sin affords a falſe delight:
No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,
No feirce Alarms break the laſting Joy.
Ah ſince from thee ſo many Bleſſings flow,
Such real Good as Life can never know;
Come when thou wilt, in thy afrighting’ſt Dreſs,
Thy Shape ſhall never make thy Welcome leſs.
Thou mayſt to Joy, but ne’er to Fear give Birth,
Thou Beſt, as well as Certain’ſt thing on Earth.
Fly thee? May Travellers then fly their Reſt,
And hungry Infants fly the profer’d Breſt.
No, thoſe that faint and tremble at thy Name,
Fly from their Good on a miſtaken Fame.
Thus Childish fear did Iſrael of old
From Plenty and the Promis’d Land with-hold;
They fancy’d Giants, and refus’d to go,
When Canaan did with Milk and Honey flow.
Firſt Epigram. Upon being Contented with a Little
We deem them moderate, but Enough implore,
What barely will ſuffice, and ask no more:
Who ſay, (O Jove) a competency give,
Neither in Luxury, or Want we’d live.
But what is that, which theſe Enough do call?
If both the Indies unto ſome ſhould fall,
Such Wealth would yet Enough but onely be,
And what they’d term not Want, or Luxury.
Among the Suits O Jove, my humbler take;
A little give, I that Enough will make.
The SecondEpigram. On Billinda
Wanton Bellinda loudly does complain,
I’ve chang’d my Love of late into diſdain:Calls 16 C4v 16
Calls me unconſtant, cauſe I now adore
The chaſt Marcella, that lov’d her before.
Sin or Diſhonour, me as well may blame,
That I repent, or do avoid a ſhame.
The ThirdEpigram. On anAtheist
Poſthumus boaſts he does not Thunder fear,
And for this cauſe would Innocent appear;
That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel,
At threatn’d Vultures, or Ixion’s Wheel,
Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told
What Acts ’gainſt Murder lately were enrol’d,
’Gainſt Inceſt, Rapine,――ſtraight upon the Tale
His Colour chang’d, and Poſthumus grew pale.
His Impious Courage had no other Root,
But that the Villaine, Atheiſt was to boot.
The FourthEpigram. On Galla
Now liquid Streams by the fierce Cold do grow
As ſolid as the Rocks from whence they flow;
Now Tibers Banks with Ice united meet,
And it’s firm Stream may well be term’d its Street;
Now Vot’ries ’fore the Shrines like Statues ſhow,
And ſcarce the Men from Images we know;
Now Winters Palſey ſeizes ev’ry Age,
And none’s ſo warm, but feels the Seaſons Rage;
Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red
Which o’re Corinna’s youthful cheeks are ſpred,
Look pale and bleak, and ſhew a purple hew,
And Violets ſtaine, where Roſes lately grew.
Galla alone, with wonder we behold,
Maintain her Spring, and ſtill out-brave the Cold;
Her conſtant white does not to Froſt give place,
Nor freſh Vermillion fade upon her face:
Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does ſhine?
Not Humane, one reply’d, yet not Divine.
A Farewel To Worldly Joys
Farewel ye Unſubſtantial Joyes,
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes,
Too long ye have my Soul miſled,
Too long with Aiery Diet fed:
But now my Heart ye ſhall no more
Deceive, as you have heretofore:
For when I hear ſuch Sirens ſing,
Like Ithacas’s fore-warned King,
With prudent Reſolution I
Will ſo my Will and Fancy tye,
That ſtronger to the Maſt not he,
Than I to Reaſon bound will be:
And though your Witchcrafts ſtrike my Ear,
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I’ll hear.
The Complaint of a Lover
Seeſt thou younder craggy Rock,
Whoſe Head o’er-looks the ſwelling Main,
Where never Shepherd fed his Flock,
Or careful Peaſant ſow’d his Grain.
No wholeſome Herb grows on the ſame,
Or Bird of Day will on it reſt;
’Tis Barren as the Hopeleſs Flame,
That ſcortches my tormented Breaſt.
Deep underneath a Cave does lie,
Th’entrance hid with diſmal Yew,
Where Phebus never ſhew’d his Eye,
Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.
In that dark Melancholy Cell,
(Retreate and Sollace to my Woe)
Love, ſad Diſpair, and I, do dwell,
The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow.
Treacherous Love that did appear,
(When he at firſt approach’t my Heart)
Dreſt in a Garb far from ſevere,
Or threatning ought of future ſmart.
So Innocent thoſe Charms then ſeem’d,
When Roſalinda firſt I ſpy’d,
Ah! Who would them have deadly deem’d?
But Flowrs do often Serpents hide.
Beneath thoſe ſweets conceal’d lay,
To Love the cruel Foe, Diſdain,
With which (alas) ſhe does repay
My Conſtant and Deſerving Pain.
When I in Tears have ſpent the Night,
With Sighs I uſher in the Sun,
Who never ſaw a ſadder ſight,
In all the Courſes he has run.
Sleep, which to others Eaſe does prove,
Comes unto me, alas, in vain:
For in my Dreams I am in Love,
And in them too ſhe does Diſdain.
Some times t’Amuſe my Sorrow, I
Unto the hollow Rocks repair,
And loudly to the Eccho cry,
Ah! gentle Nimph come eaſe my Care.
Thou who, times paſt, a Lover wer’t,
Ah! pity me, who now am ſo,
And by a ſenſe of thine own ſmart,
Alleviate my Mighty Woe.
Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief;
Catch my laſt Words, and call me Fool;
Or ſay, ſhe Loves, for my Relief;
My Paſſion either ſooth, or School.
Love, the Soul of Poetry.
When firſt Alexis did in Verſe delight,
His Muſe in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk’t,
And now and then a little Proudly ſtalk’t;
But never aim’d at any noble Flight:
The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams,
Adorn’d his Song, and were his higheſt Theams.
But Love theſe Thoughts, like Miſts, did ſoon diſperſe,
Enlarg’d his Fancy, and ſet free his Muſe,
Biding him more Illuſtrious Subjects chooſe;
The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherſe.
From thence new Raptures did his Breaſt inſpire,
His fearce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire.
Th’exalted Poet rais’d by this new Flame,
With Vigor flys, where late he crept along,
And Acts Divine, in a Diviner Song,
Commits to the eternal Trompe of Fame.
And thus Alexis does prove Love to be,
As the Worlds Soul, the Soul of Poetry.
To my Lady Berkeley. Afflicted upon her Son, My Lord Berkeley’s Early Engaging in the Sea-Service
In Tears for her Telemachus was ſeen,
When leaving Home, he did attempt the Ire
Of rageing Seas, to ſeek his abſent Sire:
Such bitter Sighs her tender Breaſt did rend;
But had ſhe known a God did him attend,
And would with Glory bring him ſafe again,
Bright Thoughts would then have diſpoſſeſs’t her Pain.
Ah Nobleſt Lady! You that her excel
In every Vertue, may in Prudence well
Suſpend your Care; knowing what power befriends
Your Hopes, and what on Vertue ſtill attends.In 25 E1r 25
In bloody Conflicts he will Armour find,
In ſtrongeſt Tempeſts he will rule the Wind,
He will through Thouſand Dangers force a way,
And ſtill Triumphant will his Charge convey.
And the All-ruling power that can act thus,
Will ſafe return your Dear Telemachus.
Alas, he was not born to live in Peace,
Souls of his Temper were not made for Eaſe,
Th’Ignoble only live ſecure from Harms,
The Generous tempt, and ſeek out fierce Alarms.
Huge Labours were for Hercules deſign’d,
Jaſon, to fetch the Golden Fleece, enjoyn’d,
The Minotaure by Noble Theſeus dy’d,
In vain were Valour, if it were not try’d,
Should the admir’d and far-ſought Diamond lye,
As in its Bed, unpoliſht to the Eye,
It would be ſlighted like a common ſtone,
It’s Value would be ſmall, its Glory none.
But when’t has paſs’d the Wheel and Cutters hand,
Then it is meet in Monarchs Crowns to ſtand.
Upon the Noble Object of your Care
Heaven has beſtow’d, of Worth, ſo large a ſhare,
That unaſtoniſht none can him behold,
Or credit all the Wonders of him told!
When others, at his Years were turning o’re,
The Acts of Heroes that had liv’d before,
Their Valour to excite, when time ſhould fit,
He then did Things, were Worthy to be writ!
Stayd not for Time, his Courage that out-ran
In Actions, far before in Years, a Man.
Two French Campagnes he boldly courted Fame,
While his Face more the Maid, than Youth became
Adde then to theſe a Soul ſo truly Mild,
Though more than Man, Obedient as a Child.
And (ah) ſhould one Small Iſle all theſe confine,
Vertues created through the World to ſhine?
Heaven that forbids, and Madam ſo ſhould you;
Remember he but bravely does purſue
His Noble Fathers ſteps; with your own Hand
Then Gird his Armour on, like him he’ll ſtand,
His Countries Champion, and Worthy be
Of your High Vertue, and his Memory.
St. John Baptiſt Painted by her ſelf in the Wilderneſs, with Angels appearing to him, and with a Lamb by him
The Sun’s my Fire, when it does ſhine,
The hollow Spring’s my Cave of Wine,
The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat;
This Lamb and I on one Diſh eat:
The neighboring Herds my Garments ſend,
My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend:
Exceſs and Grandure I decline,
M’Aſſociates onely are Divine.
Herodias Daughter preſenting to her Mother St. John’s Head in a Charger, alſo Painted by her ſelf
Behold, dear Mother, who was late our Fear,
Diſarm’d and Harmleſs, I preſent you here;
The Tongue ty’d up, that made all Jury quake,
And which ſo often did our Greatneſs ſhake;* E2 No 28 E2v 28
No Terror ſits upon his Awful Brow,
Where Fierceneſs reign’d, there Calmneſs triumphs now;
As Lovers uſe, he gazes on my Face,
With Eyes that languiſh, as they ſued for Grace;
Wholly ſubdu’d by my Victorious Charms,
See how his Head repoſes in my Arms.
Come, joyn then with me in my juſt Tranſport,
Who thus have brought the Hermite to the Court.
On a Picture Painted by her ſelf, repreſenting two Nimphs of Diana’s, one in a poſture to Hunt, the Other Batheing
We are Diana’s Virgin-Train,
Deſcended of no Mortal Strain;
Our Bows and Arrows are our Goods,
Our Pallaces, the lofty Woods,
The Hills and Dales, at early Morn,
Reſound and Eccho with our Horn;
We chaſe the Hinde and Fallow-Deer,
The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear;In 29 E3r 29
In Swiftneſs we out-ſtrip the Wind,
An Eye and Thought we leave behind;
We Fawns and Shaggy Satyrs awe;
To Sylvan Pow’rs we give the Law:
Whatever does provoke our Hate,
Our Javelins ſtrike, as ſure as Fate;
We Bathe in Springs, to cleanſe the Soil,
Contracted by our eager Toil;
In which we ſhine like glittering Beams,
Or Chriſtal in the Chriſtal Streams;
Though Venus we tranſcend in Form,
No wanton Flames our Boſomes warm!
If you ask where ſuch Wights do dwell,
In what Bleſs’t Clime, that ſo excel?
The Poets onely that can tell.
An Invective against Gold
Of all the Poiſons that the fruitful Earth
E’er yet brough forth, or Monſters ſhe gave Birth,
Nought to Mankind has e’er ſo fatal been,
As thou, accurſed Gold, their Care and Sin.
Methinks I the Advent’rous Merchant ſee,
Ploughing the faithleſs Seas, in ſearch of thee,
His deareſt Wife and Children left behind,
(His real Wealth) while he, a Slave to th’Wind,
Sometimes becalm’d, the Shore with longing Eyes
Wiſhes to ſee, and what he wiſhes, Spies:
For a rude Tempeſt wakes him from his Dream,
And Strands his Bark by a more ſad Extream.
Thus, hopleſs Wretch, is his whole Life-time ſpent,
And though thrice Wreck’t, ’s no Wiſer than he went.
Again, I ſee, the Heavenly Fair deſpis’d,
A Hagg like Hell, with Gold, more highly priz’d;
Mens Faith betray’d, their Prince and Country Sold,
Their God deny’d, all for the Idol Gold.
Unhappy Wretch, who firſt found out the Oar,
What kind of Vengeance reſts for thee in ſtore?
If Nebats Son, that Iſrael led aſtray,
Meet a ſevere Reward at the laſt Day?
Some ſtrange unheard-of Judgement thou wilt find,
Who thus haſt caus’d to Sin all Humane Kind.
The Miſeries of Man
In that ſo temperate Soil Arcadia nam’d,
For fertile Paſturage by Poets fam’d;
Stands a ſteep Hill, whoſe lofty jetting Crown,
Caſts o’er the neighbouring Plains, a ſeeming Frown;
Cloſe at its moſſie Foot an aged Wood,
Compos’d of various Trees, there long has ſtood,
Whoſe thick united Tops ſcorn the Sun’s Ray,
And hardly will admit the Eye of Day.
By oblique windings through this gloomy Shade,
Has a clear purling Stream its Paſſage made,
Thy Nimph, as diſcontented ſeem’d t’ ave choſe
This ſad Receſs to murmur forth her Woes.
To this Retreat, urg’d by tormenting Care,
The melancholly Cloris did repair,As 33 F1r 33
As a fit Place to take the ſad Relief
Of Sighs and Tears, to eaſe oppreſſing Grief.
Near to the Mourning Nimph ſhe choſe a Seat,
And theſe Complaints did to the Shades repeat.
Ah wretched, truly wretched Humane Race!
Your Woes from what Beginning ſhall I trace,
Where End, from your firſt feeble New-born Cryes,
To the laſt Tears that wet your dying Eyes?
Man, Common Foe, aſſail’d on ev’ry hand,
Finds that no Ill does Neuter by him ſtand,
Inexorable Death, Lean Poverty,
Pale Sickneſs, ever ſad Captivity.
Can I, alas, the ſev’ral Parties name,
Which, muſter’d up, the Dreadful Army frame?
And ſometimes in One Body all Unite,
Sometimes again do ſeparately fight:
While ſure Suceſs on either Way does waite,
Either a Swift, or elſe a Ling’ring Fate.
But why ’gainſt thee, O Death! ſhould I inveigh,
That to our Quiet art the only way?* F And 34 F1v 34
And yet I would (could I thy Dart command)
Crie, Here I ſtrike! and there O hold thy Hand!
The Lov’d, the Happy, and the Youthful ſpare,
And end the Sad, the Sick, the Poor Mans GCare.
But whether thou or Blind, or Cruel art,
Whether ’tis Chanee, or Malice, guides thy Dart,
Thou from the Patients Arms doſt pull away
The hopeful Child, their Ages only ſtay:
The Two, whom Friendſhip in dear Bands has ty’d,
Thou doſt with a remorſeleſs hand devide;
Friendſhip, the Cement, that does faſter twine!
Two Souls, than that which Soul and Body joyn:
Thouſands have been, who their own Blood did ſpill,
But never any yet his Friend did kill.
Then ’gainſt thy Dart what Armour can be found,
Who, where thou do’ſt not ſtrike, do’ſt deepeſt wound?
Thy Pitty, than thy Wrath’s more bitter far,
Moſt cruel, where ’twould ſeem the moſt to ſpare:
Yet thou of many Evils art but One,
Though thou by much too many art alone.
What ſhall I ſay of Poverty, whence flows?
To miſerable Man ſo many Woes?
Rediculous Evil which too oft we prove,
Does Laughter cauſe, where it ſhould Pitty move;
Solitary Ill, into which no Eye,
Though ne’re ſo Curious, ever cares to pry,
And were there, ’mong ſuch plenty, onely One
Poor Man, he certainly would live alone.
Yet Poverty does leave the Man entire,
But Sickneſs nearer Miſchiefs does conſpire;
Invades the Body with a loath’d Embrace,
Prides both its Strength, and Beauty to deface;
Nor does its Malice in theſe bounds reſtrain,
But ſhakes the Throne of Sacred Wit, the Brain,
And with a ne’re enough deteſted Force
Reaſon diſturbs, and turns out of its Courſe.
Again, when Nature ſome Rare Piece has made,
On which her Utmoſt Skill ſhe ſeems t’ave laid,
Poliſh’t, adorn’d the Work with moving Grace,
And in the Beauteous Frame a Soul doth place,* F2 So 36 F2v 36
So perfectly compos’d, it makes Divine
Each Motion, Word, and Look from thence does ſhine;
This Goodly Compoſition, the Delight
Of ev’ry Heart, and Joy of ev’ry ſight,
Its peeviſh Malice has the Power to ſpoyle,
And with a Sully’d Hand its Luſture ſoyle,
The Grief were Endleſs, that ſhould all bewaile,
Againſt whoſe ſweet Repoſe thou doſt prevail:
Some freeze with Agues, ſome with Feavers burn,
Whoſe Lives thou half out of their Holds doſt turn;
And of whoſe Sufferings it may be ſaid,
Thou in a thouſand ſev’ral Forms are dreſt,
And in them all doſt Wretched Man infeſt.
And yet as if theſe Evils were too few,
Men their own Kind with hoſtile Arms purſue;
Not Heavens fierce Wrath, nor yet the Hate of Hell,
Not any Plague that e’re the World befel,
Not Inundations, Famines, Fires blind rage,
Did ever Mortals equally engage,As 37 F3r 37
As Man does Man, more skilful to annoy,
Both Miſchievous and Witty to deſtroy.
The bloody Wolf, the Wolf does not purſue;
The Boar, though fierce, his Tusk will not embrue
In his own Kind, Bares, not on Bares do prey:
Then art thou, Man, more ſavage far than they.
And now, methinks, I preſent do behold
The Bloudy Fields that are in Fame enroll’d,
I ſee, I ſee thouſands in Battle ſlain,
The Dead and Dying cover all the Plain,
Confuſed Noiſes hear, each way ſent out,
The Vanquiſhts Cries joyn’d with the Victors ſhout;
Their Sighs and Groans who draw a painful Breath,
And feel the Pangs of ſlow approaching Death:
Yet happier theſe, far happier are the Dead,
Than who into Captivity are led:
What by their Chains, and by the Victors Pride,
We pity theſe, and envy thoſe that dy’d.
And who can ſay, when Thouſands are betray’d,
To Widdowhood, Orphants or Childleſs made.Whither 38 F3v 38
Whither the Day does draw more Tears or Blood
A greater Chryſtal, or a Crimſon Floud.
The faithful Wife, who late her Lord did Arm,
And hop’d to ſhield, by holy Vows, from Harm,
Follow’d his parting-ſteps with Love and Care,
Sent after weeping Eyes, while he afar
Rod heated on, born by a brave Diſdain,
May now go ſeek him, lying ’mong the Slain:
Low on the Earth ſhe’l find his lofty Creſt,
And those refulgent Arms which late his Breaſt
Did guard, by rough Encounters broke and tore,
His Face and Hair, with Brains all clotted ore,
And Warlike Weeds beſmeer’d with Duſt and Gore.
And will the Suffering World never beſtow
Upon th’Accurſed Cauſers of ſuch Woe,
A vengeance that may parallel their Loſs,
Fix Publick Thieves and Robbers on the Croſs?
Such as call Ruine, Conqueſt, in their Pride,
And having plagu’d Mankind, in Triumph ride.
In theſe our days Alſatias fertile Plains,Only 39 F4r 39
Only to fill the future Tromp of Fame,
Though greater Crimes, than Glory it proclame.
Alcides, Scourge of Thieves, return to Earth,
Which uncontrolled gives ſuch Monſters birth;
On Sceptr’d-Cacus let thy Power be ſhown,
Pull him not from his Den, but from his Throne.
Clouds of black Thoughts her further Speech here broke,
Her ſwelling Grief too great was to be ſpoke,
Which ſtrugl’d along in her tormented Mind,
Till it ſome Vent by Sighs and Tears did find.
And when her Sorrow ſomething was ſubdu’d,
She thus again her ſad Complaint renewed.
Moſt Wretched Man, were th’ills I nam’d before
All which I could in thy ſad State deplore,
Did Things without alone ’gainſt thee prevail,
My Tongue I’de chide, that them I did bewaile:
But, Shame to Reaſon, thou art ſeen to be
Unto thy ſelf the fatall’ſt Enemy,
Within thy Breaſt the Greateſt Plagues to bear,
Firſt them to breed; and then to cheriſh there;Un- 40 F4v 40
Unmanag’d Paſſions which the Reins have broke
Of Reaſon, and refuſe to bear its Yoke.
But hurry thee, uncurb’d, from place to place,
A wild, unruly, and an Uncouth Chace.
Now curſed Gold does lead the Man aſtray,
Falſe flatt’ring Honours do anon betray,
Then Beauty does as dang’rouſly delude,
Beauty, that vaniſhes, while ’tis purſu’d,
That, while we do behold it, fades away,
And even a Long Encomium will not ſtay.
Each one of theſe can the Whole Man employ,
Nor knows he anger, ſorrow, fear, or joy,
But what to theſe relate; no Thought does ſtart
Aſide, but tends to its appointed Part,
No Reſpite to himſelf from Cares he gives,
But on the Rack of Expectation lives.
If croſt, the Torment cannot be expreſt,
Which boyles within his agitated Breaſt.
Muſick is harſh, all Mirth is an offence,
The Choiceſt Meats cannot delight he Senſe,
Hard as the Earth he feels his Downy Bed,
His Pillow ſtufft with Thornes, that bears his Head,
He rolls from ſide to ſide, in vain ſeeks Reſt;
For if ſleep comes at laſt to the Diſtreſt,
His Troubles then ceaſe not to vex him too,
But Dreams preſent, what he does waking do.
On th’other ſide, if he obtains they Prey,
And Fate to his impetuous Sute gives way,
Be he or Rich, or Amorous, or Great,
He’ll find this Riddle ſtill of a Defeat,
That only Care, or Bliſs, he home has brought,
Or elſe Contempt of what he ſo much ſought.
So that on each Event if we reflect,
The Joys and Sufferings of both ſides collect,
We cannot ſay where lies the greateſt Pain,
In the fond Purſuit, Loſs, or Empty Gain.
And can it be, Lord of the Sea and Earth,
Off-ſpring of Heaven, that to thy State and Birth
Things ſo incompatible ſhould be joyn’d,
Paſſions ſhould thee confound, to Heaven aſſign’d?* G Paſſions 42 G1v 42
Paſſions that do the Soul unguarded lay,
And to the ſtrokes of Fortune ope’ a way.
Were’t not that theſe thy Force did from thee take,
How bold, how brave Reſiſtance would’ſt thou make?
Defie the Strength and Malice of thy Foes,
Unmoved ſtand the Worlds United Blows?
For what is’t, Man, unto thy Better Part,
That thou or Sick, or Poor, or Captive art?
Since no Material Stroke the Soul can feel,
The ſmart of Fire, or yet the Edge of Steel.
As little can it Worldly Joys partake,
Though it the Body does its Agent make,
And joyntly with it Servile Labour bear,
For Things, alas, in which it cannot ſhare.
Surveigh the Land and Sea by Heavens embrac’t,
Thou’lt find no ſweet th’Immortal Soul can taſt:
Why doſt thou then, O Man! thy ſelf torment
Good here to gain; or Evils to prevent?
Who only Miſerable or Happy art,
As thou neglects, or wiſely act’ſt thy Part.
For ſhame then rouſe thy ſelf as from a Sleep,
The long neglected Reins let Reaſon keep,The 43 G2r 43
The Charret mount, and uſe both Laſh and Bit,
Nobly reſolve, and thou wilt firmly ſit:
Fierce Anger, boggling Fear, Pride prauncing ſtill,
Bounds-hating Hope, Deſire which nought can fill,
Are ſtubborn all, but thou may’ſt give them Law;
Th’are hard-Mouth’d Horſes, but they well can draw.
Laſh on, and the well govern’d Charret drive,
Till thou a Victor at the Goal arrive,
Where the free Soul does all her burden leave,
And Joys commenſurate to her ſelf receive.
Upon the ſaying that my Verses were made by another
Next Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muſe!)
I offer’d up, nor didſt thou them refuſe.
O Queen of Verſe, ſaid I, if thou’lt inſpire,
And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire,
No Love of Gold ſhall ſhare with thee my Heart,
Or yet Ambition in my Breſt have Part,
More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold
The Muſes Laurel, than a Crown of Gold.
An Undivided Sacrifice I’le lay
Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay;
Thou ſhalt my Pleaſure, my Employment be,
My All I’le make a Holocauſt to thee.
The Deity that ever does attend
Prayers ſo ſincere, to mine did condeſcend.
I writ, and the Judicious praiſ’d my Pen:
Could any doubt Inſuing Glory then?What 45 G3r 45
What pleaſing Raptures fill’d my Raviſht Senſe?
How ſtrong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence?
And thine, Falſe Hope, that to my flatter’d ſight
Didſt Glories repreſent ſo Near, and Bright?
By thee deceiv’d, methought, each Verdant Tree,
Apollos transform’d Daphne ſeem’d to be;
And ev’ry freſher Branch, and ev’ry Bow
Appear’d as Garlands to empale my Brow.
The Learn’d in Love ſay, Thus the Winged Boy
Does firſt approach, dreſt up in welcome Joy;
At firſt he to the Cheated Lovers ſight
Nought repreſents, but Rapture and Delight,
Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which ſtronger bind
Their Hearts, than when they more aſſurance find.
Embolden’d thus, to Fame I did commit,
(By ſome few hands) my moſt Unlucky Wit.
But, ah, the ſad effects that from it came!
What ought t’have brought me Honour, brought me ſhame!
Like Eſops Painted Jay I ſeem’d to all,
Adorn’d in Plumes, I not my own could call:Rifl’d 46 G3v 46
Rifl’d like her, each one my Feathers tore,
And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore.
My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorn’d,
My Numbers they Admir’d, but Me they ſcorn’d:
An others Brow, that had ſo rich a ſtore
Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before;
Where mine quite loſt, (like a ſmall ſtream that ran
Into a Vaſt and Boundleſs Ocean)
Was ſwallow’d up, with what it joyn’d and drown’d,
And that Abiſs yet no Acceſſion found.
Orinda, (Albions and her Sexes Grace)
Ow’d not her Glory to a Beauteous Face,
It was her Radiant Soul that ſhon With-in,
Which ſtruk a Luſter through her Outward Skin;
That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roſes dy,
Advanc’t her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye.
Nor did her Sex at all obſtruct her Fame,
But higher ’mong the Stars it fixt her Name;
What ſhe did write, not only all allow’d,
But ev’ry Laurel, to her Laurel, bow’d!
Th’Envious Age, only to Me alone,
Will not allow, what I do write, my Own,
But let ’em Rage, and ’gainſt a Maide Conſpire,
So Deathleſs Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre
Do ever flow: ſo Phebus I by thee
Divinely Inſpired and poſſeſt may be;
I willingly accept Caſſandra’s Fate,
To ſpeak the Truth, although believ’d too late.
On the Birth-Day of Queen Katherine
While yet it was the Empire of the Night,
And Stars ſtill check’r’d Darkneſs with their Light,
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring,
But with the Peales a churliſh Storm did ſing.
I ſlumbr’d; and the Heavens like things did ſhow,
Like things which I had ſeen and heard below.
Playing on Harps Angels did ſinging fly,
But through a cloudy and a troubl’d Sky,Some 48 G4v 48
Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes diſplay’d,
And then a Maſſie Croſs upon it laid.
I wept: and earneſtly implor’d to know,
Why Royal Enſigns were diſpoſed ſo.
An Angel ſaid, The Emblem thou haſt ſeen,
Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.
Ah, Glorious Miniſter, I then reply’d,
Goodneſs and Bliſs together do reſide
In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below
Theſe two combin’d ſo rarely do we know?
He ſaid, Heaven ſo decrees: and ſuch a Sable Morne
Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and ceaſe to rave,
God darkn’d Heaven, when He the World did ſave.
To My Lord Colrane, In Anſwer to his Complemental Verſes ſent me under the Name of Cleanor.
Long my dull Muſe in heavy ſlumbers lay,
Indulging Sloth, and to ſoft Eaſe gave way,
Her Fill of Reſt reſolving to enjoy,
Or fancying little worthy her employ.
When Noble Cleanors obliging Strains
Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, conſtrains.
Confus’d at firſt, ſhe raiſ’d her drowſie Head,
Ponder’d a while, then pleaſ’d, forſook her Bed.
Survey’d each Line with Fancy richly fraught,
Re-read, and then revolv’d them in her Thought.
And can it be? ſhe ſaid, and can it be?
That ’mong the Great Ones I a Poet ſee?* H The 50 H1v 50
The Great Ones? who their Ill-ſpent time devide,
’Twixt dang’rous Politicks, and formal Pride,
Deſtructive Vice, expenſive Vanity,
In worſe Ways yet, if Worſe there any be:
Leave to Inferiours the deſpiſed Arts,
Let their Retainers be the Men of Parts.
But here with Wonder and with Joy I find,
I’th’ Noble Born, a no leſs Noble Mind;
One, who on Anceſtors, does not rely
For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high!
The Severe Godeſs thus approv’d the Laies:
Yet too much pleas’d, alas, with her own Praiſe.
But to vain Pride, My Muſe, ceaſe to give place,
Virgils immortal Numbers once did grace
A Smother’d Gnat: by high Applauſe is ſhown,
If undeſerv’d, the Praiſers worth alone:
Nor that you ſhould believ’t, is’t always meant,
’Tis often for Instruction only ſent,
To praiſe men to Amendment, and diſplay,
By its Perfection, where their Weakneſs lay.
This Uſe of theſe Applauding Numbers make
Them for Example, not Encomium, take.
Here take no Care, take no Care, my Muſe,
Nor ought of Art or Labour uſe:
But let thy Lines rude and unpoliſht go,
Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num’rous let them flow.
The ruggeder my Meaſures run when read,
They’l livelier paint th’unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.
Who when th’are tempted by the ſmooth Aſcents,
Which flatt’ring Hope preſents,
Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake;
But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make:
For ’tis not long before their Feet,
Inextricable Mazes meet,
Perplexing Doubts obſtruct their Way,
Mountains with-ſtand them of Diſmay;
Or to the Brink of black Diſpaire them lead,
Where’s nought their Ruine to impede,* H2 In 52 H2v 52
In vain for Aide they then to Reaſon call,
Their Senſes dazle, and their Heads turn round,
The ſight does all their Powr’s confound,
And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall:
Where ſtorms of Sighs for ever blow,
Where raped ſtreams of Tears do flow,
Which drown them in a Briny Floud.
My Muſe pronounce aloud, there’s nothing Good,
Nought that the World can ſhow,
Nought that it can beſtow.
Not boundleſs Heaps of its admired Clay,
Ah, too ſucceſsful to betray,
When ſpread in our fraile Vertues way:
For few do run with ſo Reſolv’d a Pace,
That for the Golden Apple will not looſe the Race.
And yet not all the Gold the Vain would ſpend,
Or greedý Avarice would wiſh to ſave;
Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth ſend,
Or in the Sea has found a Grave,
Joyn’d in one Maſs, can Bribe ſufficient be,
The Body from a ſtern Diſease to free,Or 53 H3r 53
Or purchaſe for the Minds relief
One Moments ſweet Repoſe, when reſtleſs made by grief,
But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move:
When ſome the Price of what they Dear’ſt Love
Are Maſters of, and hold it in their Hand,
To part with it their Hearts they can’t command:
But choſe to miſs, what miſs’t does them torment,
And that to hug, affords them no Content.
Wiſe Fools, to do them Right, we theſe muſt hold,
Who Love depoſe, and Homage pay to Gold.
Nor yet, if rightly underſtood,
Does Grandeur carry more of Good;
To be o’th’ Number of the Great enroll’d,
A Scepter o’re a Mighty Realm to hold.
For what is this?
If I not judge amiſs.
But all th’Afflicted of a Land to take,
And of one ſingle Family to make?
The Wrong’d, the Poor, th’Oppreſt, the Sad,
The Ruin’d, Malecontent, and Mad?Which 54 H3v 54
Which a great Part of ev’ry Empire frame,
And Intereſt in the common Father claime.
Again what is’t, but always to abide
A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to ſpend
A Life that’s vain, or Evil without End?
And which is yet nor ſafely held, nor laid aſide?
And then, if leſſer Titles carry leſs of Care,
Yet none but Fools ambitious are to ſhare
Such a Mock-Good, of which ’tis ſaid, ’tis Beſt,
When of the leaſt of it Men are poſſeſt.
But, O, the Laurel’d Fool! that doats on Fame,
Whoſe Hope’s Applauſe, whoſe Fear’s to want a Name;
Who can accept for Pay
Of what he does, what others ſay;
Expoſes now to hoſtile Arms his Breaſt,
To toyleſome Study then betrays his Reſt;
Now to his Soul denies a juſt Content,
Then forces on it what it does reſent;
And all for Praiſe of Fools: for ſuch are thoſe,
Which moſt of the Admiring Crowd compoſe.
O famiſh’t Soul, which ſuch Thin Food can feed!
O Wretched Labour crown’d with ſuch a Meed!Too 55 H4r 55
Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too ſhrill,
To lull a Mind to Reſt,
Or calme a ſtormy Breaſt,
Which asks a Muſick ſoft and ſtill.
’Twas not Amaleck’s vanquiſht Cry,
Nor Iſraels ſhout of Victory,
That could in Saul the riſing Paſſion lay,
’Twas the ſoft ſtrains of David’s Lyre the Evil Spirit chace’t away.
But Friendſhip fain would yet it ſelf defend,
And Mighty Things it does pretend,
To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Baite,
The ſweet Refection of our toylſome State.
But though True Friendſhip a Rich Cordial be;
Alas, by moſt ’tis ſo alay’d,
Its Good ſo mixt with Ill we ſee,
That Droſs for Gold is often paid.
And for one Grain of Friendſhip that is found,
Falſhood and Intereſt do the Maſs compound,
Or coldneſs, worſe than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound.
Love in no Two was ever yet the ſame,
No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame.
Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne’re preſt?
That Aire which never yet by Humane Breaſt
Reſpir’d, did Life ſupply?
Oh, thither let me fly!
Where from the World at ſuch a diſtance ſet,
All that’s paſt, preſent, and to come I may forget:
The Lovers Sighs, and the Afflicteds Tears,
What e’re may wound my Eyes or Ears.
The grating Noiſe of Private Jars,
The horrid ſound of Publick Wars,
Of babling Fame the Idle Stories,
The ſhort-liv’d Triumphs of Noyſy-Glories,
The Curious Nets the ſubtile weave,
The Word, the Look that may deceive.
No Mundan Care ſhall more affect my Breaſt,
My profound Peace ſhake or moleſt:
But Stupor, like to Death, my Senſes bind,
That ſo I may anticipate that Reſt,
Which only in my Grave I hope to find.
A Paſtoral Dialogue
AmintorStay gentle Nymph, nor ſo ſolic’tous be?
To fly his ſight that ſtill would gaze on thee.
With other Swaines I ſee thee oft converſe,
Content to ſpeak, and hear what they rehearſe:
But I unhappy, when I e’re draw nigh,
Though ſtreight do’ſt leave both Place, and Company.
If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow,
Ah, ſure thou little of my Heart doſt know.
AlindaWhat wonder, Swain, if the Purſu’d by Flight,
Seeks to avoid the cloſe Purſuers Sight?
And if no Cauſe I have to fly from thee,
Then thou haſt none, why thou doſt follow me.
AminIf to the Cauſe thou wilt propitious prove,
Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know ’tis Love.
AlinTo my juſt Pray’r, ye favouring Gods attend,
Theſe Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I ſend,
My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend.
AminThe Gods which did on thee ſuch Charms beſtow,
Ne’re meant thou ſhould’ſt to Love have prov’d a Foe,
That ſo Divine a Power thou ſhouldſt defy.
Could there a Reaſon be, I’d ask thee, why?
AlinWhy does Licoris, once ſo bright and gay,
Pale as a Lilly pine her ſelf away?
Why does Elvira, ever ſad, frequent
The lonely ſhades? Why does yon Monument
Which we upon our Left Hand do behold,
Hapleſs Amintas youthful Limbs enfold?
Say Shepherd, ſay: But if thou wilt not tell,
Damon, Philiſides, and Strephon well
Can ſpeak the Cauſe, whoſe Falſhood each upbraids,
And juſtly me from Cruel Love diſſwades.
AminHear me ye Gods. Me and my Flocks forſake,
If e’re like them my promis’d Faith I brake.
AlinBy others ſad Experience wiſe I’le be,
AminBut ſuch thy Wiſdom highly injures me:
And nought but Death can give a Remedy.
Ye Learn’d in Phyſick, what does it avail,
That you by Art (wherein ye never fail)
Preſent Relief have for the Mad-dogs Bite?
The Serpents ſting? the poiſonous Achonite?
While helpleſs Love upbraids your baffl’d skill,
And far more certain, than the reſt, doth kill.
AlinFond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Roſe,
Whoſe Beauty with the Morning did diſcloſe,
And e’re Days King forſakes th’enlighted Earth,
Wither’d, returns from whence it took its Birth.
As much Excuſe will there thy Love attend,
As what thou doſt on Womens Beauty ſpend.
AminAh Nymph, thoſe Charms which I in thee admire,
Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire.
From Heaven they are, and ſuch as ne’re can dye,
But with thy Soul they will aſcend the Sky!
For though my raviſht Eye beholds in Thee,
Such beauty as I can in none elſe ſee;* I2 That 60 I2v 60
That Nature there alone is without blame,
Yet did not this my faithful Heart enflame:
Nor when in Dance thou mov’ſt upon the Plaine,
Or other Sports purſu’ſt among the Train
Of choiceſt Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace
Shews thee alone, though thouſands be in place!
Yet not for theſe do I Alinda love,
Hear then what ’tis, that does my Paſſion move.
That Thou ſtill Earlieſt at the Temple art,
And ſtill the laſt that does from thence depart;
Pans Altar is by thee the oftneſt preſt,
Thine’s ſtill the faireſt Offering and the Beſt;
And all thy other Actions ſeem to be,
The true Reſult of Unfeign’d Piety;
Strict in thy ſelf, to others Juſt and Mild;
Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguil’d’
Wary, without the leaſt Offence, to live,
Yet none than thee more ready to forgive!
Even on thy Beauty thou doſt Fetters lay,
Leaſt, unawares, it any ſhould betray.
Far unlike, ſure, to many of thy Sex,
Whoſe Pride it is, the doting World to vex;Spreading 61 I3r 61
Spreading their Univerſal Nets to take
Who e’re their artifice can captive make.
But thou command’ſt thy Sweet, but Modeſt Eye,
That no Inviting Glance from thence ſhould fly.
Beholding with a Gen’rous Diſdain,
The lighter Courtſhips of each amorous Swain;
Knowing, true Fame, Vertue alone can give:
Nor doſt thou greedily even that receive.
And what ’bove this thy Character can raiſe?
Thirſty of Merit, yet neglecting Praiſe!
While daily theſe Perfections I diſcry,
Matchleſs Alinda makes me daily dy.
Thou abſent, Flow’rs to me no Odours yield,
Nor find I freſhneſs in the dewy Field;
Not Thryſis Voice, nor Melibeus Lire,
Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inſpire;
My thriving Flock (’mong Shepherds Vows the Chief)
I unconcern’d behold, as they my Grief.
This I profeſs, if this thou not believe,
A further proof I ready am to give,
Command: there’s nothing I’le not undertake,
And, thy Injunctions, Love will eaſie make.
Ah, if thou couldſt incline a gentle Ear,
Of plighted Faith, and hated Hymen hear;
Thou hourly then my ſpotleſs Love ſhould’ſt ſee,
That all my Study, how to pleaſe, ſhould be;
How to protect thee from diſturbing Care,
And in thy Griefs to bear the greateſt ſhare;
Nor ſhould a Joy, my Warie Heart ſurprize,
That firſt I read not in thy charming Eyes.
AlinIf ever I to any do impart,
My, till this preſent hour, well-guarded Heart,
That Paſſion I have fear’d, I’le ſurely prove,
For one that does, like to Amintor love.
AlinShepherd, no more: enough it is that I,
Thus long to Love, have liſtn’d patiently.
Farewel: Pan keep thee, Swain.
AmintorAnd Bleſſings Thee,
Rare as thy Vertues, ſtill accompany.
A Pastoral Dialogue Melibæus, Alcippe, Aſteria, Licida, Alcimedon, and Amira
MelibæusWelcome fair Nymphs, moſt welcome to this ſhade,
Diſtemp’ring Heats do now the Plains invade:
But you may ſit, from Sun ſecurely here,
If you an old mans company not fear.
AlcippeMoſt Reverend Swaine, far from us ever be
The imputation of ſuch Vanity.
From Hill to Holt w’ave thee unweary’d fought,
And bleſs the Chance that us hath hither brought.
AſteriaFam’d Melibæus for thy Virtuous Lays,
If thou doſt not diſdain our Female Praiſe,
We come to ſue thou would’ſt to us recite
One of thy Songs, which gives ſuch high delight
To ev’ry Eare, wherein thou doſt diſpenſe
Sage Precepts cloath’d in flowing Eloquence.
LicidaFreſh Garlands we will make for thee each morne,
Thy reverend Head to ſhade, and to adorne;
To cooling Springs thy fainting Flock we’ll guide,
All thou command’ſt, to do ſhall be our Pride.
MeliCeaſe, gentle Nymphs, the Willing to entreat,
To have your Wiſh, each needs but take a Seat.
With joy I ſhall my ancient Art revive,
With which, when Young, I did for Glory ſtrive.
Nor for my Verſe will I accept a Hire,
Your bare Attentions all I ſhall require.
AlciLo, from the Plain I ſee draw near a Pair
That I could wiſh in our Converſe might ſhare.
Amira ’tis and young Alcimedon.
LiciSerious Diſcourſe induſtriouſly they ſhun.
AlciIt being yet their luck to come this way,
The Fond Ones to our Lecture we’ll betray:
And though they only ſought a private ſhade,
Perhaps they may depart more Vertuous made.
I will accoſt them. Gentle Nymph and Swaine,
Good Melibæus us doth entertain
With Lays Divine: if you’ll his Hearers be,
Take ſtreight your Seats without Apology.
AlciPaying ſhort thanks, at fair Amiras feet,
I’le lay me down: let her chooſe where ’tis meet.
AlShepherd, behold, we all attentive ſit.
MeliWhat ſhall I ſing? what ſhall my Muſe reherſe?
Love is a Theme well ſutes a Paſt’ral Verſe,
That gen’ral Error, Univerſal Ill,
That Darling of our Weakneſs and our Will;
By which though many fall, few hold it ſhame;
Smile at the Fault, which they would ſeem to blame.
What wonder then, if thoſe with Miſchief play,
It to deſtruction them doth oft betray?
But by experience it is daily found,
That Love the ſofter Sex does ſoreſt wound;
In Mind, as well as Body, far more weak
Than Men: therefore to them my Song ſhall ſpeak,
Adviſing well, however it ſucceed:
But unto All I ſay, Of Love take heed.
So hazardous, becauſe ſo hard to know
On whom they are we do our Hearts beſtow;
How they will uſe them, or with what regard
Our Faith and high Eſteem they will reward:* K For 66 K1v 66
For few are found, that truly acted be
By Principles of Generoſity.
That when they know a Virgins Heart they’ve gain’d,
(And though by many Vows and Arts obtain’d)
Will think themſelves oblig’d their Faith to hold
Tempted by Friends, by Intereſt, or by Gold.
Expect it not: moſt, Love their Paſtime make,
Lightly they Like, and lightly they forſake;
Their Roving Humour wants but a pretence
With Oaths and what’s moſt Sacred to diſpence.
When unto ſuch a Maid has given her Heart,
And ſaid, Alone my Happineſs thou art,
In thee and in thy Truth I place my Reſt.
Her ſad Surprize how can it be expreſt,
When all on which ſhe built her Joy ſhe finds,
Vaniſh, like Clouds, diſperſt before the Winds;
Her ſelf, who th’adored Idol wont to be,
A poor deſpiſ’d Idolater to ſee?
Regardleſs Tears ſhe may profuſely ſpend,
Unpitty’d ſighs her tender Breaſt may rend:
But the falſe Image ſhe will ne’re erace,
Though far unworthy ſtill to hold its place:So 67 K2r 67
So hard it is, even Wiſer grown, to take
Th’Impreſſion out, which Fancy once did make.
Believe me Nymphs, believe my hoary hairs,
Truth and Experience waits on many years.
Before the Eldeſt of you Light beheld,
A Nymph we had, in Beauty all excell’d,
Rodanthe call’d, in whom each Grace did ſhine,
Could make a Mortal Maid appears Divine.
And none could ſay, where moſt her Charms did lye,
In her inchanting Tongue, or conquering Eye.
Her Vertue yet her Beauties ſo out-ſhon,
As Beauty did the Garments ſhe put on!
Among the Swains, which here their Flocks then fed,
Aleander with the higheſt held his head;
The moſt Accompliſh’t was eſteem’d to be,
Of comely Forme, well-grac’t Activity;
The Muſes too, like him, did none inſpire,
None ſo did ſtop the Pipe, or touch the Lyre;
Sweet was his Voice, and Eloquent his Tongue;
Alike admired when he Spoke, or Sung!
But theſe ſo much Excelling parts the Swain,
With Imperfections no leſs Great, did ſtain:* K2 For 68 K2v 60
For proud he was, of an Ungovern’d Will,
With Love Familiar, but a Stranger ſtill
To Faith and Conſtancy; and did his Heart,
Retaining none, expoſe to ev’ry Dart.
Hapleſs Rodanthe, the Fond Rover, caught,
To whom, for Love, with uſual Arts he ſought;
Which ſhe, ah too unwary, did beſtow:
’Cauſe True her ſelf, believ’d that he was ſo.
But he, alas, more wav’ring than the Wind,
Streight broke the Chain, ſhe thought ſo faſt did bind;
For he no ſooner ſaw her Heart was gain’d,
But he as ſoon the Victory diſdain’d;
Mad Love elſe-where, as if ’twere like Renown,
Hearts to ſubdue, as to take in a Town:
But in the One as Manhood in the other fail.
And now the Nymph (of late ſo gay and bright,
The Glory of the Plains and the Delight,
Who ſtill in Wit and Mirth all Paſtimes led)
Hung like a wither’d Flow’r her drooping Head.
I need not tell the Grief Rodanthe found,
How all that ſhould aſſwage, enrag’d her Wound;Her 69 K3r 61
Her Form, her Fame, her Vertue, Riches, Wit,
Like Deaths ſad Weights upon her Soul did ſit:
Or elſe like Furies ſtood before her Face,
Still urging and Upbraiding her Diſgrace,
In that the World could yield her no Content,
But what alone the Falſe Aleander ſent.
’Twas ſaid, through juſt Diſdain, at laſt ſhe broke
The Diſingenious and Unworthy Yoke:
But this I know, her Paſſion held long time,
Conſtancy, though Unhappy, is no Crime.
Remember when you Love, from that ſame hour
Your Peace you put into your Lovers Power:
From that ſame hour from him you Laws receive,
And as he ſhall ordain, you Joy, or Grieve,
Hope, Fear, Laugh, Weep; Reaſon aloof does ſtand,
Diſabl’d both to Act, and to Command.
Oh Cruel Fetters! rather wiſh to feel,
On your ſoft Limbs, the Gauling Weight of Steel;
Rather to bloudy Wounds oppoſe your Breaſt
No Ill, by which the Body can be preſt;
You will ſo ſensible a Torment find,
As Shackles on your captivated Mind.The 70 K3v 70
The Mind from Heaven its high Deſcent did draw,
And brooks uneaſily any other Law,
Than what from Reaſon dictated ſhall be,
Reaſon, a kind of In-mate Deity.
Which only can adapt to ev’ry Soul
A Yoke ſo fit and light, that the Controle
All Liberty excels; ſo ſweet a Sway,
The ſame ’tis to be Happy, and Obey;
Commands ſo Wiſe and with Rewards ſo dreſt
That the according Soul replys, I’m Bleſt.
This teaches rightly how to Love and Hate,
To fear and hope by Meaſure and juſt Weight;
What Tears in Grief ought from our Eyes to flow,
What Tranſport in Felicity to ſhow;
In ev’ry Paſſion how to ſteer the Will,
Tho rude the Shock, to keep it ſteady ſtill.
Oh happy Mind! what words, can ſpeak thy Bliſs,
When in a Harmony thou mov’ſt like this?
Your Hearts fair Virgins keep ſmooth as your Brow,
Not the leaſt Am’rous Paſſion there allow;
Hold not a Parly with what may betray
Your inward Freedom to a Forraign Sway;And 71 K4r 71
And while thus ore your ſelves you Queens remain,
Unenvy’d, ore the World, let others reign:
The highteſt Joy which from Dominion flows,
Is ſhort of what a Mind well-govern’d knows.
Whither my Muſe, would’ſt uncontrouled run?
Contend in Motion with the reſtleſs Sun?
Immortal thou, but I a mortal Sire
Exhauſt my ſtrength, and Hearers alſo tire.
AlO Heaven-taught Bard! to Ages couldſt prolong
Thy Soul-inſtructing, Health-infuſing Song,
I with unweary’d Appetite could hear,
And wiſh my Senſes were turn’d all to Ear.
AlcimOld Man, thy froſty Precepts well betray
Thy Blood is cold, and that thy Head is grey:
Who paſt the Pleaſure Love and Youth can give,
To ſpoyl’t in others, now doſt only live.
Wouldſt thou, indeed, if ſo thou coulſt perſwade,
The Fair, whoſe Charms have many Lovers made,
Should feel Compaſſion for no one they wound,
But be to all Inexorable found?
MeYoung man, if my advice thou well hadſt weigh’d,
Thou would’ſt have found, for either Sex ’twas made;And 74 K4v 72
And would from Womens Beauty thee no leſs
Preſerve, than them ſecure from thy Addreſs.
But let thy Youth thy raſh Reproach excuſe.
AlciFaireſt Amira let him not abuſe
Thy gentle Heart, by his imprinting there
His doting Maximg――But I will not fear:
For when ’gainſt Love he fierceſt did inveigh,
Methoughts I ſaw thee turn with Scorn away.
AmiAlcimedon according to his Will
Does all my Words and Looks interpret ſtill:
But I ſhall learn at length how to Diſdain,
Or at the leaſt more cunningly to feign.
AlciNo wonder thou Alcimedon art rude,
When with no Gen’rous Quality endu’d:
But hop’ſt by railing Words Vice to defend,
Which Foulers made, by having ſuch a Friend.
Amira, thou art warn’d, wiſely beware,
Leap not with Open-Eyes into the Snare:
The Faith that’s given to thee, was given before
To Nais, Amoret, and many more:
The Perjur’d did the Gods to Witneſs call,
That unto each he was the only Thrall.
Aſte.Y’ave made his Cheeks with Conſcious bluſhes glow.
Alci’Tis the beſt Colour a Falſe Heart can ſhow;
And well it is with Guilt ſome ſhame remains.
MeliHaſt, Shepherd, haſt to cleanſe away thy ſtains,
Let not thy Youth, of Time the goodly ſpring,
Neglected paſs, that nothing forth it bring
But noxious Weeds: which cultivated might
Produce ſuch Crops, as now would thee delight,
And give thee after Fame: For Vertues Fruit
Believe it, not alone with Age does ſute,
Nought adorns Youth like a Noble Mind,
In thee this Union let Amira find.
LiciO fear her not! ſhe’l ſerve him in his kind.
MeliSee how Diſcourse upon the Time does prey,
Thoſe hours paſs ſwifteſt, that we talk away.
Declining Sol forſaken hath the Fields,
And Mountains higheſt Summits only glides:
Which warns us home-wards with our Flocks to make.
AlciAlong with thee our Thanks and Praiſes take.
AſteIn which our Hearts do all in One unite,
LiciOur Wiſhes too, That on thy Head may light,
What e’re the Gods as their Beſt Gifts beſtow.
MeliKind Nymphs on you may Equal Bleſſings flow.
On my Aunt Mrs. A. K. Drown’d under London-bridge, in the Queens Bardge, 1641Anno 1641.
The Darling of a Father Good and Wiſe,
The Vertue, which a Vertuous Age did prize;
The Beauty Excellent even to thoſe were Faire,
Subſcrib’d unto, by ſuch as might compare;
The Star that ’bove her Orb did always move,
And yet the Nobleſt did not Hate, but Love;
And thoſe who moſt upon their Title ſtood,
Vail’d alſo to, becauſe ſhe did more Good.
To whom the Wrong’d, and Worthy did reſort,
And held their Sutes obtain’d, if only brought;
The higheſt Saint in all the Heav’n of Court.
So Noble was her Aire, ſo Great her Meen,
She ſeem’d a Friend, not Servant to the Queen.
To Sin, if known, ſhe never did give way,
Vice could not Storm her, could it not betray.
When angry Heav’n extinguiſht her fair Light,
It ſeem’d to ſay, Nought’s Precious in my ſight;
As I in Waves this Paragon have drown’d,
The Nation next, and King I will confound.
On a young Lady Whoſe Lord was Travelling.
No ſooner I pronounced Celindas name,
But Troops of wing’d Pow’rs did chant the ſame:
Not thoſe the Poets Bows and Arrows lend,
But ſuch as on the Altar do attend.
Celinda nam’d, Flow’rs ſpring up from the Ground,
Excited meerly with the Charming Sound.
Celinda, the Courts Glory, and its fear,
The gaz’d at Wonder, where ſhe does appear.
Celinda great in Birth, greater in Meen,
Yet none ſo humble as this Fair-One’s ſeen.
Her Youth and Beauty juſtly might diſdain,
But the leaſt Pride her Glories ne’re did ſtain.* L2 Celinda 76 L2v 78
Celinda of each State th’ambitious Strife,
At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife
Who, while her Gallant Lord in Forraign parts
Adorns his Youth with all accompliſht Arts,
Grows ripe at home in Vertue, more than Years,
And in each Grace a Miracle appears!
When other of her Age a madding go,
To th’ Park and Plays, and ev’ry publick Show,
Proud from their Parents Bondage they have broke,
Though juſtly freed, ſhe ſtill does wear the Yoke;
Preferring more her Mothers Friend to be,
Than Idol of the Towns Looſe-Gallantry.
On her ſhe to the Temple does attend,
Where they their Bleſſed Hours both ſave and ſpend.
They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray,
You’d think two Bodies did One Soul obey:
Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliſs,
And their bright Vertues each the other kiſs.
Return young Lord, while thou abroad doſt rome
The World to ſee, thou looſeſt Heaven at Home.
On the Dutcheſs of Grafton Under the Name of Alinda. A Song.
Th’ambitious Eye that ſeeks alone,
Where Beauties Wonders moſt are ſhown;
Of all that bounteous Heaven diſplays,
Let him on bright Alinda gaze;
And in her high Example ſee,
All can admir’d, or wiſht-for, be!
An unmatch’t Form, Mind like endow’d,
Eſtate, and Title great and proud;
A Charge Heaven dares to few commit,
So few, like her, can manage it;
Without all Blame or Envy bear,
The being Witty, Great and Fair!
So well theſe Murd’ring Weapons weild,
As firſt Herſelf with them to ſhield,
Then ſlaughter none in proud Diſport,
Deſtroy thoſe ſhe invites to GCourt:
Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more,
She wounds no Hearts, though All adore!
’Tis Am’rous Beauty Love invites,
A Paſſion, like it ſelf, excites:
The Paragon, though all admire,
Kindles in none a fond deſire:
No more than thoſe the Kings Renown
And State applaud, affect his Crown.
Penelope to Ulyſſes
Return my deareſt Lord, at lenth return,
Let me no longer your ſad abſence mourn,
Ilium in Duſt, does no more Work afford,
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.
Why did not the fore-ſeeing Gods deſtroy,
Helin the Fire-brand both of Greece and Troy ,
E’re yet the Fatal Youth her Face had ſeen,
E’re lov’d and born away the wanton Queen?
Then had been ſtopt the mighty Floud of Woe,
Which now both Greece and Phrygia over-flow:
Then I, theſe many Teares, ſhould not have ſhed,
Nor thou, the ſource of them, to War been led:
I ſhould not then have trembled at the Fame
Of Hectors warlike and victorious Name.
Why did I wiſh the Noble Hector Slain?
Why Ilium ruin’d? Riſe, O riſe again!
Again great City flouriſh from thine Urne:
For though thou’rt burn’d, my Lord does not return.
Sometimes I think, (but O moſt Cruel Thought,)
That, for thy Abſence, th’art thy ſelf in fault:
That thou art captiv’d by ſome captive Dame,
Who, when thou fired’ſt Troy, did thee inflame
And now with her thou lead’ſt thy am’rous Life,
Forgetful, and deſpiſing of thy Wife.
An Epitaph on her Self
When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearſe,
And for a Monument, I leave my Verse.
Ariſe my Dove, from mid’ſt of Pots ariſe,
Thy ſully’d Habitation leave,
To Duſt no longer cleave,
Unworthy they of Heaven, that will not view the Skies.Thy 81 M1r 83
Thy native Beauty re-aſſume,
Prune each neglected Plume,
Till more than Silver white,
Then burniſht Gold more bright,
Thus ever ready ſtand to take thy Eternal Flight.
The Bird to whom the ſpacious Aire was given,
As in a ſmooth and trackleſs Path to go,
A Walk which does no Limits know
Pervious alone to Her and Heaven:
Should ſhe her Airy Race forget,
On Earth affect to walk and ſit;
Should ſhe ſo high a Priviledge neglect,
As ſtill on Earth, to walk and ſit, affect,
What could ſhe of Wrong complain,
Who thus her Birdly Kind doth ſtain,
If all her Feathers moulted were,
And naked ſhe were left and bare,
The Jeſt and Scorn of Earth and Aire?
The Bird of Paradice the Soul,
Extemporary Counſel given to a Young Gallant in a Frolick
As you are Young, if you’l be alſo Wiſe,
Danger with Honour court, Quarrelsbut broils deſpiſe;
Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold,
To Beauty when no Slave, and leſs to Gold;
When Vertue you dare own, not think it odd,
Or ungenteel to ſay, I fear a God.
Cloris Charmes Diſſolved by Eudora
Not that thy Fair Hand
Should lead me from my deep Diſpaire,
Or thy Love, Cloris, End my Care,
And back my Steps command:
But if hereafter thou Retire,
To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire,
This Clue I’ll leave behinde,
By which thou maiſt untwine
The Saddeſt Way,
To ſhun the Day,
That ever Grief did find.
Firſt take thy Hapleſs Way
Along the Rocky Northern Shore,
Infamous for the Matchleſs Store
Of Wracks within that Bay.
None o’re the Curſed Beach e’re croſt,
Unleſs the Robb’d, the Wrack’d, or Loſt
Where on the Strand lye ſpread,
The Sculls of many Dead.
Their mingl’d Bones,
Among the Stones,
Thy Wretched Feet muſt tread.
The Trees along the Coaſt,
Stretch forth to Heaven their blaſted Arms,
As if they plaind the North-winds harms,
And Youthful Verdure loſt.
There ſtands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,
Where Sun nere pierc’t, nor Wind ere blew.
In it a Brooke doth fleet,
The Noiſe muſt guide thy Feet,For 85 M3r 87
For there’s no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkneſs that you meet.
Follow th’Infernal Wave,
Until it ſpread into a Floud,
Poyſoning the Creatures of the Wood,
There twice a day a Slave,
I know not for what Impious Thing,
Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.
It adds to the ſad Place,
To hear how at each Pace,
He curſes God,
Himſelf, his Load,
For ſuch his Forlorn Caſe.
Next make no Noyſe, nor talk,
Until th’art paſt a Narrow Glade,
Where Light does only break the Shade;
’Tis a Murderers Walk.
Obſerving this thou need’ſt not fear,
He ſleeps the Day or Wakes elſewhere.Though 86 M3v 88
Though there’s no Clock or Chime,
The Hour he did his Crime,
His Soul awakes,
His Conſience quakes
And warns him that’s the Time.
Thy Steps muſt next advance,
Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell,
Where the Woods Shade ſeems turn’d Hell,
Witches here Nightly Dance,
And Sprights joyn with them when they call,
The Murderer dares not view the Ball.
For Snakes and Toads conſpire,
To make them up a Quire.
And for their Light,
And Torches bright,
The Fiends dance all on fire.
Preſs on till thou deſcrie
Among the Trees ſad, gaſtly, wan,
Thinne as the Shadow of a Man,
One that does ever crie,She 87 M4r 89
She is not; and ſhe ne’re will be,
Deſpair and Death come ſwallow me,
Leave him; and keep thy way,
No more thou now canſt ſtray
Thy Feet do ſtand,
In Sorrows Land,
It’s Kingdomes every way.
Here Gloomy Light will ſhew
Reard like a Caſtle to the Skie,
A Horrid Cliffe there ſtanding nigh
Shading a Creek below.
In which Receſs there lies a Cave,
Dreadful as Hell, ſtill as the Grave.
Sea-Monſters there abide,
The coming of the Tide,
No Noiſe is near,
To make them fear,
God-ſleep might there reſide.
But when the Boyſterous Seas,
With Roaring Waves reſumes this Cell,
You’d ſwear the Thunders there did dwell.
So lowd he makes his Plea;
So Tempeſts bellow under ground,
And Ecchos multiply the Sound!
This is the place I choſe,
Changeable like my Woes,
Now calmly Sad,
Then Raging Mad,
As move my Bitter Throwes.
Such Dread beſets this Part,
That all the Horrour thou haſt paſt,
Are but Degrees to This at laſt.
The ſight muſt break thy Heart:
Here Bats and Owles that hate the Light
Fly and enjoy Eternal Night.
Scales of Serpents, Fiſh-bones,
Th’Adders Eye, and Toad-ſtones
Are all the Light,
Hath bleſt my Sight,
Since firſt began my Groans.
When thus I loſt the Senſe,
Of all the healthful World calls Bliſs,
And held it Joy, thoſe Joys to miſs,
When Beauty was Offence:
Celeſtial Strains did read the Aire,
Shaking theſe manſions of Deſpaire;
A Form Divine and bright,
Stroke Day through all that Night
As when Heav’ns Queen
In Hell was ſeen,
With wonder and affright!
The Monſters fled for fear,
The Terrors of the Curſed Wood
Diſmantl’d were, and where they ſtood,
No longer did appear.
The Gentle Pow’r, which wrought this thing,
Eudora was, who thus did ſing.
Diſſolv’d is Cloris ſpell,
From whence thy Evils fell,
Send her this Clue,
’Tis there moſt due
And thy Phantaſtick Hell.
Upon a Little Lady Under the Diſcipline of an Excellent Perſon.
How comes the Day orecaſt? the Flaming Sun
Darkn’d at Noon, as if his Courſe were run?
He never roſe more proud, more glad, more gay,
Ne’re courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!
And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,
As if not Daphne, but himſelf were dead!
And all the little Winged Troop
Forbear to ſing, and ſit and droop;
The Flowers do languiſh on their Beds,
And fading hang their Mourning Heads;
The little Cupids diſcontented, ſhew,
In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,
An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,
A third ſits blubring in Deſpaire,Con- 91 N2r 93
Confeſſing though, in Love, he be,
A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,
A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!
Whence is this Evil hurl’d,
On all the ſweetneſs of the World?
Among thoſe Things with Beauty ſhine,
(Both Humane natures, and Divine)
There was not ſo much ſorrow ſpi’d,
No, not that Day the ſweet Adonis dies!
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,
The little Weeping Gods I thus beſpake.
Ye Nobleſt Pow’rs and Gentleſt that Above,
Govern us Men, but govern ſtill with Love,
Vouchſafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,
Diſorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.
My Prayer not ſpoken out,
One of the Winged Rout,
With Indignation great,
Sprung from his Airie-Seat,
And mounting to a Higher Cloud,
With Thunder, or a Voice as loud* N2 Cried 92 N2v 94
Cried, Mortal there, there ſeek the Grief o’th’Gods,
Where thou findſt Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!
And in the Inſtant that the Thing was meant,
He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac’t, and to the mark it ſent!
I follw’d with my watchful Eye,
To the Place where the Shaft did flie,
But O unheard-of Prodigy.
It was retorted back again,
And he that ſent it, felt the pain,
Alas! I think the little God was therewith ſlain!
But wanton Darts ne’re pierce where Honours found,
And thoſe that ſhoot them, do their own Breaſts wound.
The Place from which the Arrow did return,
Swifter than ſent, and with the ſpeed did burn,
Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare,
Tarraſt beneath, and open to the Aire,
On either ſide, Cords of Wove Gold did tie
A purfl’d Curtain, hanging from on high,
To clear the Proſpect of the ſtately Bower,
And boaſt the Owners Dignity and Power!
This ſhew’d the Scene from whence Loves grief aroſe,
And Heaven and Nature both did diſcompoſe,A 93 N3r 95
A little Nymph whoſe Limbs divinely bright,
Lay like a Body of Collected Light,
But not to Love and Courtſhip ſo diſclos’d,
But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos’d,
Who inſtant on the Faire with Words and Blows,
Now chaſtens Error, and now Virtue ſhews.
But O thou no leſs Blind,
Than Wild and Savage Mind,
Who Diſcipline dar’ſt name,
Thy Outrage and thy ſhame,
And hop’ſt a Radiant Crown to get
All Stars and Glory to thy Head made ſit,
Know that this Curſe alone ſhall Serpent-like incircle it!
May’ſt thou henceforth, be ever ſeen to ſtand,
Graſping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,
Thy Hand, that Furie like――But ſee!
By Apollos Sacred Tree,
By his ever Tuneful Lyre,
And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,
Eudoras ſhe has done this Deed
And made the World thus in its Darling bleed!I 94 N3v 96
I know the Cruel Dame,
Too well inſtructed by my Flame!
But ſee her ſhape! But ſee her Face!
In her Temple ſuch is Diana’s Grace!
Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,
When Beautie’s wrong’d, no wonder Muſick dies!
What blood of Centaurs did thy Boſom warme,
And boyle the Balſome there up to a Storme?
Nay Balſome flow’d not with ſo ſoft a Floud,
As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!
How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,
That Rage of Seas, and People could command,
And calme Diſeaſes with the Charming ſtrings,
Such Diſcords make in the whole Name of Things?
But now I ſee the Root of thy Raſh Pride,
Becauſe thou didſt Excel the World beſide,
And it in Beauty and in Fame out-ſhine,
Thou would’ſt compare thy ſelf to things Divine!
And ’bove thy Standard what thou there didſt ſee,
Thou didſt Condemn, becauſe ’twas unlike thee,
And puniſht in the Lady as unfit,
What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.Divine 95 N4r 97
Divine ſhe is, or elſe Divine muſt be,
A Borne or elſe a Growing Deitie!
While thus I did exclaime,
And wildly rage and blame,
Behold the Sylvan-Quire
Did all at one conſpire,
With ſhrill and cheerful Throats,
T’aſſume their chirping Notes;
The Heav’ns refulgent Eye
Dance’t in the clear’d-up Skie,
And ſo triumphant ſhon,
As ſeven-days Beams he had on!
Each chang’d his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,
Singing chaſt Aires unto the tuneful ſtrings,
And time’d ſoft Muſick with their downy Wings.
I turn’d the little Nymph to view,
She ſinging and did ſmiling ſhew;
Eudora led a heaven’ly ſtrain,
Her Angels Voice did eccho it again!I 96 N4v 98
I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought,
But neerer Heav’n this Piece of Heaven was brought.
She alſo brighter ſeem’d, than ſhe had been,
Vertue darts forth a Light’ning ’bove the Skin.
Eudora alſo ſhew’d as heretofore,
When her ſoft Graces I did firſt adore.
I saw, what one did Nobly Will,
The other ſweetly did fulfil;
Their Actions all harmoniouſly did ſute,
And ſhe had only tun’d the Lady like her Lute.
On the Soft and Gentle Motions of Eudora
Divine Thalia ſtrike th’Harmonious Lute,
But with a Stroke ſo Gentle as may ſute
The ſilent gliding of the Howers,
Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;
Th’aſcending or the falling Dew,
Which none can ſee, though all find true.
For thus alone,
Can be ſhewn,
How downie, how ſmooth,
Eudora doth Move,
How Silken her Actions appear,
The Aire of her Face,
Of a gentler Grace
Then thoſe that do ſtroke the Eare.
Her Addreſs ſo ſweet,
So Modeſtly Meet,* O That 98 O1v 100
That ’tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String,
Can ſhewforth ſo ſoft, ſo Noyſeleſs a Thing!
O This to expreſs from thy Hand muſt fall,
Then Muſicks ſelf, ſomething more Muſical.