A1r

Poems
Upon
Several Occasions.

By the late Mrs. Leapor, of Brackley
in Northamptonshire.

The Second and Last Volume.

London,
Printed: And Sold by J. Roberts, in Warwick-Lane.

1751M.DCC.LI.
A1v A2r

Subscribers
to
Mrs. Leapor’s
Poems.

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A8v
a1r xvii

To
John * * * * *, Esq;

Sir,

You have my sincerest Thanks
for the kind Information you
sent me of the generous Scheme
that is form’d for the Printing Mrs. Leapor’s
remaining Papers, for the Benefit of
her Father; and that the ingenious Gentlemen
you mention, intend to give some
Account of the Author: For nothing can
give me more Pleasure than to hear of a
Design that may do Honour to her Memory,
and be of Service to Him for whom
she always expressed a most affectionate
and dutiful Regard, particularly in her last
Moments.

a I a1v xviii

I shall readily contribute any thing in
my Power, tho’ I fear that is very little:
But, upon making a thorough Search
among my Papers, I have found Two or
Three of hers, that were mislaid when the
others were sent to Mrs. J—; which I here
send you, with two or three Copies wrote
in her Childhood, that have since been
alter’d as they now stand in the printed
Book.

Several of those sent to Mrs. J―― were
likewise wrote when she was very young;
and were condemn’d to the Flames by
herself, but spared at my Intercession; so
that I am very dubious, whether they will
be thought worth printing or not; though I
must own myself fond of every thing that
was hers.

I remember I saw, two or three Years before
my Acquaintance with her commenced,
a Book about the Size of a common Copy-
Book (but something thicker) fill’d with
Poems of her writing, that much pleas’d
me. I thought them extraordinary Performances
for a Girl of her Age, and one that a2rxix
that had so little Advantage (or rather
none at all) either from Books or Conversation:
But my bad State of Health
prevented me from making any further
Enquiry concerning this young Genius, till
about fourteen Months before her Death,
when I was inform’d she had wrote a
Tragedy.

I could not help smiling at this; thinking
it at least a very bold Attempt from a
Person in her Situation. But however, it
raised my Curiosity very much: And happening
to meet with her a Day or two
afterwards, I begg’d the Favour of seeing
it; which was readily granted. You may
easily guess how far it exceeded my Expectation.

Soon after I made her a Visit; and
expressing how much I lik’d the Play, desir’d
she would give me Leave to see any
thing else she might have wrote; upon
which she brought a little Box, where
her Papers lay in a careless confus’d manner,
and allow’d me to look them all over;
which I did with a great deal of Pleasure,
and no small Astonishment.

I a2v xx

I then enquired for the little Book I
had seen before; but she told me she had
burnt it long ago, with several other Papers,
which she did not think worth preserving.

This I could not help blaming her for,
as there were a great many pretty Things
in it; particularly a Poem, relating the
History of Isaac’s Courtship and Marriage
of Rebecca; which has since been much
enquir’d for by some that had seen it.

My mentioning a Subscription, I believe,
occasioned her Poem, call’d Mopsus, or,
The Castle-Builder
; and I indulg’d my
Curiosity in calling upon her often, to see
how she carried it on. It was really amazeing
to see how fast she advanc’d in it; her
Thoughts seeming to flow as fast as she
could put them upon Paper; and I am persuaded,
that many beautiful ones have been
lost for want of Leisure to write them.

My expressing some Fear of being troublesome
in coming so frequently, occasioned
a great Variety of Invitations, both in a3r xxi
in Verse and Prose; which I could seldom
resist: And indeed her whole Behaviour
to me was so extremely good-natur’d and
obliging, that I must have been the most
ungrateful Person in the World, if I had
not endeavour’d to make some Return.

From this Time to that of her Death,
few Days pass’d in which I did not either
see or hear from her; for she gave me the
Pleasure of seeing all her Poems as soon as
they were finish’d. And though I never
was extremely fond of Poetry, and don’t
pretend to be a Judge of it, there was
something so peculiarly pleasing to my
Taste in almost every thing she wrote,
that I could not but be infinitely pleas’d
with such a Correspondent.

Nor did I admire her in her Poetical
Capacity only; but the more I was acquainted
with her, the more I saw Reason
to esteem her for those virtuous Principles,
and that Goodness of Heart and Temper,
which so visibly appeared in her; and I
was so far from thinking it a Condescension
to cultivate an Acquaintance with a a3 Person a3v xxii
Person in her Station, that I rather esteem’d
it an Honour to be call’d a Friend to one
in whom there appear’d such a true Greatness
of Soul as with me far outweigh’d all
the Advantages of Birth and Fortune.
Nor do I think it possible for any body
that was as well acquainted with her as
myself, to consider her as a mean Person.

I have sent a List of the Poems that
were wrote since I was acquainted with
her; which, I think, will shew the Quickness
of her Genius, especially when it is
consider’d how much she was engaged in
her Father’s Affairs, and the Business of
his House, in which she had nobody to
assist her.

This, you may imagine, was some Mortification
to a Person of her Turn; yet
she was always chearful: And as she
wanted none of the Necessaries of Life,
expressed herself thankful for that. Her
chief Ambition seem’d to be to have such
a Competency as might leave her at Liberty
to enjoy the Company of a Friend,
and indulge her scribbling Humour (as she call’d a4r xxiii
call’d it) when she had a mind, without
Inconvenience or Interruption.

I could not see how much she was
straiten’d in point of Time for her Writing,
without endeavouring to remove the Difficulty;
and therefore propos’d a Subscription
to some of my Acquaintance;
which I hoped might be a Means of doing
it. And here, Sir, I must gratefully
acknowledge your kind Assistance, without
which I am sensible all my Endeavours
had been ineffectual; but through your
Good-nature I had the Pleasure to see it
brought into a promising Way before the
Death of the Author; who unfortunately
did not live to receive that Benefit by it,
which has since accrued to her Father.

Since the Publication of her Poems, I
hear she has been accused of stealing from
other Authors; but I believe very unjustly,
and imagine the Censure proceeds rather
from a random Conjecture that it
must be so, than any just Foundation. I
don’t find that the Particulars are pointed
out; and if there are really any Lines in a4 her a4v xxiv
her Book that bear so near a Resemblance
to what has been wrote by other Authors,
as to give room for such a Conjecture, I,
that was so well acquainted with her
Way of Thinking, dare venture to answer
for her, that it proceeded from the Impression
the Reading those Passages some
time before happen’d to make upon her
Mind, without her remembring from
whence they came; and therefore she can
no more be reckon’d a Plagiary on that
Account, than a Person could justly be
accused of being a Thief, for making use
of a Shilling or two of another’s Money
that happen’d to be mix’d with his own,
without his knowing it.

Besides, I don’t believe it impossible for
two People to think exactly alike upon a
Subject, and even to express themselves almost
in the very same Words for a Line
or two, without ever having been acquainted
with one another’s Thoughts;
tho’ I don’t know that this was the Case
of Myra.

I must beg Leave to give you an Instance
of her Probity in this respect.

I a5r xxv

I one Day shew’d her an old manuscript
Pastoral of Mr. Newton’s, in Blank
Verse; with which she seem’d much
pleased, and desired Leave to take it home
with her, and amuse herself with putting
some Parts of it, that she most liked, into
Rhyme. She did so; See the Poems, Vol. I. p. 183, 187, 192. and in my Opinion
so greatly alter’d and improv’d them, that
when the Papers were first sent to you,
in order to be printed, I said I thought
there was no Occasion for mentioning Mr.
Newton’s
Name: But she would not consent
to have them put in her Book without
that Distinction; and indeed had no
occasion to adopt other Peoples Productions.

Deceit and Insincerity of all Kinds she
abhorred; and (if I may be allowed to
give my Opinion) I really believe what
she wrote upon Serious and Divine Subjects,
proceeded from the inmost Sentiments
of her Heart; which I take to be
one great Reason of their appearing so extremely
natural and beautiful.

As an Instance of her uncommon Manner
of Thinking, give me Leave to acquaint
you a5v xxvi
you with a Discourse that pass’d between
us, when the Proposal for a Subscription
was on foot. I very gravely told her, I
thought we must endeavour to find out
some great Lady to be her Patroness, and
desir’d her to prepare a handsome Dedication.

“But pray, what am I to say in this
same Dedication?”

“Oh, a great many fine Things, certainly.”

“But, Madam, I am not acquainted
with any great Lady, nor like to be.”

“No matter for that; ’tis but your
supposing your Patroness to have as
many Virtues as other Peoples always
have: You need not fear saying too
much; and I must insist upon it.”

She really seemed shock’d, and said,
“But, Dear Madam, could you in good
Earnest approve of my sitting down to
write an Encomium upon a Person I “know a6r xxvii
know nothing of, only because I might
hope to get something by it?――No,
Myra!”

She always call’d it being idle, and indulging
her whimsical Humour, when she
was employed in writing the humorous
Parts of her Poems; and nothing could
pique her more than Peoples imagining she
took a great deal of Pains, or spent a great
deal of Time, in such Composures; or that
she set much Value upon them.

She told me, that most of them were
wrote when cross Accidents happen’d to
disturb her, purely to divert her Thoughts
from dwelling upon what was disagreeable;
and that it generally had the intended Effect,
by putting her in a good Humour.

I must now come to the melancholy
Scene of her Death; which, to my inexpressible
Concern, happen’d on the 1746-11-1212th of
November 1746
. and was occasioned by
the Measles.

A a6v xxviii

A Day or two before her Departure,
while her Senses remained perfect, she desir’d
to speak to me alone; and after the
warmest Expressions of Gratitude for my
Goodness to her, as she call’d it, continued,
as near as I can remember, in this manner.

“But I have sill one Favour to beg of
you.—I find I am going.—I always
lov’d my Father; but I feel it now
more than ever.—He is growing into
Years. —My Heart bleeds to see the
Concern he is in; and it would be the
unmost Satisfaction to me, if I could
hope any thing of mine could contribute
to his comfortable Subsistence in
his old Age: I therefore beg of you to
take the Key of my Buroe; and if any
thing is to be made of my poor Papers,
that you will, for my sake, endeavour to
promote a Subscription for his Benefit,
which you so kindly have propos’d
for mine.”

They must have had harder Hearts than
mine, that could have refus’d to comply
with such a Request. I promis’d to do the a7r xxix
the best I could (with which she seem’d
satisfied); and have endeavour’d to perform
it to the utmost of my Power.

Since I received your Letter, I have
applied to Mr. Leapor for what Information
he could give me relating to his
Daughter.

He tells me, She was born at Marston
St. Laurence
in this County, on the 1722-02-2626th
of February 1722
. at which Time he was
Gardener to the late Judge Blencowe, and
continued five Years in the Family; and
then removed with his Wife and this only
Daughter to Brackley, where she spent the
remaining Part of her Life.

She was bred up under the Care of a
pious and sensible Mother, who died about
four Years before her.

He informs me she was always fond
of reading every thing that came in her
way, as soon as she was capable of it;
and that when she had learnt to write tolerably,
which, as he remembers, was at about a7v xxx
about ten or eleven Years old, She would
often be scribbling, and sometimes in
Rhyme; which her Mother was at first
pleas’d with: But finding this Humour
increase upon her as she grew up, when
she thought her capable of more profitable
Employment, she endeavour’d to break
her of it; and that he likewise, having no
Taste for Poetry, and not imagining it
could ever be any Advantage to her, join’d
in the same Design: But finding it impossible
to alter her natural Inclination,
he had of late desisted, and left her more
at Liberty.

He says, she never had any intimate
Companion, except one agreeable young
Woman in this Town, whom she mentions
in her Poem upon Friendship, by
the Name of Fidelia; and that she always
chose to spend her leisure Hours in
Writing and Reading, rather than in those
Diversions which young People generally
chuse; insomuch that some of the
Neighbours that observ’d it, expressed
their Concern, lest the Girl should overstudy
herself, and be mopish. But to me she a8r xxxi
she always appeared rather gay, than melancholy.

I think it is now high time to apologize
for this long Letter: But as I was
resolved to send the best Account I
could, I hope, Sir, you will excuse me.
It is not for me to pretend to do Justice
to the Memory of Mrs. Leapor; but if
you think any of the little Incidents I have
mention’d will be useful to the Gentlemen
who have so kindly form’d that Design,
and give them a true Idea of her, I shall
be much pleased; and am, with true Respect,

Your ever affectionate and
obliged humble Servant,

* * * * * *.

Postscript. I must beg Leave to enter a Caveat
against printing the Poem call’d Myra’s
Picture
; because tho’ she may be suppos’dpos’d a8v xxxii
to have made very free with
herself, I think it may give the Reader
a worse Idea of her Person than it deserv’d,
which was very far from being
shocking; tho’ there was nothing extraordinary
in it. The Poem was occcasioned
by her happening to hear that
a Gentleman who had seen some of
her Poems, wanted to know what her
Person was.
Mr. Leapor has put down a Grave-Stone
in Memory of his Daughter; and I
should be glad if any of the ingenious
Gentlemen you mention would be so
good as to write a few Lines to be put
upon it.
Mrs. Leapor’s whole Library consisted
of about sixteen or seventeed single Volumes,
among which were Part of Mr.
Pope’s
Works, Dryden’s Fables, some
Volumes of Plays, &c.

The b1r xxxiii Poems b2v
B1r

Poems
on
Several Occasions.

On Patience. To Stella.

Still, Stella, still, you sigh, and you
complain;

And mourn with real, or imagin’d Pain:

But, Stella, say, shall Things like You and Me

Repine at Nature’s and at God’s Decree?

Whose Goodness plac’d us in a quiet State,

Above the Wretched, and below the Great.

Vol. II. B “But B1v 2

“But who are wretched?”—Why, Experience tells,

Our Bliss or Woe exists within ourselves.

Small Comfort feels the discontented Breast

From the gay Splendor of a shining Vest;

While some, whose Bodies lie expos’d to Air,

Whose Meals are slender, and whose Feet are bare;

Who want the needful Aid of Cloaths and Fire;

Yet sing in Want, and laugh in Rags and Mire:

These, blest with Ignorance and thoughtless Ease,

Small Things content, and low-born Trifles please.

Relfection ne’er disturbs their vulgar Mirth:

They view alike a Burial, or a Birth.

If these are Happy from the Want of Thought,

Then Stella’s Wisdom is too dearly bought;

If Knowledge only serves to make her find

Those Ills o’erlook’d by Hundreds of her Kind.

But gracious Heaven by its Law assign’d

More Griefs and Glories for the noble Mind;

Where B2r 3

Where awful Reason gives a piercing Ray,

And clears the Spirit for a brighter Day.

Those honest Beams if we attempt to shun,

How shall we bear with an immortal Sun?

Then Patience follows, still to Reason true;

The Saint’s best Virtue, and his Comfort too;

Who smooths the Ills from which she can’t defend;

The Sick-man’s Cordial, and the Poor-man’s Friend.

This, Stella, This, will chear the aking Breast,

And slope our Passage to the Realms of Rest.

This helps the Good to look Affliction through,

Tho’ Friends forsake, and Enemies pursue.

’Tis this that makes the gentle Bosom glow,

And rise superior through its Weight of Woe.

Let this, O Stella, chear thy drooping Soul,

While o’er thy Roofs the swelling Tempests roll.

The scatter’d Griefs shall in their Season fail,

And smiling Fortune turn the shifting Gale:

B2 Far B2v 4

Far from thy Head the banish’d Storm shall fly,

And thou rest happy in a fairer Sky.

When Stella’s Spirit shall be taught to know

Joy’s proper Medium, and to smile in Woe;

When her still Passions know their due Degree;

Then teach! O teach the happy Art to me!

Me, who from Thought to frolic Fancy skim,

Now wrapt in Morals, and now lost in Whim;

While a strange Group of mingled Passions sway,

That rule by Changing, and by Turns obey:

Yet, not abandon’d, I would do the best,

To aid the Weakness of this changing Breast,

And catch a Thought, its Errors to controul,

Before the Woman rushes on my Soul.

Phoe- B3r 5

Phoebus to Artemisia.

To Artemisia, softest of her Kind,

With Woman’s Features, but a nobler Mind;

A manly Soul, that’s Charmingly refin’d;

All Hail to Her—whom mortal Swains obey!

All Hail from Me—the Monarch of the Day!

For thee (lov’d Mortal), for thy sake we show

(Once more) our Lustre to the World below:

For thee we bid the sprouting Leaves appear,

And blushing Infants of the tender Year:

For thee the Floods glide more serenely by,

And gentler Zephyrs on the Branches die.

So be thy Heart (releas’d from every Ill)

Calm as the Winds, and as the Waters still.

Hear the Birds warble in delightful Strains,

To call my Fair-one to the healthful Plains.

B3 Haste B3v 6

Haste then! O haste! to Mira’s rural Bow’rs,

And my glad Beams shall gild the chearful Hours.

No sickly Blast shall taint the purer Sky,

Nor rattling Tempest through the Groves shall fly.

Come, thou dear Nymph, so long ador’d by me;

For (trust me) Daphne never charm’d like thee.

Come then! O, come! and dread no piercing Wind:

’Tis Phœbus self has promis’d to be kind:

Come, when yon Dial points to Number Three;

For that’s the Hour mostly blest by me:

’Tis then I shine with more propitious Ray;

Dispel the Clouds, and give a brighter Day.

So may thy Verse through distant Ages run,

Still the bright Image of its Parent Sun;

Whilst I with Pleasure shall its Birth declare,

And guard my Offspring with a Father’s Care.

But see, alas!—where lonely Mira weeps,

And to her Bosom pale Despondence creeps,

Lest B4r 7

Lest you refuse—Be merciful—for She

(’Tis true) I pity, tho’ I love but Thee.

Man the Monarch.

Amaz’d we read of Nature’s early Throes:

How the fair Heav’ns and pond’rous Earth
arose:

How blooming Trees unplanted first began;

And Beasts submissive to their Tyrant, Man:

To Man, invested with despotic Sway,

While his mute Brethren tremble and obey;

Till Heav’n beheld him insolently vain,

And check’d the Limits of his haughty Reign.

Then from their Lord the rude Deserters fly,

And, grinning back, his fruitless Rage defy;

Pards, Tygers, Wolves, to gloomy Shades retire,

And Mountain-Goats in purer Gales respire.

B4 To B4v 8

To humble Valleys, where soft Flowers blow,

And fatt’ning Streams in crystal Mazes flow,

Full of new Life, the untam’d Coursers run,

And roll, and wanton, in the chearful Sun;

Round their gay Hearts the dancing Spirits rise,

And rouse the Lightnings in their rolling Eyes:

To cragged Rocks destructive Serpents glide,

Whose mossy Crannies hide their speckled Pride:

And monstrous Whales on foamy Billows ride.

Then joyful Birds ascend their native Sky:

But where! ah! where, shall helpless Woman fly?

Here smiling Nature brought her choicest Stores,

And roseat Beauty on her Fav’rite pours:

Pleas’d with her Labour, the officious Dame

With-held no Grace would deck the rising Frame.

Then view’d her Work, and view’d, and smil’d again,

And kindly whisper’d, “Daughter, live, and reign.”

But now the Matron mourns her latest Care,

And sees the Sorrows of her darling Fair;

Beholds B5r 9

Beholds a Wretch, whom she design’d a Queen,

And weeps that e’er she form’d the weak Machine.

In vain she boasts her Lip of scarlet Dyes,

Cheeks like the Morning, and far-beaming Eyes;

Her Neck refulgent—fair and feeble Arms,

A Set of useless and neglected Charms.

She suffers Hardship with afflictive Moans:

Small Tasks of Labour suit her slender Bones.

Beneath a Load her weary Shoulders yield,

Nor can her Fingers grasp the sounding Shield;

She sees and trembles at approaching Harms,

And Fear and Grief destroy her fading Charms.

Then her pale Lips no pearly Teeth disclose,

And Time’s rude Sickle cuts the yielding Rose.

Thus wretched Woman’s short-liv’d Merit dies:

In vain to Wisdom’s sacred Help she flies;

Or sparkling Wit but lends a feeble Aid:

’Tis all Delirium from a wrinkled Maid.

A B5v 10

A tattling Dame, no matter where, or who;

Me it concerns not—and it need not you;

Once told this Story to the listening Muse,

Which we, as now it serves our Turn, shall use.

When our Grandsire Mrs. Leapor frequently writes the Words “Sire, Fire, Spire,
Hour,”
&c. each as if two syllables.
nam’d the feather’d Kind,

Pond’ring their Natures in his careful Mind,

’Twas then, if on our Author we rely,

He view’d his Consort with an envious Eye;

Greedy of Pow’r, he hugg’d the tott’ring Throne;

Pleased with Homage, and would reign alone;

And, better to secure his doubtful Rule,

Roll’d his wise Eye-balls, and pronounced her Fool.

The regal Blood to distant Ages runs:

Sires, Brothers, Husbands, and commanding Sons,

The Sceptre claim; and ev’ry Cottage brings

A long Sucession of Domestic Kings.

Mopsus; B6r 11

Mopsus; or, The Castle-Builder.

In Days of yore, ere Britons grew too wise

To court proud Fortune, or believe in Lyes,

A Youth was born, his Father’s only Son

(Well for his Sire he had no more than one).

This good old Man with Pleasure us’d to range

O’er the small Limits of his peaceful Grange:

His Calves and Oxen were his only Care,

His homely Servants, and his smiling Heir.

Now tall and strait the pratling Infant grew;

A sprightly Boy, with Cheeks of crimson Hue.

His Father plac’d him in a Country School,

To learn Division, and the Golden Rule:

But when the fair aspiring Youth began,

To walk on Tiptoe to the Verge of Man;

His B6v 12

His discontented Thoughts began to rove

Beyond the Prospect of his Father’s Grove.

In vain the Hawthorn spreads her snowy Pride,

And the pale Lily gilds the Fountain-Side:

He loaths the Country, and his Fellow Swains;

For mighty Projects fill his working Brains:

And when black Shade invests the sleepy Sky,

And the still Herds on dewy Hillocks lie;

When restless Nature finds herself repos’d,

And lazy Eyelids are in Slumber clos’d;

Then Fancy bore the metamorphos’d Swain

Far from his Neat-herds, and despised Plain;

By Slaves attended; drawn by shining Wheels;

With flowing Purple at his graceful Heels;

With royal Gold his manly Temples crown’d;

And thus the Monarch took his awful Round;

Till spiteful Morning rais’d her Infant Brow,

And call’d the Prince to guide his slavish Plough.

But B7r 13

But still to Court our happy Youth could speed

Without th’Assistance of Inchanter’s Reed;

Sometimes a-hunting with his Lordship ride,

Or loll on Couches, wrapt in silken Pride:

But when the Soul her gay Excursions made,

His stupid Limbs forgot their usual Trade;

In solemn Pauses he would often stand,

And drop the Pitch-fork from his careless Hand.

This strange Behaviour much amaz’d his Sire,

And oft the Cause his Fondness would enquire:

The tattling Gossips too their Censures move:

Some call’d it Phrensy, and some thought it Love.

It happen’d on a Summer’s lovely Morn,

As musing Mopsus wander’d through the Corn,

Where nodding Poppies dropt with pearly Dew,

And the pure Æther wore a healthy Blue;

His Ear was grated by a noisy Train,

Who call’d for Pity in a canting Strain.

One B7v 14

One subtle Beldam, of the swarthy Band,

Said with a Smile—and gently grasp’d his Hand;

“I’ll tell thee what shall hap in future Days,

How thou by Marriage shalt thy Fortune raise:

I’ll tell thee too what Love-sick Maids shall die

For those sweet Features, and that leering Eye.

This pretty Jargon won the cheated Clown,

Who slily dropt the Sibyl Half a Crown.

The Pelf with Joy the sable Matron view’d;

Then bless’d her Patron, and her Tale pursu’d.

Lay down thy Fork, and throw thy Scrip aside:

I see, my Lad, I see thy wealthy Bride;

See her gilt Chariot cut the smoaking Fields,

And twelve gay Youths attend the gaudy Wheels.

She’d tall, with Skin as fair as dropping Snow;

And her black Eyes are like the ripen’d Sloe.

Ah, lucky Youth!—my noble Lord, I mean,

Go change your Dress, and leave the rustic Plain;

For the next Journey you shall take, be sure

You’ll find this Lady at her Father’s Door.

2 Observe B8r 15

Observe her well: I told you she was fair:

Her Eyes are black, and so’s her curling Hair:

Take Courage, Lad: Pursue her close, my Son:”

“Fair Ladies never are by Cowards won.”

This said, they part: The Matron takes her Way

O’er the brown Fields, in Search of further Prey.

Mute stood the Youth—This pleasing Picture brought

The bright Alethia to his roving Thought;

Alethia fair, by shining Peers ador’d,

The wealthy Heiress of a neighb’ring Lord.

’Tis true, the Virgin is of high Degree:

But who shall alter what the Fates decree?

Transported, Mopsus to his Home return’d,

Where his swell’d Heart with Expectation burn’d

In vain his Mother wholsome Meat provides;

For down his Throat no sav’ry Morsel glides;

Till to his Bed the tired Sun withdrew,

And summon’d Mopsus to his Chamber too.

There, with disorder’d Limbs, and waking Eyes,

Stretch’d on his Couch, the fev’rish Lover lies.

So B8v 16

So deathless Heroes, as Romances show,

Nor Calls of Sleep, nor pinching Hunger know;

But with thin Diet mere Immortals grow.

Old Night had more than half her Progress run;

The Stars grew paler at the distant Sun;

The chearful East was streak’d with lighter Grey;

And the shrill Lark began to look for Day;

The Sky was clear, the Zephyrs gently blew;

When daring Mopsus left the sleeping Crew.

With Face clean wash’d, and in his best Array,

In quest of Fortune, took his desp’rate Way.

Five Miles from hence, upon a rising Plain,

Rich with green Furrows of the promis’d Grain,

A shining Palace met the ravish’d Eye,

Whose gilded Spires seem’d to reach the Sky.

The great Coreilus did inhabit there,

Alethia’s Father, and a gen’rous Peer.

It C1r 17

It chanc’d this Morn, that, restless in her Mind,

Alethia rose before her usual Time; In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.

And to the Park, alone, she took her Way,

To share the Beauties of the infant Day,

While Phœbus darted from his blazing Wheels

His slanting Rays along the glist’ring Fields:

Across that Path the Virgin chanc’d to roam,

Which led our Mopsus tow’rd the lofty Dome.

The Youth, whose Features own’d the mute Surprize,

Stood like a Post, In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
and fix’d his stupid Eyes:

The conscious Nymph beheld him with a Frown;

And turn’d aside, to shun the gazing Clown:

But Mopsus follow’d, and resolv’d In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
to try,

Nor let th’Occasion pass neglected by.

He first accosts her with a Scrape profound,

And made his Bonnet kiss the humble Ground.

C “Madam, C1v 18

“Madam, I find the Gipsy’s Words are true;

And my kind Stars have sent me here to You:

It must be You, because you are so fair:

Your Eyes are black, and so’s your curling Hair.

I pray forgive me—Though my Birth be low,

’Tis vain to struggle with the Fates, you know.”

This broken Speech the Virgin heard with Pain,

Nor guess’d the Meaning of the simple Swain;

But judg’d of Mopsus by the common Rule,

And fear’d the Villain lurk’d beneath the Fool.

Then for Relief she rais’d a fearful Cry:

The frighted Servants to their Mistress fly.

The soft Valet that scented of Perfume,

The sturdy Keeper, and the dirty Groom,

On wretched Mopsus each his Fury throws,

And round his Temples rain’d a Storm of Blows;

Hands, Canes, and Clubs together chiming in,

Till his Bones rattled in his batter’d Skin.

Then C2r 19

Then sorely bruis’d, they drag the Youth along,

Whose Eyes alone implore the cruel Throng;

For mighty Fear had stopt his feeble Tongue.

The Slaves, obedient to their Master’s Call,

Conduct their Victim to the spacious Hall:

Coreilus frown’d, and with a haughty Air

First ask’d his Name, and next his Business there.

The Youth, whose Cheeks betray’d his growing Fears,

From his wan Eye-balls pour’d a Flood of Tears,

Confess’d the Project of his teeming Brain,

And told the late Adventure of the Plain.

Then smil’d the Baron, and address’d the Swain:

“My Lord—your Servant—for not less, I find,

No meaner Title suits your lofty Mind:

But you must learn to use refulgent Arms,

E’er you can merit bright Alethia’s Charms;

To march thro’ Desarts, and with Monsters fight,

And share the Labours of a doughty Knight;

C2 Make C2v 20

Make trembling Nations to her Beauty yield,

And summon Giants to the hostile Field:

By this our sturdy Fathers us’d to prove

Their Right to Fame, and to their Ladies Love;

Tho’ of their Deeds the long-revolving Years

Have left no Witness, but their rusty Spears;

And our rebellious Sons refuse to quake

At Arthur’s Name, or Lanc’lot of the Lake:

But I expect, before you claim your Prize,

My fair Alethia, with the charming Eyes,

That you exceed them in the Slaying Trade,

And spit fell Dragons on your smoaking Blade.

If these Conditions shake your flitting Mind,

Then still be Mopsus, and a peaceful Hind:

Range o’er your Fields, and keep your snowy Fold

From Summer Surfeits, and the Winter’s Cold:

Let they white Pigs and tender Poultry share

Thy lov’d Assistance, and thy daily Care:

From hungry Vermin guard thy Autumn Store,

And trust those tawny Oracles no more.”

Here C3r 21

Here ceas’d the Baron; but the noisy Train

With loud Huzza’s pursue the baffled Swain;

Who sought his Cottage with afflicted Mind;

And left Alethia and the Rout behind.

Now wretched Mopsus throught the neighb’ring
Towns,

The Sport of Milkmaids, and the Jest of Clowns,

Abhors the Beams of all-reviving Light,

And hides in Corners, like the Bird of Night.

Twice three revolving Moons their Course had run,

Since our sad Hero last beheld the Sun:

But those low Buildings, that his Limbs confin’d,

Were much too base to hold his lofty Mind.

His roving Spirit took her usual Rounds,

O’er distant Mountains, and majestic Towns;

From Place to Place romantic Fancy flew;

But London glitter’d in the fairest View;

C3 And C3v 22

And strong Desires led his panting Soul,

To feast where Thames renowned Waters roll.

His Temper ne’er was taught to brook Delay:

He thinks, resolves, and meditates the Way.

When the still Village took its usual Rest,

And vexing Care had left the Peasant’s Breast:

When drowsy Robin on his Couch repos’d,

And Sally’s Eyelids were in Slumber clos’d;

Then Fancy drew before his rolling Brain

The gay Delusions of a shining Dream.

His mimic Steeds conduct the Youth with Ease

To Balls, Assemblies, Drawing-rooms, and Plays.

Before him now those pompous Scenes appear,

Which in Description charm’d his ravish’d Ear:

He dines with Lords on Plates of solid Gold,

And talks with Ladies he must ne’er behold.

One pictur’d Beauty pleas’d the cheated Boy;

Fair as Alethia, and not half so coy:

But, C4r 23

But, as he reach’d to grasp the blooming Fair,

His baffled Arms enfold a neighb’ring Chair.

The rough Embrace awoke the starting Swain,

And put a Finis to the golden Dream:

Then, rising hasty, he resolv’d to fly

Beneath the Covert of the dusky Sky.

Thought only makes our Enterprizes cool;

And daring Mopsus scorn’d to live by Rule:

But yet he fear’d his Purse would scarce defray

The doubtful Charges of the tedious Way.

Then fraudful Need, that waits on each Degree,

The Thief’s Temptation, and the Poet’s Fee,

Instructed careful Mopsus where to run,

And, without Bond, receive the useful Sum.

His good old Sire had in his Coffer told,

Thrice ten Broad-pieces of refulgent Gold;

Which for his Landlord in bright Order lay,

And only wait their Doom at Quarter-Day:

These Mopsus wisely in his Pocket stow’d,

Smil’d at their Weight, and shook the pleasing Load;

C4 Then C4v 24

Then with soft Pace he trod the sounding Floor,

And last with Caution shut the creaking Door.

“Farewel”, he cry’d, “low Roofs, and humble Walls!

Me kinder Stars and better Fortune calls

To stately Castles, and to shining Halls.”

Now Chanticleer more loud began to sing,

Stretch’d his long Neck, and clapp’d his joyful Wing,

Till to his Voice the little Roofs rebound,

And the Clock answer’d with a solemn Sound.

Three times the Hammer struck the jarring Bell,

When jolly Mopsus took his long Farewel,

And sped his Way to that majestic Town,

Where Paul’s fair Temple rears its lofty Crown.

Five Days did he the toilsome March pursue,

With sparing Diet, and Adventures few:

But the sixth Morn before his ravish’d Eyes

Through smoaky Clouds the haughty Buildings rise.

Now Hunger calls; an Ill he fain would cure;

But none invite him through their friendly Door;

And C5r 25

And Mopsus, who was lately taught to fear,

Throught ev’ry Mansion held a scornful Peer.

From Street to Street he wander’d tho’ the Croud,

Much wond’ring how they durst to bawl so loud:

He’d often start, expecting ev’ry Scream

Would wake a Countess in her Morning Dream.

Now Chloe, who sat up till Four at Play,

Made shift by Twelve to rise, and drink her Tea.

The busy Footmen with their How-d’ye’s run:

The Park grew brilliant, and the rolling Sun

In his meridian Throne began to shine,

And Mopsus’ Stomach call’d aloud for Chine.

Then by a Stall, where tempting Apples lay,

He took his Station, and resolv’d to stay,

Till Fortune, still propitious to the Bold,

Should lead his somewhere, e’er the Meat was cold.

It chanc’d a rev’rent Dame was passing by,

Who cast on Mopsus an experienc’d Eye.

This C5v 26

This Matron had, as by her Face appears,

In public Service spent her youthful Years:

Now grown too ugly in herself to please,

She thrives by Trade, and takes her needful Ease.

She understood her Business to a Hair;

Knew to a Peny what her Stocks would bear:

When ruin’d Beauty to her Mart came in;

A wise Director in the Bank of Sin.

This Beldam view’d him as an easy Prey,

That little Pains required to betray:

Drew near the Serpent, and her practis’d Guile,

With a low Court’sy, and a fawning Smile.

“Hail, Fortune’s Fav’rite, whom she courts so young!

Fresh as the Fields from whence thy Beauty sprung!

I come, induc’d by charitable Laws,

To plead in Love and Beauty’s gentle Cause.

A Nymph there is, excelling half her Kind,

In charming Features, and a sprightly Mind.

Nay, more, attend to what I next unfold;

Ten thousand Pounds of all-enchanting Gold

A C6r 27

A doating Grandame left her, when she dy’d:

How blest the Youth that wins the blooming Bride!

But let me now thy strict Attention hold;

For Truths like these should be in Whispers told:

Thy artless Charms have won the smiling Dame,

Who for thy sake refuses Weath and Fame.

Now speak thy Mind, sweet Youth, and let me bear

A gentle Sentence to the doubting Fair.”

At this Confusion seiz’d the ravish’d Swain;

He bow’d, and blush’d; and blush’d, and bow’d
again.

The subtle Dame beheld him at a Stand,

And with a Smile she grasp’d his willing Hand.

“Come on”, she cries; “the fair Occasion calls.”

And led the Shepherd to her smoaky Walls,

Where Celia waited, in her Best array’d;

Celia, the wretched, ruin’d Maid,

Whose fatal Charms an early Conquest came;

A young Proficient in the School of Shame.

This C6v 28

This guileful Nymph receiv’d the simple Swain

With feign’d Confusion, and a bashful Mien:

But Dreams of Glory fill’d the ravish’d Boy,

And his flush’d Features own’d the present Joy.

He struts already with imagin’d Fame,

And gaz’d with Rapture on the shining Dame:

And now are lost in Celia’s charming Face

Alethia’s Conquest, and his own Disgrace.

But, Dinner comes; Ragouts and Fricasies

With Sawces stronger than a Dutchman’s Cheese,

Are serv’d together in a smoaking Row;

To hungry Mopsus a delightful Show:

Next, ruddy Wine the sprightly Banquet crown’d;

And then soft Voices to enchanting Sound;

While our brisk Youth, unread in future Harms,

In the gay Bumpers toasted Celia’s Charms.

But now the Fumes ascend his glowing Brain,

And mighty Sleep arrests the feeble Swain:

His C7r 29

His careless Head against the Table fell,

And his dim Eye-balls bid the World farewel:

With Joy the Damsel heard her Victim snore,

And from his Purse extracts the shining Ore.

It chanc’d a Thief had lately ’scap’d the Hands

Of frowning Justice, and her awful Bands:

To these fam’d Walls the Villain seem’d to steer,

And, as suspected, found his Refuge there:

The raging Crew pursue their destin’d Game,

And search the Mansion of the guilty Dame.

The House was clear’d of all; they only found

Unhappy Mopsus sleeping on the Ground.

A Place there is, at whose unpleasing Name

Starts the pale Sinner, and his frighted Dame.

Where the hard Wretch, whom Lectures ne’er could
charm,

Is taught Repentance by a Ruler’s Arm;

While lifted Hammers make the Roofs rebound,

And swelling Curses aid the dreadful Sound.

Here C7v 30

Here these relentless drag the trembling Swain,

In spite of Pray’rs, and Tears that flow in vain;

For tho’ no Witness of his Guilt appear,

’Twas thought sufficient that they found him there.

Now Mopsus, weeping for his native Bow’rs,

Exclaims at Fate, and blames the cruel Pow’rs;

His injur’d Father to his Soul appears,

And his sick Eyes behold a Mother’s Tears,

He sighs for Pity; but his Sighs are vain:

No Friend was near, to aid the starving Swain:

Against pale Hunger ’twas in vain to stand:

He wrote a Letter with his trembling Hand,

Whose homely Phrase in little, writ, could show

A Son’s Misfortunes, and a Father’s Woe;

Exploring In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
how he must in Prison die

Without their Mercy, and a small Supply.

These Lines arriv’d, to wound a Father’s Eyes:

And his sad Mother fills the Air with Cries:

Her C8r 29

Her stately Cheeses in a trice were sold:

Her Husband turn’d his Oxen into Gold:

Then, with a Caution to be wild no more,

They to their Darling send the welcome Ore.

Now struts the Youth—His Suff’rings at an End;

The Prince of Bridewel, and the Ruler’s Friend.

A pow’rful Guinea brib’d the Keeper’s Will:

He gain’d his Freedom; and the Law was still.

A Peer there was within the Skirts of Fame,

A Viscount; Simper was the Hero’s Name;

A gentle Lord, much honour’d by the Fair

For his rich Sword-knot, and his curling Hair.

This Chief, while luckless Mopsus was confin’d,

Had learn’d the Story of our wand’ring Hind:

A Fool he wanted long; but never yet

Judg’d one so aptly for his Purpose fit.

Whether by Chance, or by the Fates Decree,

Uncertain, Mopsus—but he fix’d on thee.

A C8v 32

A Sage he hir’d, whose deeply-thoughtful Skull

Could teach the Vulgar when the Moon was full;

Who scatter’d Hate among the friendly Stars,

And made e’en Venus retrograde to Mars.

His Lordship posted this prophetic Seer

Away to Mopsus, with a fawning Leer,

To shew his Art, and for a little Sum

Inform our Youth of Ages yet to come.

This luckless Shepherd, who would fain be wise,

On the Mock-Wizard fix’d his ardent Eyes;

Three times he bow’d, and bless’d the awful Man:

This Greeting past—Sir Sidrophel began.

“O happy Youth! Couldst thou behold, like me,

What the kind Stars have now in Store for thee!

What Time fair Venus triumph’d o’er thy Form, In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.

In the same House a noble Lord was born.”

“Nay, hold”—cries Mopsus“by my Father’s Sins,

I think you’re wrong—my Mother ne’er had Twins:

I came that Year my Father built his Barn;

Old Winfred bore me squalling in her Arms.

’Twas D1r 33

’Twas Valentine, of all the Days i’th’ Year,

As I remember; sure no Lord was there.”

Here smil’d the Sage—and thus pursu’d his Tale:

“Nay, pr’ythee mind me; for I seldom fail.

This noble Lord, the Axle of your Fate,

’Tis he must raise you from your humble State.

But stay—methinks I see a double Cause:

O, now I find; there’s Marriage in the Clause:

His Lordship’s Sister—Yes, it must be She.

When this shall come to pass—remember me.”

Here ceas’d the Oracle—The ravish’d Boy,

Whose sparkling Eyes eonfess’dconfess’d the welcome Joy,

Two Guineas gave—and whisper’d in his Ear,

On Marriage-Day Two hundred Pounds a Year.

Next comes a Footman, with obsequious Mien;

Strait as a Lath, and as a Pasture, green;

Vol. II. D Two D1v 34

Two Pounds of Powder round his Temples spread,

And pale as Mario, when his Finger bled.

“Good Master What-d-’ye’call, if that’s your Name;

My Bus’ness is with you—Yes, Sir, the same.

Why then, in brief, my Lord has sent to call

Your charming Presence to his stately Hall;

And, if you please, I’d lead you with me now.”

The ravish’d Shepherd answer’d with a Bow.

Now joyful Mopsus bless’d the Fates again;

All his past Suff’rings seem an idle Dream;

And the sly Guardian led his simple Ward

To the proud Palace of his wanton Lord.

The wond’ring Boy, with Rapture and Surprize,

Round the gay Parlours roll’d his dazled Eyes;

Where gaudy Carpets press the aking Sight,

And the Pier-Glass reflects a glaring Light.

There gilt Buffets their shining Doors unfold,

And here soft Paintings, in a Verge of Gold.

Now thro’ his Brain the usual Vapours fly,

From the sage Prophet to the Gypsy’s Lye;

Quick D2r 35

Quick and more quick the nimble Spirits flow,

And fansy’d Honours round his Temples glow.

But see, my Lord, in courtly Dishabille,

Just wak’d from Dreams of Hazard and Quadrille;

At ev’ry Step he took a lazy Yawn,

And his pale Cheek confess’d the Morning Qualm;

First turn’d aside, and whisper’d with his Man;

And then his Lordship with a Smile began:

“Accept an Office, gentle Swain”, he cry’d,

“Which Numbers seek, and Crouds have been deny’d:

A tender Charge I to your Care consign,

A beauteous Sister, and that Sister mine.

Your Faith I ask, and only That desire,

The first Perfection of a Lady’s ’Squire.

Your Task is only to oblige the Fair;

A soft Employment, and a pleasing Care:

Consult your Ease;― In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
’tis much the same to me:

Chuse what you like, and let your Choice be free.”

D2 Here D2v 36

Here ceas’d the Baron—but the gazing Boy

Stood wrapt in Visions of ecstatic Joy:

Lost in Amaze, his Tongue could hardly stir;

But softly answer’d—“At your Service, Sir”.

Now Phyllis comes, who with her blasted Fame

Had lost the Virtue, and the Sense of Shame;

Agrees to wed the Fool her Lord prescribes,

Won by soft Language, and persuasive Bribes,

To wander through the tedious Path of Life

A slighted Mistress, and an odious Wife.

Miss Philly plays the Prude—looks wond’rous grave,

While the good Lord presents her humble Slave;

Scarce deigns to smile; but with a Toss or two

Cries, “with a Pish, Perhaps the Wretch may do.”

Now dup’d In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
Valet, and scented with Perfume,

Our Mopsus follow’d to his Lady’s Room:

But the chang’d Tyrant seems more humble now,

And softer Smiles adorn her gentle Brow:

But D3r 37

But the shock’d Youth stood gazing at the Fair,

Who call’d for Combs, and spread her shining Hair:

Thro’ Fear and Haste he stumbles o’er the Stools:

The Lady laughs, and calls him fifty Fools:

She asks for Powder, Patches, Paints and Creams:

Her servant stares, and wonders what she means.

Next Morning, ere the Sun’s refulgent Eye

Had warm’d the Curtains of the blushing Sky;

While sleeping Mopsus on his Couch was laid,

Beside his Pillow stood a gentle Maid:

A Billet-doux her better Hand supplies;

She calls—he starting, rubb’d his drowsy Eyes;

Then takes the Paper, and transported sees

The Back subscrib’d—To gentle Mopsus, These.

The Phrase was such as warm Romance inspires,

Compos’d of Tortures, Racks, and Darts, and Fires:

The Subject-matter, which the Lines contain,

Was but a Challenge to the simple Swain;

D3 That D3v 38

That if he durst to meet the desp’rate Fair

In yonder Chapel, ere the Hour of Pray’r;

The ready Priest should bind their faithful Hands,

She hopes in blissful—but in lasting Bands.

Then haste! O Haste! Prevent the growing Day;

For thousand Dangers wait the least Delay. In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.

The Youth, transported in the last Extreme,

Still rubb’d his Eyes, and fear’d ’twas all a Dream:

Then started from his Bed; but while he drest,

Hugg’d the dear Billet to his glowing Breast.

Now eager Mopsus to the Chapel run;

Nor stay’d the Witness of the rising Sun;

Where Phyllis waited in her shining Pride,

And the fall’n Mistress there commenc’d a Bride:

But soon, too soon, the disappointed Boy

Found a quick Period to his promis’d Joy.

Now D4r 39

Now swells with Laughter the insulting Peer;

Pale Mopsus trembles, and the Servants sneer;

But, undeceiv’d, what Soul-distracting Pain,

What sobbing Anguish, fill’d the mourning Swain,

Who found, instead of Coronets and Fame,

His Countess dwindled to a Hackney Dame!

Then, doubly wretched, from the Roofs of Pride

The Youth retires with his mincing Bride,

And sought a Lodging, nearest to the Sky;

For, tho’ dejected, still his Aim was high:

There, when five Nights had their dark Progress run,

The sixth gay Morning brought a smiling Son.

But Mopsus, cold with Sorrow and Surprize,

Gaz’d on the Infant with affrighted Eyes:

The careful Nurse rich Cordials must prepare

For his sick Lady, and adopted Heir;

While with Affliction, better guess’d than told,

The sighing Husband mourns the flying Gold.

D4 At D4v 40

At length his Spouse bewails her Loss of Time,

Neglected Beauties, and declining Prime:

Must She, who has by more prevailing Charms

Divorc’d a Countess from her Husband’s Arms;

Whom Practice taught, and Nature form’d to please;

In a loath’d Garret spend her irksome Days?

No; let the Prude, that never walk’d astray,

’Cause none would tempt her from the dubious Way,

Grow lean with Railing, and with Envy pine;

Be charming Freedom and soft plenty mine.

Thus she: And Fortune seconds her Desire;

She grows the Darling of a keeping ’Squire;

And the soft Dame, who from the polish’d Times

Had learn’d, that Starving was the worst of Crimes,

Resolves to leave her Spouse, and little Son,

To shine once more, before her Glass was run.

Thus D5r 41

Thus happier Mopsus lost the Scourge of Life

(So Unbelievers often term a Wife):

The slighted Infant too resign’d its Breath,

And sought In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
its Refuge in the Arms of Death.

Now pressive Want induc’d the longing Swain,

Once more to seek his late despised Plain:

According , In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
ere the regent Prince of Day

Through the cold Scorpion drove his shor’ned Ray,

Repentant Mopsus trudg’d before the Wind,

And left the City and his Woes behind.

No shining Slaves his weary Steps attend,

A Scrip his Substance, and a Staff his Friend:

No more these Visions in his Bosom swell;

For his sick Heart has bid the Court Farewel.

At length, with Visage pale, and Garments poor,

The Youth appear’d before his Father’s Door:

Their Neighbors hail the late-returning Boy:

His Father clasp’d him with a Parent’s Joy:

His D5v 42

His Mother’s Eyes with Tears of Pleasure run:

She drops her Knitting, to embrace her Son.

Here with calm Virtue, and a peaceful Mind,

In rural Plenty, dwells the sober Hind:

His equal Days in one smooth Tenor run;

The same at rising as declining Sun:

No more Delusions in his Fancy rise,

Grown grave by Sorrow, by Experience wise.

An D6r 43

An Epistle to Artemisia. On Fame.

Say, Artemisia, do the Slaves of Fame

Deserve our Pity, or provoke our Blame?

Whose airy Hopes, like some new-kindled Fire,

A Moment blaze, and then in Smoke expire;

Or like a Babe i’th’ midst of Plenty cry,

And leave their Supper for a painted Fly.

Bold Maro paints her of gigantic Size,

And makes her Forehead prop the lofty Skies;

With Eyes and Ears he hung the Lady round,

And her shrill Clarion shook the Heavens around:

Then worthy Names the trembling Notes prolong,

And Actions blazing in immortal Song;

But, weary now, and grown an antient Maid,

Her Strength exhausted, and her Lungs decay’d;

Her D6v 44

Her unspread Wings resign their plumy Pride,

And her hoarse Trumpet dangles by her Side.

A Handmaid leads the purblind Dame along,

Black Slander call’d, with never-ceasing Tongue;

And when this Servant whispers in her Ears,

She to her Mouth the heavy Trumpet rears:

The rattling Concave sends a horrid Cry,

And smoaking Scandals hiss along the Sky;

Yet round her still the supple Vot’ries croud,

And pay Devotion to a painted Cloud:

The fond Ixions spread their longing Arms,

And grasp a Vapour for a Juno’s Charms.

The Hero brave, that never knew to shun

The pointed Cannon, or the bursting Gun,

Of Bruises vain, and prodigal of Scars,

Returns from Pillage, and successful Wars.

But if the sullen Rout refuse to pay

The vulgar Triumphs of a noisy Day,

To D7r 45

To his sad Bosom pale Despondence creeps,

And the stern Soldier like an Infant weeps:

Caballing Sceptics shake the frighted Gown,

And Poets tremble at an Idiot’s Frown:

The Scorn of Fools can pierce a noble Heart,

And wound an Author in the tend’rest Part.

Rich Merrio thought, like Eastern kings, to raise

By lofty Columns everlasting Praise;

His broad Foundations half the Field surround,

And Piles of Timber load the sinking Ground.

This Heav’n beheld, and smil’d at seeing Man,

Whose Joy is Vapour, and whose Life a Span,

Who Death’s black Warrant ev’ry Moment fears,

Still building Castles for a thousand Years.

On this grand Wretch was pass’d an early Doom;

And Merrio, summon’d to the silent Gloom,

Feels, ere his Eyes behold the glowing Spires,

The Stroke of Fate, and with a Sigh expires.

All D7v 46

All reas’ning Creatures, tho’ by diff’rent Ways,

Would prove their Title to a Share of Praise.

Cornelia’s Praise consists in plaiting well;

Pastora’s Fingers at a Knot excel:

Her gaudy Ribbands gay Sabina furls;

But looks with Envy on Aurelia’s Curls.

Unhappy Delia thought, a shining Gown

Would gain Respect, and win the gazing Town;

But Envy rose, to clip her rising Wings;

And, grinning ghastly (as the Poet sings),

In Claudia’s Shape dissolv’d the Lady’s Pride,

And slily whisper’d, “Delia’s Gown is dy’d.”

Ev’n Mira’s Self, presuming on the Bays,

Appears among the Candidates for Praise:

Has watch’d Applause, as from the Lips it fell;

With what Success?—Why, that the Muse shall tell.

May Artemisia not refuse to hear!

For Praise could ne’er offend her gentle Ear.

D8r 47

I count the Patrons of my early Song,

And pay the Tribute to their Shares belong:

What Sorrows too oppress’d the Muse’s Wing,

Till your Good-nature gave her Strength to sing!

Once Delpho read—Sage Delpho, learn’d and wise,

O’er the scrawl’d Paper cast his judging Eyes,

Whose lifted Brows confess’d a Critic’s Pride,

While his broad Thumb mov’d nimbly down the
Side.

His Form was like some Oracle profound:

This list’ning Audience form’d a Circle round:

But Mira, fixing her presuming Eyes

On the stern Image, thus impatient cries:

“Sir, will they prosper?—Speak your Judgment, pray.”

Replies the Statue—“Why, perhaps they may”.

For further Answers we in vain implore:

The Charm was over, and it spoke no more.

Cressida D8v 48

Cressida comes, the next unbidden Guest;

Small was her Top-knot, and her Judgment less:

A decent Virgin, blest with idle Time,

Now gingles Bobbins, and now ponders Rhime:

Not ponders—reads—Not reads—but looks ’em o’er

To little Purpose, like a thousand more.

“Your Servant, Molly.”

“I am yours the same.”

“I pay this Visit, Molly, to your Fame:

’Twas That that brought me here; or let me die.”

“My Fame’s oblig’d: And truly so am I.”

“Then fetch me something; for I must not stay

Above four Hours.”

“But You’ll drink some Tea?”

We sip, and read; we laugh, and chat between.

“The Air is pleasant, and the Fields are green.

3 “My E1r 49

Well, Molly, sure, there never was thy Fellow.

But don’t my Ruffles look exceeding yellow?

My Apron’s dirty—Mira, well, I vow,

That Thought of yours was very pretty now.

I’ve read the like, tho’ I forget the Place:

But, Mrs. Mira, How-d’ye like my Lace?”

Afflicted Mira, with a languid Eye,

Now views the Clock, and now the Western Sky.

“The Sun grows lower: Will you please to walk?”

“No; read some more.”

“But I had rather talk.”

“Perhaps you’re tired.”

“Truly that may be.”

“Or think me weak.”

“Why, Cressy, Thoughts are free.”

At last we part, with Congees at the Door:

“I’d thank you, Mira, but my Thanks are poor.

I wish, alas! But Wishes are in vain.

I like your Garden; and I’ll come again.

Vol. II. E “Dear, E1v 50

Dear, how I wish! — I do, or let me die,

That we liv’d near.”

—Thinks Mira, “So don’t I.”

This Nymph, perhaps, as some had done before,

Found the cold Welcome, and return’d no more.

Then Vido next to Mira’s Cott appears,

And with soft Praise salutes her list’ning Ears;

Whose Maxim was, with Truth not to offend,

And, right or wrong, his Bus’ness to commend.

Look here, cries Mira; pray peruse this Song:

Ev’n I, its Parent, see there’s something wrong.

“But you mistake: ’Tis excellent indeed.”

“Then I’ll correct it.”

“No, there is no need.”

“Pray, Vido, look on these: Methinks they smell

Too much of Grub-street: That myself can tell.”

“Not so indeed, they’re easy and polite.

And can you bear ’em?”

“I could read till Night.”

4 But E2r 51

But Mira, tho’ too partial to the Bays,

And, like her Brethren, not averse to Praise,

Had learn’d this Lesson: Praise, if planted wrong,

In more destructive than a spiteful Tongue.

Comes Codrus next, with Talents to offend;

A simple Tutor, and a saucy Friend,

Who pour’d thick Sonnets like a troubled Spring,

And such as Butler’s wide-mouth’d Mortals sing:

In shocking Rhimes a Nymph’s Perfections tells,

Like the harsh Ting-Tong of some Village-Bells.

Then a rude Quarrel sings thro’ either Ear,

And Mira’s Levee once again is clear.

Now the dull Muses took their usual Rest;

The Babes Her Poems. slept soundly in their tiny Chest.

Not so their Parent: Fortune still would send

Some proud Director, or ill-meaning Friend:

E2 At E2v 52

At least we thought their sowre Meanings ill,

Whose Lectures strove to cross a stubborn Will.

Parthenia cries, “Why, Mira, you are dull,

And ever musing, till you crack your Skull;

Still poking o’er your What-d’ye-call—your Muse:

But pr’ythee, Mira, when dost clean thy Shoes?”

Then comes Sophronia, like a barb’rous Turk:

“You thoughtless Baggage, when d’ye mind your
Work?

Still o’er a Table leans your bending Neck:

Your Head will grow prepost’rous, like a Peck.

Go, ply your Needle: You might earn your Bread;

Or who must feed you when your Father’s dead?”

She sobbing answers, “Sure, I need not come

To you for Lectures; I have store at home.

What can I do?”

“—Not scribble.”

“—But I will.”

“Then get thee packing—and be aukward still.”

Thus E3r 53

Thus wrapp’d in Sorrow, wretched Mira lay,

Till Artemisia swept the Gloom away:

The laughing Muse, by her Example led,

Shakes her glad Wings, and quits the drowsy Bed.

Yet some Impertinence pursues me still;

And so I fear it ever must, and will.

So soft Pappilia o’er the Table bends

With her small Circle of insipid Friends;

Who wink, and stretch, and rub their drowsy Eyes,

While o’er their Heads Imperial Dulness flies.

“What can we do? We cannot stir for Show’rs:

Or what invent, to kill the irksome Hours?

Why, run to Leapor’s, fetch that idle Play:

’Twill serve to laugh at all the live-long Day.”

Preferment great! To beat one’s weary Brains,

To find Diversion only when it rains!

E3 Methinks E3v 54

Methinks I feel this coward Bosom glow:

Say, Artemisia, shall I speak, or no?

The Muse shall give herself no saucy Airs,

But only bid ’em softly—Read their Pray’rs.

Advice to Sophronia.

When Youth and Charms have ta’en their
wanton Flight,

And transient Beauty bids the Fair Good-night;

When her once sparkling Eyes shall dimly roll;

Then let the Matron dress her lofty Soul;

Quit Affectation, Partner of her Youth,

For Goodness, Prudence, Purity, and Truth.

These Virtues will her lasting Peace prepare,

And give a Sanction to her Silver Hair.

These E4r 55

These Precepts let the fond Sophronia prove,

Nor vainly dress her blinking Eyes with Love.

Can Roses flourish on a leafless Thorn,

Or dewy Woodbines grace a wintry Morn?

The weeping Cupids langush in your Eye;

On your brown Cheek the sickly Beauties die.

Time’s rugged Hand has strok’d your Visage o’er;

The gay Vermilion stains your Lip no more.

None can with Justice now your Shape admire;

The drooping Lilies on your Breast expire.

Then, dear Sophronia, leave thy foolish Whims:

Discard your Lover with your fav’rite Sins:

Consult your Glass; then prune your wanton
Mind;

Nor furnish Laughter for succeeding Time.

’Tis not your own; ’tis Gold’s all-conqu’ring Charms

Invites Myrtillo to your shrivell’d Arms:

And shall Sophronia, whose once lovely Eyes

Beheld those Triumphs which her Heart despis’d:

E4 Who E4v 56

Who look’d on Merit with a haughty Frown;

At Five-and-fifty take a bearless Clown?

Ye pitying Fates, this wither’d Damsel save,

And bear her safely to her Virgin Grave.

Proper Ingredients for the Head of a Beau,
found amongst the Rules of Prometheus.

First, with Spring-Water, and unweary’d Pain,

Cleanse the small Fibres, and take out the
Brain;

No Jot of Sense must in your Skull be found;

But sixteen Pounds of Folly, nicely ground;

A dozen Pound of Ignorance, or more,

Mixt up with Noise and Impudence good Store:

Infuse them softly o’er a mod’rate Heat;

To which you add ten Pounds of Self-Conceit.

A E5r 57

A little Learning you must take: Likewise

Just as much Wit as on a Six-pence lies:

A Drachm of Poetry may not be ill;

Two Pounds of Rhet’ric, with an Ounce of Skill.

These, rightly manag’d, will expresly show

That pleasing Trifle Mortals call a Beau:

For each depending Pow’r, by Nature led,

Will more spontaneous to its kingly Head:

And when the Joints their usual Task begin,

You’ll see the Coxcomb shine in ev’ry Limb.

To E5v 58

To Lucinda. 1746-08[August, 1746.]

Lucinda, Fav’rite of indulgent Heav’n,

To whom its Blessings are profusely giv’n;

By Nature with each useful Talent grac’d;

In an exalted Sphere by Fortune plac’d;

Where all that Art or Learning can bestow,

T’improve those Talents, ’tis thy Lot to know;

Thou, who hast ever been the poor Man’s Friend,

Vouchsafe thy kind Protection to extend:

Accept this Tribute of a rural Maid,

Who longs, assisted by thy friendly Aid,

To noblest Themes her artless Voice to raise,

And strives to sing her Great Creator’s Praise.

Like a poor Bird, who swells its little Throat,

And warbles forth its native untaught Note:

If E6r 59

If chance some skilful Master tune the Reed,

To his rough Lay melodious Sounds succeed:

He learns th’harmonious Lesson to repeat,

Wond’ring to hear his Music grown so sweet.

Fain would I to Lucinda’s Ear impart

How Reason dawn’d upon my Infant Heart,

Whilst in laborious Toils I spent my Hours,

Employ’d to cultivate the springing Flow’rs.

“Happy,” I cry’d, “are those who Leisure find,

With Care, like this, to cultivate their Mind:

But partial Fate to me this Bliss denies,

To search for Knowledge with unweary’d Eyes;

To turn, well pleas’d, th’ instructive Volume o’er;

The secret Springs of Science to explore;

And by the Taper’s pale and trembling Light

In useful Studies to consume the Night.

’Tis not your Pomp, your Titles, or your State,

That move my Envy, O ye Rich and Great!

The E6v 60

The noblest Gift God can on Man bestow,

Is teaching him his sacred Will to know:

Th’ Almighty’s sacred Will’s to you reveal’d;

But from the Ignorant in Clouds conceal’d.

The Chains of Want forbid my Heart to rise,

When she would soar to reach her Kindred Skies.”

While thus I spake, methought a Voice I heard,

Which all my Doubts remov’d, and Darkness clear’d:

“Forbear”, it cry’d, “rash, impious Maid! forbear

T’ arraign thy Maker’s providential Care:

Tho’ diff’rent Stations are assign’d by Heav’n,

Virtue and Happiness to all are giv’n.

When the bright Source of Life withdraws his Fires,

What if thou know’st not whither he retires,

Or whence returns to glad the teeming Earth?

Thou seest his Presence gives to all Things Birth:

Thou hear’st the Birds salute the rising Day:

Thou feelst the Warmth of his all-chearing Ray.

Learn E7r 61

Learn hence the Lord of Nature to adore

In all his Works: Say, can the Sage do more?

Or wouldst thou learn thy Passions to controul,

To pierce the dark Recesses of the Soul?

Ev’n here the Lamp of Reason is thy Guide;

Nay more, th’Almighty has not here deny’d

The blest Assistance of a clearer Light,

To teach us how to shape tow’rds Heav’n our
Flight:

One little Book the mighty Sum contains:

To all alike their Father’s Will explains:

To all who with sincere and humble Hearts

Resolve to seek him, God his Laws imparts.”

1746-08August 1746.

O Thou Great Being, whom all Things obey,

From the least Atom to the Globe of Day!

Whom E7v 62

Whom (from blest Europe to the Pagan Shore)

Jews, Christians, Turks, in diff’rent Forms adore!

Ev’n the blind Infidel, whose narrow Mind

Was ne’er by Morals, nor by Arts refin’d;

Who frames his Deity of temper’d Clay,

Or hails a Serpent at the rising Day;

Is surely by his glimm’ring Reason told

There’s something further than his Eyes behold:

And when he bows before the lifeless Stone,

His Heart pays Homage to the God Unknown.

O Thou, have Mercy on the wretched Bands,

Who to their Fellows lift their weary Hands

In vain—for Pity (that celestial Guest)

Is found but seldom in a Victor’s Breast.

See gazing Crouds the trembling Wretch deride,

Who stands arraign’d before the Seats of Pride;

Whose Pageant Forms delay the destin’d Blow,

As Death were made for Pastime and for Show.

Who, E8r 63

Who, without Sorrow, can a Sight behold

Of rattling Chains, and Cheeks with Horror cold;

Of mournful Peers insulted by their Slaves,

And Hundreds dragg’d from Dungeons to their Graves?

’Tis Justice calls, the stern Enthusiasts cry,

Who dress her up in Robes of purple Dye.

I love her Charms when softer they appear:

But O, she’s ghastly, when she frowns severe!

What Crouds are there by Prejudice undone;

With Error blinded, and Persuasion won!

Some with a Friend have trod the fatal Way,

Whose Morals else were fair as rising Day:

These undistinguished with the Numbers die:

And do not These deserve a melting Eye?

Whose Fate embitters the succeeding Lives

Of their sad Orphans, and their widow’d Wives.

My Heart, no more—but thy own Business mind:

’Tis not for me—to regulate Mankind.

An E8v 64

An Essay on Woman.

Woman—a pleasing, but a short-liv’d Flow’r,

Too soft for Business, and too weak for
Pow’r:

A Wife in Bondage, or neglected Maid;

Despis’d, if ugly; if she’s fair—betray’d.

’Tis Wealth alone inspires ev’ry Grace,

And calls the Raptures to her plenteous Face.

What Numbers for those charming Features pine,

If blooming Acres round her Temples twine?

Her Lip the Strawberry; and her Eyes more
bright

Than sparkling Venus in a frosty Night.

Pale Lilies fade; and when the Fair appears,

Snow turns a Negro, and dissolves in Tears.

And F1r 65

And where the Charmer treads her magic Toe,

On English Ground the Arabian Odours grow;

Till mighty Hymen lifts his sceptred Rod,

And siks her Glories with a fatal Nod;

Dissolves her Triumphs; sweeps her Charms away,

And turns the Goddess to her native Clay.

But, Artemisia, let your Servant sing

What small Advantage Wealth and Beauties bring.

Who would be wife, that knew Pamphilia’s Fate?

Or who be fair, and join’d to Sylvia’s Mate?

Sylvia, whose Cheeks are fresh as early Day;

As Ev’ning mild, and sweet as spicy May:

And yet That Face her partial Husband tires,

And those bright Eyes, that all the World admires.

Pamphilia’s Wit who does not strive to shun,

Like Death’s Infection, or a Dog-Day’s Sun?

The Damsels view her with malignant Eyes:

The Men are vex’d to find a Nymph so wise:

Vol. II. F And F1v 66

And Wisdom only serves to make her know

The keen Sensation of superior Woe.

The secret Whisper, and the list’ning Ear,

The scornful Eyebrow, and the hated Sneer;

The giddy Censures of her babbling Kind,

With thousand Ills that grate a gentle Mind,

By her are tasted in the first Degree,

Tho’ overlooked by Simplicus, and me.

Does Thirst of Gold a Virgin’s Heart inspire,

Instill’d by Nature, or a careful Sire?

Then let her quit Extravagance and Play;

The brisk Companion; and expensive Tea;

To feast with Cordia in her filthy Sty

On stew’d Potatoes, or on mouldy Pye;

Whose eager Eyes stare ghastly at the Poor,

And fright the Beggars from her hated Door:

In greasy Clouts she wraps her smoky Chin,

And holds, that Pride’s a never-pardon’d Sin.

If F2r 67

If this be Wealth, no matter where it falls;

But save, ye Muses, save your Mira’s Walls:

Still give me pleasing Indolence, and Ease;

A Fire to warm me, and a Friend to please.

Since, whether sunk in Avarice, or Pride;

A wanton Virgin, or a starving Bride;

Or, wond’ring Crouds attend her charming Tongue;

Or deem’d an Idiot, ever speaks the Wrong:

Tho’ Nature arm’d us for the growing Ill,

With fraudful Cunning, and a headstrong Will;

Yet, with ten thousand Follies to her Charge,

Unhappy Woman’s but a Slave at large.

F2 The F2v 68

The Epistle of Deborah Dough.

Dearly beloved Cousin, These

Are sent to thank you for your Cheese:

The Price of Oats is greatly fell:

I hope your Children are all well

(Likewise the Calf you take Delight in);

As I am at this present writing.

But I’ve no News to send you now;

Only I’ve lost my brindled Cow;

And that has greatly sunk my Dairy:

But I forgot our Neighbour Mary;

Our Neighbour Mary, —who, they say,

Sits scribble-scribble all the Day,

And making—what—I can’t remember;

But sure ’tis something like December;

A F3r 69

A frosty Morning—Let me see—

O! now I have it to a T.

She throws away her precious Time

In scrawling nothing else but Rhyme;

Of which, they say, she’s mighty proud,

And lifts her Nose above the Croud;

Tho’ my young Daughter Cicely

Is taller by a Foot than she,

And better learnt (as People say):

Can knit a Stocken in a Day:

Can make a Pudden, plump and rare;

And boil her Bacon, to an Hair:

Will coddle Apples nice and green,

And fry her Pancakes—like a Queen.

But there’s a Man that keeps a Dairy,

Will clip the Wings of Neighbor Mary:

Things wonderful they talk of him;

But I’ve a Notion ’tis a Whim.

F3 Howe’er, F3v 70

Howe’er, ’tis certain he can make

Your Rhymes as thick as Plumbs in Cake:

Nay more, they say, that from the Pot

He’ll take his Porridge, scalding hot,

And drink ’em down;—and yet they tell ye,

Those Porridge shall not burn his Belly:

A Cheese-cake o’er his Head he’ll throw;

And when ’tis on the Stones below,

It sha’n’t be found so much as quaking,

Provided ’tis of his Wife’s making:

From this some People would infer

That this good Man’s a Conjurer.

But I believe it is a Lye;

I never thought him so; not I:

Tho’ Win’fred Hobble, who, you know,

Is plagu’d with Corns on ev’ry Toe,

Sticks on his Verse with fast’ning Spittle,

And says it helps her Feet a little.

Old Frances too his Paper tears,

And tucks it close behind her Ears;

And F4r 71

And (as she told me t’other Day)

It charm’d her Tooth-ach quite away.

Now as thou’rt better learnt than me,

Dear Cos, I leave it all to thee,

To judge about this puzzling Man,

And ponder wisely; —for you can.

Now, Cousin, I must let you know,

That while my Name is Deborah Dough,

I shall be always glad to see ye,

And what I have, I’ll freely gi’ ye.

’Tis One o’Clock, as I’m a Sinner;

The Boys are all come home to Dinner;

And I must bid you now Farewel:

I pray remember me to Nell,

And for your Friend I’d have you know

Your loving Cousin

Deborah Dough.

F4 Com- F4v 72

Complaining Daphne. A Pastoral.

Old Tellus’ Head was newly crown’d with
Flow’rs,

And wanton Zephyrs fann’d the youthful Bow’rs:

The glowing Forests shone with purple Pride

And each fond Turtle sought his gentle Bride:

Gay Phœbus too had drove his flaming Wheels

To the blue Verge of Thetis’ liquid Fields;

When Celia musing took her lonely Way,

To share the Fragrance of declining Day.

The charming Scene induc’d the Numph to rove

Thro’ the smooth Vista’s of a blooming Grove.

A Silver Brook along the Surface stray’d,

Whose shallow Waters prattled as they play’d.

Here F5r 73

Here crouding Daisies blush’d with fairer Dye,

And the fair Cowslip rais’d its golden Eye,

While panting Gales along the Borders die.

Not far from hence (where thicker Branches made

A solemn Whistling, and a dusky Shade,

Where Philomela sooth’d the Shepherd’s Care)

Sat blooming Daphne with a pensive Air.

On her fair Hand she lean’d her beauteous Head,

And with her Elbow press’d the flow’ry Bed;

Some secret Sorrow made her Bosom rise,

And drew a Mist before her lovely Eyes.

Grave Celia, safe behind the friendly Shade,

Attentive stood, to hear the tuneful Maid:

The list’ning Waters gently roll’d along,

While thus the Dame began her plaintive Song:

Ye gaudy Meadows, rich with Flora’s Charms,

Where cooling Rivers stretch their shining Arms;

0,3 F5v 74

O, lend your Sweets! ’Tis Daphne calls your Aid;

And let your Odours chear a drooping Maid.

Ye waving Oaks, with Honeysuckles twin’d,

Beneath your Shade, O, let me Slumber find!

Come, sweet Oblivion, seize my restless Mind.

Alas! I press the mossy Couch in vain:

New Thoughts are crouding on my fertile Brain:

These weary Eyelids shun their wish’d Repose,

And with new Fire this aking Bosom glows.

Not so the laughing Days were wont to glide,

When smiling Cynthio wander’d by my Side:

But far! ah! far, from this dejected Plain,

Now roves my cruel, marble-hearted Swain.

Cruel! But why?—He knows not Daphne’s Woe,

Nor sees the Tears that for his Absence flow.

Be secret, O ye Groves; nor let the Charmer
know.

Ye F6r 75

Ye gentle Winds! O, bear my darling Swain,

My lovely Cynthio, to his native Plain.

At sultry Noon I seek the cooling Streams;

At Ev’ning wander o’er the dewy Plains:

In vain my Soul for Recreation tries;

His Image swims before my sickly Eyes.

Then flatt’ring Fancy summons ev’ry Grace,

And paints the Beauties of his pleasing Face.

I hear the Accents of his tuneful Tongue,

More sweet than Music, and harmonious Song;

See his bright Eyes with sprightly Fancies roll,

And winning Smiles, that prove a tender Soul.

Ye gentle Winds! O, bear my darling Swain,

My lovely Cynthio, to his native Plain.

Ye Pow’rs!—but hold—Those happy Forms above,

My sacred Guardians, heed no Tales of Love;

And F6v 76

And mystic Fate perhaps foresaw it wise,

To ravish Cynthio from my aking Eyes.

’Tis true, the Swain is fair as rising Day;

The Loves and Graces round his Features play:

Yet he may wear a Heart replete with Guile,

And cover Mischief with a fraudful Smile:

And foolish Daphne to her Cost shall find

Her heav’nly Cynthio like his earthly Kind.

Then stay, O stay, far from our peaceful Plain;

Nor let me see that pleasing Face again.

Go, fly, my Cynthio, where Ambition calls,

And smiling Flatt’ry paints her gilded Walls:

Let happier Daphne spend her equal Days

With guiltless Pleasure, and substantial Ease.

Ye Winds, forbear to bring the charming Swain,

The lovely Cynthio, to his native Plain.

Oft, F7r 77

Oft, I remember, in my Infant Pride,

When Daphne wander’d by her Mother’s Side;

When, fledg’d with Joy, the dancing Minutes flew,

Nor Grief nor Care this guildless Bosom knew;

As oft she led me at Meridian Day,

To weed our Corn, or turn the fragrant Hay;

If then I sunk beneath the parching Heat,

And my quick Pulse with flutt’ring Motion beat,

While fainting Sweats my weary Limbs invade;

Her Care convy’d me to a Beechen Shade.

There with her Hand she press’d my throbbing
Head,

And laid me panting on a flow’ry Bed;

Then sat beside me in the friendly Bow’r;

Long Tales she told, to kill the tedious Hour;

Of lovely Maids to early Ruin led,

Who once were harmless as the Flocks they fed;

Of some induc’d with gaudy Knights to roam

From their dear Parents, and their blissful Home;

Till, F7v 78

Till, each deserted by her changing Friend,

The pageant Wretches met a woful End.

And still howe’er the mournful Tale began,

She always ended—“Child, beware of Man”.

Yes, sacred Shade! you shall Obedience find;

I’ll banish Cynthio from my sickly Mind.

Come, sweet Content, and long-desired Rest!

Two welcome Strangers! to my aking Breast:

Purl on, ye Streams! ye Flow’rets, smile again!

Your chearful Daphne shall no more complain:

Haste, Philomela, with thy charming Lay,

And tune thy Chorals to the falling Day:

Ye Sylvan Sisters! come; ye gentle Dames,

Whose tended Souls are spotless as your Names!

Henceforth shall Daphne only live for you;

Content—and bid the lordly Race Adieu;

See the clear Streams in gentler Murmurs flow,

And fresher Gales from od’rous Mountains blow.

Now F8r 79

Now the charm’d Tempest from my Bosom flies:

Sweet Slumber seizes on my willing Eyes.

Ye Winds, no more I ask the tempting Swain:

Go fan the Sweets of yonder flow’ry Plain.

The Disappointment.

When you, Sophronia, did my Sense beguile

With your Half-promise, and consenting Smile;

What Shadows swam before these dazled Eyes!

Fans, Lace, and Ribbands, in bright Order rise:

Methought these Limbs your silken Favours found,

And thro’ streight Entries brush’d the rustling Gown;

While the gay Vestment of delicious Hue

Sung thro’ the Isle, and whistled in the Pew.

Then, who its Wearer, by her Form shall tell:

No longer Mira, but a shining Belle.

Such F8v 80

Such Phantoms fill’d these giddy Brains of mine;

Such golden Dreams on Mira’s Temples shine;

Till stern Experience bid her Servant rise,

And Disappointment rubb’d my drowsy Eyes.

Do thou Sophronia, now thy Arts give o’er,

Thy little Arts; for Mira’s Thoughts no more

Shall after your imagin’d Favours run,

Your still-born Gifts, that ne’er behold the Sun.

Your Nods, sly Glances, and soft Whispers, are

Like well-bred Vido’s Friendship to the Fair,

So fine, ’tis melted at th’Approach of Air.

When Vido speaks, the list’ning Nymphs attend

The smooth Locution of their smiling Friend;

Deluded Girls! whom Reason has not taught

To sound the mazy Depths of Vido’s Thought.

His praise is not to make the Graces known

Of Celia’s Wisdom, but exalt his own;

Or, when he chuses for his skilful Tongue

A Theme so low as Mira’s simple Song,

’Tis G1r 81

’Tis not his Comment on the artless Lines,

But his own Genius in the Lecture shines;

And when he bows, ’tis that the World may see

His own good Manners, not Respect to me.

Live long, Sophronia, under Fortune’s Smile,

Happy and easy, let your Slave the while,

Regardless both of Censure and of Praise,

Enjoy her Whims, and wrap herself in Bays.

The Consolation.

To You who ne’er our Verse refuse,

A Friend to Mira, and her Muse.

When Night, array’d in sable Robe,

Spreads her soft Pinions o’er the Globe:

When Care her murm’ring Plaint gives o’er,

And restless Lovers sigh no more;

Vol. II. G Let G1v 82

Let not those Eyes be kept till Day

Awake—for Mira’s luckless Lay.

Let not a Sigh your Bosom teaze,

Nor restless Thought disturb its Ease;

Nor pensive Vapours seal your Tongue,

’Cause Folks will censure Mira’s Song.

Let not its Guardian mourn—for why?

Its Parent’s not inclin’d to cry.

Still we shall eat; and still be gay;

And range the Fields at closing Day.

Should Fortune (yes) or or Frienship flie,

There still remains the Muse and I,

Until the short-breath’d Race be o’er,

And I must view the Sun no more.

Then some kind Friend (when they shall lay

This Body in its destin’d Clay)

Around my Grave shall twist a Briar;

No lying Marble I desire.

But G2r 83

But the palin Stone with Chizel form’d,

But rudely shapen and adorn’d;

Inscrib’d with—“Natus Anno Dom”

“Here lies Mary in this Tomb.”

And there’s no odds, that I can spy,

’Twixt Mary Queen of Scots and I.

So Poets, so shall Critics fall,

Cits, Wits, and Courtiers, Kings and all,

Hands that wrote or held a Flail,

Tongues that us’d to sooth or rail;

Rivals there no more contend,

And there Ambition finds an End.

Cicely, Joan, and Deborah:
An Eclogue.

’Twas when the Sun had bid our Fields
Adieu,

And thirsty Flowers sip the rising Dew;

G2 That G2v 84

That ruddy Joan (a sprightly Dame, I ween)

Walk’d forth to Visit Cicely o’th’ Green.

All sadly dight the hapless Maid she found

In sable Night-cap, and in Sorrows drown’d,

With Eyes cast downward, and dishevel’d Hair;

Till thus her Neighbour greets the mourning Fair.

Joan.

Why how now, Cicely?—What’s the Matter now?

What a cold Sweat hangs dropping on thy Brow!

Thy Eyes brim-full—Why how thou look’st Today!

Like Verjuice sowre, and as pale as Whey!

Cicely.

For what I weep, Ah! Joan, didst thou but
know,

Thou’dst pity (sure) not wonder at my Woe.

Ah wretched Maid! thus ever let me cry,

From Morn till Night; then lay me down, and die.

Joan. G3r 85

Joan.

Ah! tell me, Cicely—tho’ to ask I dread;

Yet, pr’ythee, tell me; Is old Brindle dead?

(Since yester Morn I have not heard her lowe)

If so—who would not weep for such a Cow?

Cicely.

’Tis not for her I shed this scalding Tear:

Ah! no—old Brindle is not half so dear!

I’ve lost—But who—for Sobs I cannot tell;

And his last Word was—“Cicely, farewel.”

Joan.

O how I tremble!—pr’ythee, tell me who?

Cicely.

Young Colin Clumsey—He was known to you.

For ever curs’d be that same Market-day,

When a vile Serjeant led my Youth astray!

Far from his Home my Colin’s doom’d to die,

My lovely Colin with the rolling Eye.

G3 Joan. G3v 86

Joan.

Yet bear thy Sorrows with a patient Mind:

They say the Duke is to his Soldiers kind.

So may he thrive, and all Rebellions quell,

As he shall use thy much-lov’d Colin well!

Cicely.

Ah! sooth me not—There’s nothing left for me,

But the clear Fountain, and the Willow Tree.

Since Colin’s fled, no more I turn the Wheel:

There lies the Spindle, and the useless Reel.

Joan.

Be patient, Girl; and stop that falling Tear:

For here comes Deb’rah with a Quart of Beer.

So, Neighbour, so; we’ve special News To-day,

Or else Dame Deb’rah wou’d not look so gay.

Deborah.

We’ve kill’d two thousand of the Rogues (d’ye mind?)

Egad, their Gen’ral durst not look behind;

Tho’ G4r 87

Tho’ Gaffer Doubt-man (with the blinking Eye)

Says, ’tis but Fifty—and that’s pretty nigh.

Joan.

Then let us Drink—Come, Cicely, to thy Dear!

We’ll have no Whining nor no Sniv’ling here.

Health to the Duke, and all that do him Aid!

How Cicely drinks!—but Cicely is a Maid.

Deborah.

’Tis a brave Man, and has a lucky Hand,

This Duke of what d’ye call it—Cumberland.

Heav’n bless this Duke, and all his Train! say I.

Let’s pledge thee, Cicely; for I’m deadly dry.

Joan.

My Husband lost his Purse at Cheatham Fair.

Last Night a Beam broke down, and kill’d the Mare.

These Things are hard to such as thee and I:

But yet we’ll drink, because the Rebels fly.

G4 Deborah G4v 88

Deborah.

This Beer is good—Say, how d’ye like it? ho!

And shall I fetch the other Pot, or no?

Hark, the Men shout, and Bonfires light the Plain:

Then shall we sit, and lick our Lips in vain?

Joan.

Troth, Goody Deb’rah, troth, it is a Crime

To drink so much—but only for the Time.

Bring t’other Quart, although there is no need

But one Draught more, and I have done indeed.

The Complaint.

Was I the Sport of Simo’s idle Tongue,

Did sowre Maurus criticize my Song,

Did stern Prœcisus blame my want of Grace,

Or sprightly Strephon titter at my Face,

This G5r 89

This I cou’d bear with an heroic Mind;

Nor (like a Poet) take Revenge in kind:

Their rude Reproach wou’d glide neglected by,

Nor steal one Slumber from my closing Eye;

Pass by un-felt, as distant Thunders roll:

But, from a Friend, it stabs the inmost Soul;

Darts through the Bosom with a mortal Sting;

Strikes to the Heart, and probes the vital Spring.

O Reason! say, Hast thou a cordial Balm

To stop this Tear, and make the Tempest calm?

Tell me, ’tis I that aggravate the Pain:

My Friend was kind; but only spoke too plain.

This may be true—But ’tis a constant Rule,

They must despise me, who can think me Fool.

With fansy’d Spots shou’d we our Friends upbraid?

Why must that Folly to her Charge be laid,

Which Mira’s Foes, who at a Lye excell,

Forget to number, when her Faults they tell;

And which (tho’ I no mighty Wisdom boast)

Amongst all Follies I abhor the most?

With G5v 90

With Face that never chang’d its wonted Hue,

See Dunco, blest, amid the stupid Crew;

Whose lazy Blood still keeps an equal Flow;

Whose Cheek with Blushes ne’er was taught to glow.

Ill-natur’d Jests may round the Table fly:

You read no Anguish in his stedfast Eye.

He finds them not, by Dullness fortify’d;

But still rests happy with un-feeling Pride.

This Friend is false; but he will ne’er complain:

And This expires; yet he feels no Pain.

Let Friends, or Fortune, fly which Way they will;

Yet stupid Dunco will be Dunco still.

He neither Sorrow nor Compassion knows:

These are the Souls that share a fix’d Repose.

Wretched are they, whose tender Spirits know

A keen Sensation from the slightest Woe;

Whose swelling Hearts each little Blow offends,

That’s giv’n by Malice, or mistaken Friends;

3 Whose G6r 91

Whose busy Thoughts are always on the Wing,

And pick out Satire when there’s no such thing.

Such through false Optics all their Wrongs behold.

(Who would be fashion’d in so fine a Mould?)

Hence-forth, ye Wits, receive it as a Rule;

There’s none so happy, as the Dunce and Fool.

The Pocket-Book’s Soliloquy.

Ah! cruel Fortune, fickle Dame,

Alas! where am I now?

With me let Mortals curse the Name,

And shun thy tempting Brow.

Directed to a fairer Dome,

From Lud’s great Town I came:

Contented left my native Home,

To serve a gentle Dame.

There G6v 92

There fondly hoping to endure,

I blest the happy Change,

And rested in her Smile secure:

For who would wish to range?

But She, alas! the cruel She!

Has cast me from her Arms;

And not a Hope remains for me,

And my degraded Charms.

Was it for this the Artist made

These shining Robes for me,

In hopes to please some beauteous Maid,

Or Nymph of high Degree?

Must I for ever here remain,

And in Oblivion sleep?

Some Poet’s God, oh! ease my Pain,

Or give me Eyes to weep!

Some G7r 93

Some Friend in Pity tear away

This Robe of shining Hue;

And like my Fate, be my Array,

A Gown of dirty Blue.

And thou, great Saturn, Foe to Rhyme!

Be thou a Friend to me:

Preserve me in this dang’rous Time:

From Metre keep me free.

Should Mira stain my snowy Page,

Do thou compose her Head.

Let thy cold Opium spoil her Rage,

And turn her Pen to Lead.

The Pocket-Book Petition to Parthenissa.

Slaves will be heard, and so will I.

Tho’ Princes shun the hated Cry;

Yet G7v 94

Yet Parthenissa’s gentle Ear,

At least, will not refuse to hear.

Tho’ I’m discarded from your Train,

To grace the Cottage of a Swain;

In Darkness doom’d to curse my Fate,

And serve a Mistress that I hate;

Yet no Invectives will I throw

On you, whose Bounty caus’d my Woe.

I only ask, to please my Pride,

I ask—(and now you look aside)

The Favour’s great to Me, ’tis true;

But sure it means no Harm to you.

Dear Madam, only take your Pen,

And dip it in your Ink; and then

Move o’er my Leaves your easy Hand:

Then sprinkle on a little Sand:

This done, return me when you please,

And I from hence will live at Ease;

Nor once, repining at my Cell,

With Darkness, Dirt, and Mira, dwell.

Par- G8r 95

Parthenissa’sAnswer to the PocketBook’s
Soliloquy.

Written in the same; and returned to Mrs.
Leapor
next Day.

Can Mira’s Pen offend thy Pride?

Insulting Varlet! come:

Then mine shall scrall thy swelling Side,

And send thee raving Home.

Yes, Minion, since thou can’st decline

The Honours of her Hand,

And fawningly solicit mine;

Enjoy thy wise Demand.

Already G8v 96

Already would’st thou fly? But stay:

Not yet you pass my Door.

’Tis true I have not much to say;

Yet long to plague thee more.

How undeserv’d thy happy Fate!

Till thou hast learnt to prize

True Merit planted in a State

That blinds thy partial Eyes.

Oh! spare your Lead: It hurts my Page.

Hold out, avenging Pow’r!

Thou well deserv’st it, if my Rage

Should keep thee here this Hour.

Didst thou not insolently dare

To spurn at Mira’s Lays?

So may each mean Despiser fare;

That envies her the Bays!

To H1r 97

To mortify thy foolish Pride,

That stands so plain confess’d,

Take a Friend’s Word; thy gay Outside

Is Tinsel, at the best.

Then boast no more thy gaudy Cloaths,

Nor once presume to think,

Thou can’st deserve, in Verse or Prose,

A Drop of Mira’s Ink.

But go, and humbly sue thy Peace:

Then, if she can forgive,

And deign to touch thy vacant Leaves,

They may for Ages live.

What better could thy Fate decree,

What more Ambition hope?

Know’st thou who ’twas accepted thee?

The Successor of Pope.

Vol. II. H The H1v 98

The pitying Muses, at his Death,

The drooping World to chear,

Reclaim’d his fleeting tuneful Breath,

And kindly fix’d it here.

Who would have thought it? Let me go:

For Pity let me pray.

So hasty, Friend?―Release me, oh!

’Tis cruel to delay.

Nature undone by Art.

When first Alexis bless’d our wond’ring
Eyes,

Like some young De’ty of the pregnant Skies;

His blooming Form by Nature richly dress’d;

Nor purple Crime had stain’d his iv’ry Breast:

His H2r 99

His pleasing voice diffus’d a gen’ral Joy,

And list’ning virgins bless’d the charming Boy.

His just Reflections, while they taught, allur’d;

His Smiles were harmless, and his Language pure:

He learn’d with Pleasure, and he taught with Ease:

Whate’er Alexis did, was sure to please.

Gorgonian Malice found a soothing Charm;

No envious Tongue could wish Alexis Harm:

For thrifty Nature, like a partial Mother,

To form one lovely Image, strips another;

And makes the beauteous Darling of her Breast

Perfection only, while she starves the rest.

On this gay Youth she lavish’d all her Pride,

Till he, ingrateful, wander’d from her Side:

Then polish’d Art, with her affected Train

Of glitt’ring Shadows, won the cheated Swain;

Dissimulation roll’d her leering Eyes,

With courteous Knavery, and well-bred Lyes;

Affectation, Pride; a motly Throng;

And smiling Flatt’ry, with her silver Tongue:

H2 These H2v 100

These taught those once engaging Eyes to roll,

And cast Pollution on his tainted Soul.

In his dark Breast tumultuous Passions rise,

Where guilty Flame and smother’d Hatred lies.

Now the chang’d Idiot can his Rhet’ric spend

To praise a Coxcomb, or deceive his Friend.

His Heart, whence Truths eternal us’d to spring,

Where Honour reign’d as undisputed King,

Is now a Dungeon for the Dregs of Sin.

Deceit, Ingratitude, and Av’rice, now

Have stain’d the Whiteness of his alter’d Brow:

Not worth our Pity, and below Disdain;

We look with Loathing, and we hear with Pain.

Mira to Octavia.

Octavia, loveliest of thy charming Kind,

Whose pleasing Form is but a beauteous
Shrine

To thousand Virtues, and a fairer Mind;

Your H3r 101

Your wond’ring Servant has been lately told,

That you, despising Settlements and Gold,

Resolve to take Philander, poor and gay,

To Have and Hold, for Ever and for Aye.

Pardon my Fault, in off’ring to advise

A thinking Virgin, like Octavia wise:

Fate knew your Worth, and did her Fav’rite raise

Above my Censure, and beyond my Praise:

But out-law’d Poets scorn the beaten Rules,

And leave Distinction to the Forms of Fools;

Can make e’en Jove descend in golden Show’rs,

And form new Statues on Olympian Bow’rs:

Or, shiv’ring by the Side of rural Springs,

At Courtiers rail, and satirize on Kings.

Of these am I, who with presumptuous Pen,

Subscribe myself the fair Octavia’s Friend:

But how shall we that honour’d Title prove

To a young Lady, and attack her Love?

H3 Frown H3v 102

Frown not, sweet Virgin; we’ll Decorums keep;

Philander’s Faults shall in Oblivion sleep.

Peace to his Name!—These only are design’d

A simple Lecture to our easy Kind.

But round us first an Audience let me call:

Draw near, and listen, O ye Maidens all.

of Wives I sing, and Husbands, not a few:

Examples rare! some fictions, and some true.

You, bright Octavia, need no cautious Rule,

To know, detest, and shun an irksome Fool:

But less sagacious Virgins often take

Nonsense for Wit, and rue the dire Mistake.

Of these, Pamela, beauteous without Pride;

Bless’d with more Sense than half her Sex beside;

Was in her Prime by Youths incircled round,

Who, as she trod, adr’d the hallow’d Ground;

Till, tir’d of Flatt’ry, and the odious Chace,

She fled for Shelter to a Fool’s Embrace:

Yet H4r 103

Yet her calm Brow betrays no sullen Frown,

And her own Virtue spares the Idiot’s Crown.

But could our Eyes behold the deep Recess,

Where soft Pamela’s Thoughts in private rest,

You’d find, in spite of Hymen’s sacred vows,

Ten Hours in Twelve that she abhors her Spouse.

’Tis true, this Case will not Octavia fit;

For ev’n his Foes allow Philander Wit;

In whose dear Cause so strongly you dispute:

But then remember Sylvia, and be mute.

Sylvia the Fair, her Father’s only Pride,

To noble Lysias was a beauteous Bride;

Lysias, admir’d by all the gazing Croud,

With Wit good-natur’d, nor with Learning proud;

Well vers’d in Morals, and in sacred Song;

Nor e’er was heard to give his Judgment wrong.

His Smiles more Converts than his Precepts won;

The Proud and Stubborn to his Lectures run:

H4 For H4v 104

For none like Lysias could the Froward win;

And Youths were proud of a Rebuke from him:

A kind Companion, and a faithful Guide;

Pleasant to all, except his doating Bride.

Ah! now his Guilt our next Attention calls:

The Act is over, and the Curtain falls.

Through a bright Scene of Virtues we have ran;

But here our Saint degen’rates into Man.

Yet Sylvia might the nicest Fancy please;

And all her Actions wore a graceful Ease:

Adorn’d with ev’ry Charm that sweetens Life;

No Fault she had, except the name of “Wife”;

Till smother’d Grief the fading Roses tore

From her soft Cheek, and Sylvia shines no more.

Now her gay Spouse amongst his Friends survey,

Smiling as sweetly as the rising Day;

Who Fit in Rapture, with their Senses hung,

On the bewitching Music of his Tongue.

Just H5r 105

Just in their Mirth comes in his humble Fair,

With smiling Visage, and obsequious Air;—

“My Dear, are you at Leisure? Dinner stays”

He, frowning, answers: “I’ll consult my Ease.

Hence with your dull Impertinence, I pray;

And talk of Vapours o’er your darling Tea.”

She goes, with aching Heart, and streaming Eyes,

To curse her Fondness, and the Fate of Wives.

Tycho, with Study and Ill-nature sour’d;

With Learning peevish, and with Spleen devour’d;

Disdains to look on aught below the Sky:

And his bright Celia sits neglected by.

His prattling Infants make their Court in vain;

The rolling Planets fill his working Brain;

Whose Systems make the trembling Stars afraid,

And Virgo blushes like an earthy Maid.

While thus he triumphs thro’ th’ ethereal Way,

Can Tycho bear the Sight of human Clay?

Ah! H5v 106

Ah! Celia, no:—I pray give o’er your Tears:

No Room for Wife among the shining Spheres.

Chloe, a Prude, the strictest of her Tribe,

Renounc’d all Sin, except her darling Pride:

Pamphilia’s Wit as Blasphemy she view’d,

And call’d the Smiles of Leonora lewd.

If Men were by, she could not taste her Tea;

Nor scarce distinguish Brandy from Bohea.

To Church she ventur’d, if the Sky was clear;

But saw no Soul, except the Parson, there.

She read the Psalms, secur’d behind her Fan;

But lost her Sentence at the Sight of Man.

Enthusianio saw this sober Maid:

Enthusianio was to Love betray’d.

As great a Sinner, and a Saint, was he;

And much a greater Hypocrite than She.

Twelve honest Youths he to the Army sent:

Their Crimes were eating Sausages in Lent.

He H6r 107

He broke his Page unhappy Ralpho’s Crown,

Because he trod upon the Parson’s Gown.

He courted Chloe in no vulgar Style;

Nor e’er approach’d her with an earthly Smile:

With Sternhold’s Phrase he won the lovely Dame:

No witty Couplet did his Lips profane:

He scorn’d the Language and the Court of Beaux,

And sent her Bibles, ’stead of Billet-doux.

This modest Virgin took her serious Slave,

As a kind Usher to her silent Grave;

With him would rail at Poetry and Play,

And mutter Scandal o’re her morning Tea;

The Hearts of Maidens in their Dress could view,

And shrewdly blame the Tye on Celia’s Shoe,

The Knot of Sylvia, —Zephalinda’s Curl;

And Wretches headlong to Destruction hurl.

But now her Lamb has shed his borrow’d Skin,

And stands confest the brazen Wolf of Sin.

And H6v 108

And yet the Fool, with Impudence and Pride,

Still preaches Duty to his mourning Bride;

That Men unquestion’d round the World may roam,

While the good Wife, at her industrious Home,

Without repining, must her Lord obey,

Nor without Leave should taste her fav’rite Tea:

Women should feed on simple Meats and thin:

High Food inspir’d the wand’ring Mind to Sin.

And when her Spouse in secret would attend

His wanton Mistress, or his drunken Friend.

He to her Closet leads this humble Fair;

Bids her be good; and shuts her up to Pray’r:

Thus may Octavia in our Picture see,

What others are, and She must shortly be.

Poets and Painters then, perhaps you’ll cry,

Oft in their Satire, and their Canvas, lye.

But, dear Octavia, in the Case of Wife,

I fear the Shade but faintly apes the Life.

Yet, H7r 109

Yet, not a Rebel to your Hymen’s Law,

His sacred Altars I behold with Awe:

Nor Foe to Man, for I acknowledge yet

Some Men have Honour, as some Maids have Wit.

But then remember, these, my learned Fair,

Old Authors tell us, are extremely rare.

And shall Octavia prostitute her Store,

To buy a Tyrant with the tempting Ore?

Besides, I fear your Shackles will be found

Too dearly purchas’d with a thousand Pound.

Then be the charming Mistress of thy Gold;

While young, admir’d; and rev’renc’d, when you’re
Old.

The Grave and Sprightly shall thy Board attend,

The gay Companion, and the serious Friend.

Let meagre Wits a kind Acceptance find,

And boast they lately with Octavia din’d.

Let H7v 110

Let hungry Orphans there redress their Woes;

Pity for these, let Mira plead for those.

So may your Days in Halcyon Moments run,

Happy at rising and declining Sun!

Still may Octavia bless the infant Day,

And still with Smiles behold its parting Ray!

Till those gay Roses bid your Cheeks adieu,

And your brown Locks shall take a silver Hue.

Then, calm as weary Infants seek Repose,

Octavia shall her beauteous Eye-lids close;

Then sable Night shall lead a weeping Train

Of melting Sorrows o’er the mourning Plain:

With real Sighs shall youthful Bosoms swell,

And crouding Virgins seek a last Farewel:

Pity shall triumph in the Breasts of Men;

And Eyes shall weep, which never wept till then.

Crum- H8r 111

Crumble-Hall.

When Friends or Fortune frown on Mira’s
Lay,

Or gloomy Vapours hide the Lamp of Day;

With low’ring Forehead, and with aching Limbs,

Oppress’d with Head-ach, and eternal Whims,

Sad Mira vows to quit the darling Crime:

Yet takes her Farewel, and repents, in Rhyme.

But see (more charming than Armida’s Wiles)

The Sun returns, and Artemisia smiles:

Then in a trice the Resolutions fly;

And who so frolick as the Muse and I?

We sing once more, obedient to her Call;

Once more we sing; and ’tis of Crumble-Hall;

That H8v 112

That Crumble-Hall, whose hospitable Door

Has fed the Stranger, and reliev’d the Poor;

Whose Gothic Towers, and whose rusty Spires,

Were known of old to Knights, and hungry Squires.

There powder’d Beef, and Warden-Pies, were found:

And Pudden dwelt within her spacious Bound:

Pork, Peas, and Bacon (good old English Fare!),

With tainted Ven’son, and with hunted Hare:

With humming Beer her Vats were wont to flow,

And ruddy Nectar in her Vaults to glow.

Here came the Wights, who battled for Renown,

The sable Frier, and the russet Clown:

The loaded Tables sent a sav’ry Gale,

And the brown Bowls were crown’d with simp’ring
Ale;

While the Guests ravag’d on the smokling Store,

Till their stretch’d Girdles would contain no more.

Of this rude Palace might a Poet sing

From cold December to returning Spring;

Tell I1r 113

Tell how the Building spreads on either Hand,

And two grim Giants o’er the Portals stand;

Whose grisled Bears are neither comb’d nor shorn,

But look severe, and horribly adorn.

Then step within—there stands a goodly Row

Of oaken Pillars—where a gallant Show

Of mimic Pears and carv’d Pomgranates twine,

With the plump Clusters of the spreading Vine.

Strange Forms above, present themselves to View,

Some Mouths that grin, some smile, and some that
spew.

Here a soft Maid or Infant seems to cry:

Here stands a Tyrant, with distorted Eye:

The Roof—no Cyclops e’er could reach so high:

Not Polypheme, tho’ form’d for dreadful Harms,

The Top could measure with extended Arms.

Here the pleas’d Spider plants her peaceful Loom:

Here weaves secure, nor dreads the hated Broom.

Vol. II I But I1v 114

But at the Head (and furbish’d once a Year)

The Heralds mystic Compliments appear:

Round the fierce Dragon “Honi Soit” twines,

And Royal Edward o’er the Chimney shines.

Safely the Mice through yon dark Passage run,

Where the dim Windows ne’er admit the Sun.

Along each Wall the Stranger blindly feels;

And (trembling) dreads a Spectre at his Heels.

The sav’ry Kitchen much Attention calls:

Westphalia Hams adorn the sable Walls:

The Fires blaze; the greasy Pavements fry;

And steaming Odours from the Kettles fly.

See! yon brown Parlour on the Left appears,

For nothing famous, but its leathern Chairs,

Whose shining Nails like polish’d Armour glow,

And the dull Clock beats audible and slow.

But I2r 115

But on the Right we spy a Room more fair:

The Form—’tis neither long, nor round, nor square;

The Walls how lofty, and the Floor how wide,

We leave for learned Quadrus to decide.

Gay China Bowls o’er the broad Chimney shine,

Whose long Description would be too sublime:

And much might of the Tapestry be sung:

But we’re content to say, The Parlour’s hung.

We count the Stairs, and to the Right ascend,

Where on the Walls the gorgeous Colours blend.

There doughty George bestrides the goodly Steed;

The Dragon’s slaughter’d, and the Virgin freed:

And there (but lately rescu’d from their Fears)

The Nymph and serious Ptolemy appears:

Their aukward Limbs unwieldy are display’d;

And, like a Milk-wench, glares the royal Maid.

I2 From I2v 116

From Hence we turn to more familiar Rooms;

Whose Hangings ne’er were wrought in Grecian
Looms:

Yet the soft Stools, and eke the lazy Chair,

To Sleep invite the Weary, and the Fair.

Shall we proceed?—Yes, if you’ll break the
Wall:

If not, return, and tread once more the Hall.

Up ten Stone Steps now please to drag your Toes,

And a bright Passage will succeed to those.

Here the strong Doors were aptly fram’d to hold

Sir Wary’s Person, and Sir Wary’s Gold.

Here Biron sleeps, with Books encircled round;

And him you’d guess a Student most profound.

Not so—in Form the dusty Volumes stand:

There’s few that wear the Mark of Biron’s Hand.

Would I3r 117

Would you go farther?—Stay a little then:

Back thro’ the Passage—down the Steps again;

Thro’ yon dark Room—Be careful how you tread

Up these steep Stairs—or you may break your Head.

These Rooms are furnish’d amiably, and full:

Old Shoes, and Sheep-ticks bred in Stacks of Wool;

Grey Dobbin’s Gears, and Drenching-Horns enow;

Wheel-spokes—the Irons of a tattr’d Plough.

No farther—Yes, a little higher, pray:

At yon small Door you’ll find the Beams of Day,

While the hot Leads return the scorching Ray.

Here a gay Prospect meets the ravish’d Eye:

Meads, Fields, and Groves, in beauteous Order lie.

From hence the Muse precipitant is hurl’d,

And drags down Mira to the nether World.

Thus far the Palace—Yet there still remain

Unsung the Gardens, and the menial Train.

I3 Its I3v 118

Its Groves anon—its People first we sing:

Hear, Artemisia, hear the Song we bring.

Sophronia first in Verse shall learn to chime,

And keep her Station, tho’ in Mira’s Rhyme;

Sophronia sage! whose earned Knuckles know

To form round Cheese-cakes of the pliant Dough;

To bruise the Curd, and thro’ her Fingers squeeze

Ambrosial Butter with the temper’d Cheese:

Sweet Tarts and Pudden, too, her Skill declare;

And the soft Jellies, hid from baneful Air.

O’er the warm Kettles, and the sav’ry Steams,

Grave Colinettus of his Oxen dreams:

Then, starting, anxious for his new-mown Hay,

Runs headlong out to view the doubtful Day:

But Dinner calls with more prevailing Charms;

And surly Gruffo in his aukward Arms

Bears the tall Jugg, and turns a glaring Eye,

As tho’ he fear’d some Insurrection nigh

From the fierce Crew, that gaping stand a-dry.

O’er- I4r 119

O’er-stuff’d with Beef; with Cabbage much too
full,

And Dumpling too (fit Emblem of his Skull!)

With Mouth wide open, but with closing Eyes

Unwieldy Roger on the Table lies.

His able Lungs discharge a rattling Sound:

Prince barks, Spot howls, and the tall Roofs rebound.

Him Urs’la views; and, with dejected Eyes,

“Ah! Roger, Ah!” the mournful Maiden cries:

“Is wretched Urs’la then your Care no more,

That, while I sigh, thus you can sleep and snore?

Ingrateful Roger! wilt thou leave me now?

For you these Furrows mark my fading Brow:

For you my Pigs resign their Morning Due:

My hungry Chickens lose their Meat for you:

And, was it not, Ah! was it not for thee,

No goodly Pottage would be dress’d by me.

For thee these Hands wind up the whirling Jack,

Or place the Spit across the sloping Rack.

I4 “I I4v 120

I baste the Mutton with a chearful Heart,

Because I know my Roger will have Part.”

Thus she—But now her Dish-kettle began

To boil and blubber with the foaming Bran

The greasy Apron round her Hips she ties,

And to each Plate the scalding Clout applies:

The purging Bath each glowing Dish refines,

And once again the polish’d Pewter shines.

Now to those Meads let frolick Fancy rove,

Where o’er yon Waters nods a pendant Grove;

In whose clear Waves the pictur’d Boughs are seen,

With fairer Blossoms, and a brighter Green.

Soft flow’ry Banks the spreading Lakes divide:

Sharp-pointed Flags adorn each tender Side.

See! the pleas’d Swans along the Surface play;

Where yon cool Willows meet the scorching Ray,

When fierce Orion gives too warm a Day.

But, I5r 121

But, hark! what Scream the wond’ring Ear invades!

The Dryads howling for their threaten’d Shades:

Round the dear Grove each Nymph distracted flies

(Tho’ not discover’d but with Poet’s Eyes):

And shall those Shades, where Philomela’s Strain

Has oft to Slumber lull’d the hapless Swain;

Where Turtles us’d to clap their silken Wings;

Whose rev’rend Oaks have known a hundred
Springs;

Shall these ignobly from their Roots be torn,

And perish shameful, as the abject Thorn;

While the slow Carr bears off their aged Limbs,

To clear the Way for Slopes and modern Whims;

Where banish’d Nature leaves a barren Gloom,

And aukward Art supplies the vacant Room?

Yet (or the Muse for Vengeance calls in vain)

The injur’d Nymphs shall haunt the ravag’d Plain:

Strange I5v 122

Strange Sounds and Forms shall teaze the gloomy
Green;

And Fairy-Elves by Urs’la shall be seen:

Their new-built Parlour shall with Echoes ring:

And in their Hall shall doleful Crickets sing.

Then cease, Diracto, stay thy desp’rate Hand;

And let the Grove, if not the Parlour, stand.

Upon I6r 123

Upon her Play being returned to her, stained
with Claret.

Welcome, dear Wanderer, once more!

Thrice welcome to thy native Cell!

Within this peaceful humble Door

Let Thou and I contented dwell!

But say, O whither hast thou rang’d?

Why dost thou blush a Crimson Hue?

Thy fair Complexion’s greatly chang’d:

Why, I can scarce believe ’tis you.

Then tell, my Son, O tell me, Where

Didst thou contract this sottish Dye?

You kept ill Company, I fear,

When distant from your Parent’s Eye.

Was I6v 124

Was it for This, O graceless Child!

Was it for This, you learn’d to spell?

Thy Face and Credit both are spoil’d:

Go drown thyself in yonder Well.

I wonder how thy Time was spent:

No News (alas!) hadst thou to bring.

Hast thou not climb’d the Monument?

Nor seen the Lions, nor the King?

But now I’ll keep you here secure:

No more you view the smoaky Sky:

The Court was never made (I’m sure)

For Idiots, like Thee and I.

I7r

The
Unhappy Father.
A
Tragedy.

I7v I8r

Dramatis Personæ.

Dycarbas, the Unhappy Father.

Lycander,

Polonius,

Sons of Dycarbas, in Love with
Terentia.

Eustathius, Nephew of Dycarbas, and Husband
of Emilia.

Leonardo, Cousin to Eustathius.

Paulus, Servant to Dycarbus.

Plynus, Servant to Eustathius.

Timnus, Servant to Polonius.

Emilia, Daughter of Dycarbus.

Terentia, a young Lady under the Guardianship
of Dycarbas.

Claudia, Servant to Terentia.

Scene, a Gentleman’s Country-House.
The I8v K1r

The
Unhappy Father.

Act I.

Scene an Apartment.

Polonius and Terentia meeting.

Polonius.

Oh! my Terentia, not the dawning Sun,

That now shines lovely on the dewy Hills,

Wears half the Sweetness of thy pleasing Form:

This docile Heart, confessing thy Approach,

Leaps in its Bosom like the bounding Roe:

No other Object these fond Eyes behold;

No other Wish, but still to gaze on thee.

Terentia.

Yes, my Polonius, yes; I will confess,

That my glad Spirits triumph in thy Love;

Vol.II. K That, K1v 130

That, while I see thee here, and know thee kind,

The laughing Days unheeded glide away,

And the soft Seasons wear eternal Spring;

My former Woes lie bury’d in Oblivion,

The Wrongs and Sorrows of my Infant Years:

Then are we truly happy, or deceiv’d?

Polonius.

Then are we happy!—Where remains the Doubt?

Didst thou, Terentia, didst thou doat like me,

Sure thy full Soul would find no vacant room

For dull Misgivings, and for cold Surmise:

No wand’ring Guest would find Admittance there;

But smiling Hope, Joy, Constancy, and Love.

Terentia.

In this strange World, made up of Sun and Show’rs,

Who e’er was plac’d beyond the Reach of Woe?

The Cheek, that late was dimpled o’er with Smiles,

Pleas’d with the Farce of transitory Joy,

Grows pale and languid, if the Curtain falls,

Till the next Scene exhibits something gay:

Then childish Fancy, glad to catch the Laugh,

Is happy till the next returning Storm.

Polo- K2r 131

Polonius.

But why this grave Philosophy To-day?

Leave these dull Lessons for more gloomy Hours:

Thy charming Voice far better would become

The gentle Numbers of enchanting Song:

’Tis thine to smooth, to harmonize the Soul,

Soft warbling to the Lute’s responsive Sound.

Terentia.

O say, thou smiling, dear Deceiver, say,

Canst thou, with Shew of Ecstasy and Truth,

Avow thy Heart the Slave of its Terentia?

But soon, if Honour, if Ambition call,

The careless Youth can throw his Darling by,

For brighter Views; and part without a Pang.

Last Night I heard—I heard with wounded Ears,

Your cruel Father (never so till then)

Give the strict Orders for your hasty Voyage.

My swelling Heart was stung with bitter Grief;

But you receiv’d the Sentence with a Smile.

Polonius.

Alas! Terentia, why wouldst thou alarm

The lurking Woes that slumber’d in my Breast?

K2 Why K2v 132

Why wouldst thou tear from this unguarded Heart

The little Fort which Reason lately made?

(Weak Engineer against thy Sex’s Charms!)

Could those bright Eyes pierce thro’ my naked Soul,

And there behold the Tumult thou hast rais’d;

See the rous’d Passions wage a desp’rate War,

And Love and Duty struggle for the Crown;

’Twould merit Pity, not deserve Reproach:

For I must own, in spite of artful Smiles,

Put on to hide the Weakness of my Heart,

To part with thee is something more than Death:

’Tis more than Darkness, or the yawning Grave:

For thou art all—Believe me, thou art all

The Good, the Joy, the Life, of thy Polonius.

Terentia.

Small Arguments confute the willing Maid,

Whose partial Reason takes the Bribe of Love.

I trust thy Faith, thou Partner of my Soul:

Tho’ Mountains part us, Oceans roll between,

Or Whirlwinds bear us to the distant Poles,

Yet the freed Spirits shall again unite,

And take their Flight beyond the Reach of Fate.

But, see! —Your Father. Let us part a while,

Till some kind Moment favour us again.

Exit Polonius. K3r 133 Enter Dycarbas.

Dycarbas.

May many Mornings, all as fair as this,

Come, fraught with Pleasure, to attend on thee,

Thou pleasing Object of thy Guardian’s Care.

Terentia.

I found your Goodness in my Infant Years,

When, like the Genius of my Fate, you came,

Took me from Want, from Avarice, and Wrong,

And the stern Usage of a barb’rous Uncle;

My Fortune sav’d from the voracious Law;

And plac’d me here to thrive beneath your Smile.

If Deeds like this demand a Blessing, then

Sure Heav’n has Millions still in Store for you:

For You, ascend the Pray’rs of hoary Age,

Who share the Comfort of your bounteous Hand:

Deserted Babes are taught to lisp your Name,

And, smiling, stretch their little Hands to you.

Dycarbas.

To Heav’n I point my Actions, and my Hopes:

I ask no Praises, nor Reward, from Man:

Who follows Virtue for the sake of Fame,

K3 Will K3v 134

Will find his Pay Remorse and Disappointment;

And the lost Wretch will then be twice undone.

But say, Terentia, why this serious Air?

Why has thy Face forgot its wonted Smile?

Does Sickness, Grief, or Care, oppress thy Heart?

Unload your Woes, and they shall find a Friend.

Terentia.

My Woes, my Lord, are far beneath your Care;

Only the common Vapours of the Brain:

A Turn or two in yonder Garden Walks

Will bring my Spirits to their usual State.

Dycarbas.

May some blest Guardian wait upon thy Steps,

Watch o’er thy Thoughts, and lift them to the Sky!

Exit Terentia.

Dycarbas[Speaker label not present in original source]

Dycarbas solus.

Assist me, Heav’n! and teach me how to act

In this so nice, so delicate Affair:

My youngest Hope adores yon lovely Maid;

And (if I’m right) the same ill-fated Passion

Torments the Spirit of my elder Son:

Tho’ he in Secret hides the lambent Flame,

Yet K4r 135

Yet the still Treason wanders in his Eyes.

And have I nurs’d with Care these rival Flow’rs,

And taught them long to love each other’s Shade?

Now shall I see ’em clash their Hands together,

And in a Moment blast the Toil of Years.

Her Inclination my Consent has join’d

To give this beauteous Blessing to Polonius:

Then how? Ah! how, shall I recant; or how

See one Child happy, while another mourns?

’Tis Absence then must cure this growing Ill:

And while they both are distant from her Smiles,

Corroding Jealousy will find no Room:

And some new Beauty from Lycander’s Breast

Perhaps may banish this forbidden Fair.

And Thou, great Pow’r, whom none can comprehend;

At whose Command the rolling Worlds around

Keep their due Distance; nor transgress their
Sphere;

O let some delegated Saint receive

My erring Children to his sacred Charge,

And lead them softly in the Paths of Peace.

K4 Scene K4v 136

Scene the Garden.

Lycander. Terentia.

Terentia.

Why do you haunt my solitary Walk,

And make Retreat seem painful to my Soul?

When for the Blessing of a Moment’s Thought

To these soft Shades I take my lonely Way,

Methinks I hear your swifter Step behind:

I fly from thence; yet in the next dark Alley

Expect to meet the Face I fled before.

Lycander.

Yet ’tis no Monster that pursues you thus:

I wear no Serpent’s, nor no Tyger’s Form:

In me what is there that may cause Affright,

And move at once your Horror and your Hate?

Terentia.

Your Form, perhaps, may please some brighter
Fair,

And find a Conquest worthy of itself.

My heavy Taste was ne’er design’d to fit

The Judge of Beauty, and external Charms;

And K2r 137

And sure I am your Spirit would disdain

That it should pass a Sentence on your Mind:

How then can you debase that lofty Soul,

Where proud Philosophy and Science reign,

And push your lordly Reason from its Throne,

To court the Favour of a peevish Girl?

Lycander.

Insulting Fair!—These are your Sex’s Arts:

You spread your Charms to catch the heedless Eye,

To bring down Wisdom to your shining Lure;

And then upbraid the Idiots you have made.

But know, proud Maid, your Reign subsists on
Folly:

Let Men grow wise, and they will soon forsake
you;

While you, like Eastern Kings, grown mad with
Power,

Manage so ill the Morning of your Empire,

You seldom ever reach to its Meridian.

Terentia.

Your florid Tongue, that can so aptly paint

Another’s Fault—had better turn its Theme,

And try to make Atonement for its own.

Think K5v 138

Think you those Powers that our Actions view,

Whose piercing Eyes see thro’ the dusky Maze

Of winding Subtlety, and dark Deceit,

Will turn their strict impartial Eyes away,

Nor look, while you supplant a Friend and Brother?

Lycander.

Dost thou reproach me, thou, whose subtle Charms

First tore the Use of Reason from my Soul?

To Darkness go with that bewitching Face;

In some lone Cloyster hide thee from the Sun:

Perdition hovers in thy curling Locks,

And on thy Brow Destruction keeps her Throne.

Oh give me back, thou smiling Sorc’ress, do,

My former Reason, and substantial Ease.

Terentia.

Your Cure’s at Hand, if Absence be the Means:

This Form no longer shall offend your Eyes.

Going.

Lycander.

Yet stay, Terentia—Yet a Moment stay,

And give the Audience of a short-liv’d Minute

To him whose Story would employ an Age.

Proud as I am, this stubborn Heart must own

Terentia’s K6r 139

Terentia’s Conquest—tho’ it curse the Chain;

Couldst thou behold the agonizing Pains,

The whirling Racks, that tear my ravag’d Soul,

’Twould claim a Tear from those relentless Eyes.

Then give me one soft Smile before we part;

At least, dissemble, and deceive my Woe.

Terentia.

Adieu, my Lord! I’ll see your Face no more.

Exit Ter.

Lycander.

Hah! gone!—She’s gone, and I am left behind:

How left? —My Judgment, Sense, and Thought,
are fled,

And ev’ry reasoning Faculty of Soul.

There’s nothing left of me but a mere Image,

A worthless Statue of unthinking Clay.

Can Love do this? —Confusion to its Name!

Shall I, who long have scorn’d their little Arts,

Their practis’d Blushes, and affected Smiles;

Shall I at last commence the whining Boy,

And scribble Sonnets to the Queen of Charms?

Ye pitying Powers, lift me to myself;

If not, Oh sweep me to an instant Grave:

Take K6v 140

Take back my Spirit, or restore its Ease;

And give me Death, or Freedom; which you please.

Exit.

Scene an Apartment.

Dycarbas[Speaker label not present in original source]

Dycarbas solus.

O What a pleasing Magazine of Sweets

Does Virtue, planted early in the Soul,

Lay up for serious and reflecting Age!

When round my plenteous Table I behold

My lovely Daughter, with her noble Spouse;

And next to them my two majestic Sons,

Who look as tho’ they were of royal Lineage,

And born to give obedient Kingdoms Law;

Methinks I flourish like the spreading Vine,

Whose curling Branches are with Clusters hung,

That draw their Juices from its friendly Stem.

’Tis true, Eustathius is giv’n to Storms,

But quickly calm’d by Reason’s potent Sway,

Like Clouds that fly before the conqu’ring Sun:

These little Jars, that shake the Stream of Peace,

And vex the Spirits of these angry Lovers,

A Father’s Care must dissipate, and join

These K7r 141

These adverse Winds in one united Blast:

With him I’ve met Success; and over her

I claim th’ Authority of paternal Power.

But see, she comes――

Emilia.

Good Morrow, sacred Sir.

Dycarbas.

Have you lately seen Eustathius?

Emilia.

No—Like an Infant Criminal I fled,

To hide me from a Husband’s angry Frown.

Dycarbas.

Rather, Emilia, should you try to sooth it:

For your tempestuous Souls, so much resembling,

Are both too haughty, and disdain Subjection:

Such little Feuds as these would quickly cease,

If either Side did but incline to Reason.

But say, Emilia, are your Brothers ready?

My Orders were to forward their Departure,

And hasten each to his appointed Way.

Emilia. K7v 142

Emilia.

Your Orders, Sir, will certainly be honour’d;

But yet I grieve at parting with Polonius:

Ah! wherefore would you trust that tender Youth

To foreign Climates, and the dang’rous Ocean?

Dycarbas.

I see no Reason that I have to fear:

That sacred Pow’r, which oft has led Dycarbas

Thro’ bleeding Armies, and recoiling Hosts,

While the pale Legions trembled with Dismay,

Through all the Terrors of the hostile Field,

While the stain’d Armour pent my fainting Limbs,

His Mercy will preserve my darling Son

From barb’rous Rage, and the devouring Waves:

Besides, when Honour calls a Youth to Arms,

She will not listen to our puny Fears,

But stamps the Coward on a Wretch that lingers.

Emilia.

You sent Lycander to a distant Seat:

But why, my Father, will you part at once

With both the Pillars of your drooping Age?

Dycar- K8r 143

Dycarbas.

You know his Presence is required there:

But now, Emilia, list to what I say.

I see your struggling Soul is still in Motion:

The rebel Passions labour for a Vent.

But look you curb these intellectual Storms,

That shake the Regions of your troubled Breast:

And if the rugged Tyrandts will have Passage,

Let them be soften’d to repenting Tears:

Let Frowns no more contract thy lovely Brow,

But gentle Peace, and chearful Joy, restore

Thy smiling Features to their wonted Charms:

For wouldst thou please, the Way is easy.—

No more—for see the Morning Sun grows high,

And I have some Affairs require Attendance.

Exit Dyc.

Emilia,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Emilia sola.

When this cold Heart comes like a shiv’ring Exile

Wandering back again to this sad Bosom,

The discontented Vagrant finds with Grief

Its Habitation strange, and long forgotten

With Anguish fill’d, and longing to return;

The K8v 144

The mourning Criminal again repents,

And courts the Friendship of its lov’d Eustathius.

Eustathius. Emilia.

Eustathius.

In Tears, Emilia? —Spare those brilliant Eyes.

The Earth’s not worthy of that precious Dew:

O my Emilia, sure the savage Race

That range on Libya’s unfrequented Wilds,

Would soften into human Souls, could they

Behold the Charms of a relenting Beauty.

Emilia.

Canst thou forgive, Eustathius?—If thou canst,

Receive again this penitential Heart;

And with it take a reconciling Band

Of Resolutions to offend no more.

Eustathius.

Forgive thee, Fair one!—Who beholds that Face,

And would not give the Indies for a Smile?

What tho’ the lordly Reason of Eustathius

Be sometimes driven from his tott’ring Throne,

By rebel Passions, and tumultuous Storms?

This Breast has not imbib’d the Soul of Nero;

But L1r 145

But when the fumy Vapours are dispers’d,

And leave the Regions of my whirling Brain,

The frighted Virtues soon regain their Seats,

And smiling Peace unveils her tranquil Brow.

Emilia.

Then we again are happier than before:

So the Clouds hover round a Morning Sun,

To screen his Lustre from the drooping Flow’rs;

Till his Rays, piercing through the gilded Furls,

Chear the glad World, and make a double Day.

Eustathius.

Believe, Emilia, when I chid thee from me,

This fond Heart pleaded strongly in thy Cause,

And gave the Lye to my offending Tongue:

But now ’tis past; the Rebels are subdu’d;

The warring Pow’rs return to their Allegiance,

And court the gentle Empire of Emilia.

Such short-liv’d Anger fills a Mother’s Breast,

When from her Side she casts the froward Babe:

But when the little Criminal returns,

Panting with Grief, and reaching at her Arms,

The joyful Parent views him with a Smile,

And to her Bosom takes her darling Son;

Vol.II L Perceives L1v 146

Perceives new Charms, that ne’er were seen before;

And to her Heart she hugs the smiling Store.

Exeunt.

Scene the Fourth.

Dycarbas. Lycander. Polonius.

Dycarbas.

My Sons, be careful; ’tis a dang’rous Age;

Nor think, because you’re distant from the
Reach

And strict Observance of your Father’s Eye,

That you have Licence to indulge your Sense

In modern Luxury, and vicious Pleasure:

No!—Think, my Children, you are still in View

Of Heav’n’s broad Eye, and self-convicting Conscience.

Lycander.

Let the just Powers with a vengeful Hand

Sweep off our Bodies to an early Grave,

Ere we should live to blot your Days with Sorrow,

And shame the sacred Fountain of our Lives.

Dycar- L2r 147

Dycarbas.

’Tis nobly spoke!—Yet Heav’n’s avenging Hand

Could not a heavier Sentence find than this,

My Childrens Death.――Ye Pow’rs, avert the
Thought.

No!—First let me to my cold Habitation

Be calmly borne, and water’d with their Tears.

’Tis not, my Sons, I dread your flagrant Sins;

But there are smaller Crimes of Inadvertence,

Which make a Man look little in the World,

And blot his fair Pretension to Esteem.

And, first, Polonius, as your Business lies

Amongst those People, who, to human View,

Appear the Gross and Rabble of Mankind,

Let winning Mildness temper your Commands,

And keep your Heart from Insolence and Pride.

Be just; but fly, O fly, the Name of Cruel;

Nor cloud thy Face with arbitrary Frowns.

Heav’n shuts its Gates against the Name of Tyrant;

But Mercy will unbar the blissful Doors.

Polonius.

You long have taught this Lesson to my Soul,

Enforc’d by Precept, and Example too:

L2 And L2v 148

And should my rebel disobedient Heart

Attempt to blot the charitable Law,

Most justly you the Traitor might disown,

And from my Ancestors unspotted Line

Erase my Name, and put a Cypher there.

Dycarbas.

For you, Lycander; when you travel round

That fair Estate, which shall be soon your own,

View ev’ry Spot; see which will best employ

The wiling Peasant, and th’industrious Hind;

That quaking Poverty may find Relief,

And Plenty triumph o’er the laughing Fields.

And now, my Children, for a while we part,

Only to meet again with double Joy.

So—from our Eyes the radiant Sun retires,

And Nature seems to mourn his parting Fires.

Dejected Flow’rs their fading Heads recline,

And thro’ their Tears the drooping Lilies shine;

Till ruddy Morning lifts her dawning Eye,

And fresher Gales perfume the healthful Sky:

Then the gay Fields in fairer Beauty show,

And rosy Buds in dewy Mantles glow;

The joyful Linnets hop from Spray to Spray,

Clap their glad Wings, and hail returning Day.

ACT L3r 149

Act II.

Scene a Dressing-Room.

Terentia. Claudia.

Terentia.

What mean, ye Pow’rs, these visionary
Fears,

These horrid Forms, that hover round my Soul,

And with pale Terror shake her Midnight Hours?

Last Night, when Nature, wrapp’d in solemn Shade,

Sank down to Rest, and Cynthia’s Silver Beams

Had lighted up the Canopy of Heav’n;

My thoughtful Soul, grown weary of herself,

Forsook the Guidance of her cumbrous Charge,

And dropp’d supine into the Arms of Rest.

Then sickly Fancy, with a dreadful Crew

Of black Ideas, crouded on my Brain.

Methought, in pensive Darkness, and alone,

I wander’d thro’ yon high and gloomy Hall;

L3 When L3v 150

When at the farther End a feeble Light

Sprung up, and quiver’d o’er a marble Tomb;

There lay the perfect Figure of Emilia,

With Cheeks like Ashes, and her Bosom bloody:

A sleeping Phantom at her Feet was laid,

Whose pale Hand grasp’d a visionary Dagger.

Trembling, and shrieking, from the horrid Sight

I turn’d;—but stumbled on a slaughter’d Heap,

Whose muffled Faces from my Eyes were hid.

I drew the Cov’ring from the Head of one;

And, O! methought—methought, it was Dycarbas.

Claudia.

These are but idle Phantoms, only drawn

From broken Rest, and indigested Fumes.

Terentia.

So may it be!—Yet something like a Doubt

Still hovers on my discontented Soul.

Lycander has again renew’d the Siege,

And teas’d my Patience with his hated Love.

I know his Temper haughty and severe,

And to the utmost jealous of his Honour.

But, O ye Powers, sweep me from the Light,

Ere I should blast these hospitable Doors,

And, L4r 151

And, like the blazing Heralds of Despair,

Point out Destruction to this friendly Dwelling.

Claudia.

See!—The Lord Polonius.

Polonius.

Terentia, softest of thy gentle Kind,

What sullen Sorrows dare approach thy Soul,

And draw a Mist before those chearful Eyes?

Where are the Graces, and the sportive Smiles,

That us’d to wanton in thy pleasing Face?

Terentia.

What has Terentia now to do with Smiles?

No! let them grace some happier Maid than I,

Whose kinder Genius crowns her Days with
Pleasure,

And her soft Nights with undisturb’d Repose.

My Soul is rack’d with visionary Woes,

And boding Whispers fill her waking Hours.

Unkind Polonius! Wherefore would you fly,

And leave Terentia, for the sake of Fame?

Ah! cheated Youth! thy disappointed Heart

Will soon grow weary of its airy Mistress.

L4 Tho’ L4v 152

Tho’ smiling Honour with her painted Plumes

May draw thy partial Reason to her Side;

Yet think what Handmaids wait behind her
Throne;

Double-tongu’d Flatt’ry, and designing Fraud;

Care in the Front, and Danger in the Rear.

Polonius.

Thy Voice, my Fair, is sweet as hymning Angels;

Thy soft Complaining enters deeply here,

And melts the Manhood from my yielding Soul.

O then forbear! Nor clip my rising Wings.

Ere Nature cuts the slender Twine of Life,

I’d fain do something worthy of my Birth;

Something that may inform a future Age,

Polonius liv’d; and Thus and Thus did he.

When I have heard my good old Father paint

The dreadful Splendor of a glorious Field,

Methought I saw the streaming Colours wave,

And shining Lances sparkle to the Sun:

My youthful Cheeks grew warm at the Description,

And Hopes of Glory fill’d my infant Soul.

Teren- L5r 153

Terentia.

And where will all these short-liv’d Glories fly,

When those fair Eyelids shall be clos’d in Death,

And thou no more behold the chearful Sun?

Then shall those Laurels, dearly bought by thee,

Be soon transplanted to some worthless Brow.

Deluded Boy!—But go, I will not stay thee;

And leave me here to Solitude and Care.

Some fairer Dame shall please thy lofty Mind;

I ne’er was made to fit a Hero’s Arms.

Polonius.

No, barb’rous Maid!—Not doting Misers dwell

So fondly o’er their shining Heaps of Gold,

As my sad Spirits on their lov’d Terentia.

Could I suspect that lurking e’er A Blank left here.

Would stain the Core of this apostate Heart;

Myself should tear it from its secret Cell,

And throw the panting Victim at your Feet.

I swear――

Terentia.

No Oaths, my Friend; leave them to smiling
Vilains,

Who L5v 154

Who plot the Ruin of unthinking Maids:

I’d rather trust Polonius on his Word,

Than take the Bond of all his Sex beside.

But see, alas! the rolling Sun grows high,

And we must part—O! When to meet again?

Polonius.

Let no foreboding Thought disturb thy Peace,

Nor wound my trembling Spirit with thy Tears:

Fear not but we shall quickly meet. —Till then

May heav’nly Guardians hover round my Fair,

And smiling Angels fan her into Slumbers!

Ye Powers, make this Innocent your Care;

And teach me how to bid my Love—Farewel.

Exit Pol.

Terentia.

Farewel.—O spare the solitary Sound:

Just then the Raven rais’d a fearful Cry,

And from yon gloomy Elm the Bird of Night

Return’d her Answer with a hideous Scream.

You pitying Heavens, whose eternal Gates

Are always open to the Cries of Woe;

O! shut them not against Terentia’s Prayer:

Whatever Sorros are for her decreed,

4 This L6r 155

This willing Head shall meet the falling Rod:

But only spare, O! spare, my lov’d Polonius;

And when you blend the deadly Draught of Life,

Throw this one Jewel in the fatal Cup,

This only Gem; and let the rest be Gall.

Exit.

Scene the Second.

Lycander.

Why, what a Bubble is this Creature, Man!

So light! So inconsistent with himself!

That at ten times he seems ten diff’rent Creatures.

Just so I find it here.—This haughty Soul,

That never trembled at a threat’ning Foe,

Must own the Empire of a puny Woman.

O! say, ye heav’nly Delegates, that bear

The kingly Guidance of this moving Clay,

What Power is it plays the Tyrant thus,

That binds my Soul in these ignoble Chains?

Must I at last be call’d the Slave of Beauty,

And wear the Shackles of a smiling Girl?

O! Reason, Reason, help my failing Sense,

And free these Regions that were once thy own.

Emilia. L6v 156 Emilia. Lycander.

Emilia.

Lycander here!—A Tempest on his Brow!

How now! my Brother, do you linger here?

My Father lately told me you was gone.

Lycander.

’Tis not Lycander, but a coward Shade,

That fears to launch in Death’s eternal Ocean,

And panting hovers round its earthly Dome.

O my Emilia, I’ve surviv’d myself,

And know not how to act in this new Being.

How comes it? I, whose Soul was only read

In stern Philosophy, and sacred Morals;

Who look’d on Beauty with a careless Eye,

Nor paid the least Attention to its Charms;

What Magic bids me now so fondly dote

On what so lately I disdain’d to look on?

Woman, a Feather in the Cap of Nature!

I hate the Sex: And yet I love Terentia.

Emilia.

And can you then so easily resign

Your L7r 157

Your fair Pretensions to imperial Wisdom?

Canst thou be taught the Fawn of supple Lovers,

And the lost Languish of pretending Swains?

We are not won by honest homely Truths,

But gilded Artifice, and well-bred Lyes.

Couldst thou do this to gain a beauteous Idol,

With childish Features, and a sprightly Air?

Lycander.

I know the Weakness of your simple Kind:

You stand like blushing Beds of annual Flow’rs,

For one short Season, to allure the Eye:

Yet this fair Mischief! She has something still,

That wins our partial Senses to her Side:

Each little Action wears a graceful Ease,

And doubly charms, because it was Terentia’s.

Emilia.

But then, Lycander, she’s your Brother’s Right:

O strive to conquer this unlucky Flame,

Lest it should blaze into a Conflagration,

And light up Discord, with her Hand-maid Ruin.

Lycan- L7v 158

Lycander.

Hence with thy dull Philosophy, and leave

Those stupid Waters for the Draught of Fools;

For I am half-way down the desp’rate Steep:

My Brain grows giddy, and I can’t go back,

Altho’ ’tis moated round with deep Destruction:

Is there not a rev’rend Sage, call’d Time,

Who guides the Infancy of great Events;

A Foster-father to the Babes of Fate?

To him I’ll trust the Sceptre of my Passion,

And let the End be Happiness, or Woe.

But get thee gone to this enchanting Maid,

And plead the Cause of thy unhappy Brother:

I know the Friendship that subsists between you:

To you she’ll listen, tho’ you talk of me.

Go, summon all thy Sex’s gentle Wiles,

And with Persuasion tip thy artful Tongue.

Emilia.

How if it chance our Father comes to know

You linger here, and should suspect the Cause?

Alas! Lycander— Be thyself again,

Or find some Way to hide this new-born Folly.

Lycan- L8r 159

Lycander.

This native Pride binds up my stubborn Soul:

And yet I’d see Terentia ere we part.

I’ll to yon Grove, and hide myself from View,

Till dusky Gloom o’erspreads the Ev’ning Sky:

Do thou, my best Emilia, meet me there,

And bring Terentia to the balmy Shade.

Emilia.

And canst thou injure thus thy absent Brother?

Canst thou steal in upon his blooming Hope,

And from his Bosom rend the darling Joy?

Lycander.

O! my Emilia, spare the keen Reproach,

Lest I grow desp’rate, and forget my Nature.

Brother, ’tis true, was late a pleasing Name;

But Rival now is twisted with the Sound.

This boiling Bosom cannot bear Remorse;

So, for my Ease, I’ll never think again.

Emilia.

Once more, be calm; you shall command Emilia:

I find my better Reason must give way

To L8v 160

To mightier Fondness, and a Sister’s Love.

My partial Tongue shall learn to plead thy Cause,

And bring Terentia to the Poplar Grove.

Lycander.

Hark, Emilia――’tis my Father’s Step;

I’d rather meet my Death than him.—Farewel.

Exit Lycander. Emilia. Dycarbas.

Dycarbas.

Didst thou not call, Emilia?

Emilia.

Not I, my Lord.

Dycarbas.

Then, alas! What means my coward Fancy?

As lately in my Chair I sat reclin’d,

A heavy Gloom crept o’er my weary Soul,

And peaceful Slumber clos’d my willing Eyes:

But then a Voice struck thro’ my trembling Ears,

And call’d for Succour with a horrid Scream.

I am not superstitious: Yet my Soul

Would fain persuade some Evil is at hand.

Emi- M1r 161

Emilia.

The gracious Pow’rs will guard these silver Hairs

From black Misfortune, and disast’rous Chance;

Nor let the Pictures of a sickly Fancy

Disturb the Quiet of your guiltless Soul.

Our Fates can ne’er employ th’immortal Pow’rs,

Nor call for Omens from the troubled Sky.

’Tis true, perhaps, to shake a guilty Empire,

Heav’n sends its fiery Heralds of Despair;

Then frightful Meteors through the Welkin fly;

The conscious Earth shakes with convulsive Tremors,

And Kingdoms nod upon her failing Brow;

But we are distant from these pale-ey’d Fears

That hover round Ambition, and a Crown.

Dycarbas.

’Tis true, my Child; yet this foreboding Spirit

Still droops and trembles with unusual Fears.

Griefs and Misfortunes all Mankind must share;

They shake the Basis of the shining Throne,

And scatter Thorns upon the Labourer’s Pillow.

The Diff’rence is; the’ Afflictions of the Poor

Vol.II M In M1v 162

In secret lurk within the narrow Walls,

While the disastrous Hap of haughty Kings

Strikes like a fun’ral Dirge through trembling
Nations:

But tho’ in Silence lie the Peasant’s Woes;

Though they’re not wafted round the wond’ring
Globe,

Nor doubly sounded thro’ the Trump of Fame;

Yet may his Spirit taste the keen Sensation

Of biting Sorrow, and Heart-rackng Care.

Think not, Emilia, that thy Father’s Soul,

Enur’d to Watchings, Dangers and Alarms,

Can startle at the Jaws of gaping Death:

No! ’Tis not Death I fear:—The grisly Horror wants a Name.

Yet why should I torment this feeble Heart

With groundless Doubts, and superstitious Fears?

I’ll to my Closet, and resign my Life

To the Protection of its heav’nly Guard.

Exeunt.
Scene M2r 163

Scene the Court.

Leonardo,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Leonardo solus.

Thus am I past through these free-op’ning
Gates,

Who know not what a Foe is enter’d in.

This Day I’ve measur’d thirty weary Miles,

And at their End am safely ’lighted here.

And what’s my Bus’ness here? —It is Revenge,

The only Cordial of neglected Love.

Here lives Emilia and Eustathius.—Confusion to
their Names!

Emilia! O thou marble-hearted Minion!

What restless Days have I endur’d for thee?

My Love, my honourable Vows refus’d!

And that fair Prize which I so vainly sought,

In Triumph carry’d by my Uncle’s Son.

Yet, stay; beat softly, O my swelling Heart,

And wait the Vengeance of victorious Fraud.

If I am right, this unexpected Visit

Shall prove unlucky to the doting Pair.

How gay, how blithsom are yon flow’ry Hills

And blooming Groves, that shade this happy
Dwelling!

M2 All M2v 164

All these I hate; and, for their Owners sake,

Could wish ’em barren, like a Scythian Wild.

So the grand Foe of human Kind, like me,

Arriv’d within fair Eden’s blissful Bounds;

There felt, like me, the keen alternate Pangs

Of Admiration, Hatred, and Despair.

Alike our Aim; both Mischief, his and mine.

No Matter; I have lost the Sense of Joy,

Excepting this,—To breed Dissension here.

Inventon, aid me; for I know the Temper,

The fiery Spirit of my hot-brain’d Cousin.

His lordly Soul will startle into Rage

Upon the least Surmise of twinging Jealousy:

And next I know the mercenary Soul

Of his corrupt Attendant――apt in Fraud,

And free to sell his Conscience for a Bribe.

All this I find will do.—But here’s Eustathius.

Eustathius. Leonardo.

Eustathius.

Leonardo!—Welcome, gentle Cousin,

’Tis long, my Friend, since last you bless’d our
Eyes:

But for the future be you less unkind,

And M3r 165

And with your Presence chear our smiling Plains.

Our good old Fathers liv’d in strictest Amity,

And left a fair Example to their Sons.

Give me thy Hand, my dearest Leonardo:

Cousins we are;—our Fathers made us so;

But let our Friendship speak us more than Brothers.

Dycarbas.

Thrice welcome, Leonard—Methinks I see

Thy Father’s Image in thy pleasing Form.

Such Entertainment as the Country yields,

Be thine, together with our best Esteem.

Leonardo.

I thank you both――

Full well I know where Gratitude is due:

And being shortly to set out for Travel,

I could not calmly leave my native Shore,

Till I had seen the Faces of my Friends,

I’th’foremost Rank of which I place Eustathius.

Eustathius.

Come, let us seek Refreshment for thy Spirits,

And toast our Sires o’er the sparkling Wine.

M3 Leo- M3v 166

Leonardo.

I’ll follow in a Moment.

Exeunt Dyc. & Eustath.

Now, potent Malice, now assist my Brain,

And bring the still-born Mischief into Life.

Revenge, thou Goddess, with the foamy Jaws,

Instruct thy Vot’ry, and protect his Cause.

Send out thy Hand-maid with her snaky Hair;

Let raging Discord seize the hated Pair.

So may thy Temples ring with shrieking Woe,

And purple Fires on their Altars glow;

Till Tyrants grim o’er Hills of Slaughter stride,

And Death shall wallow in a crimson Tide;

While flaming Arrows, by thy Fury hurl’d,

Shall pour Destruction o’er the bleeding World.

Act M4r 167

Act III.

Scene the First.

Leonardo.

O! What a Torment is the restless Soul,

When she would imp her Wings with noble
Vengeance,

But wants a Hand to aid the precious Work!

Who’s here?—Hah! ’Tis the Servant of Eustathius.

Now for a lusty Bribe, and larger Promise,

To sweep off Conscience from his harden’d Breast,

And make the temper’d Villain all my own.

Ho! Plynus.

Plynus.

Sir, your Servant.

Leonardo.

That Title, Plynus, is too mean for thee:

M4 Wouldst M4v 168

Wouldst thou be rul’d, my Hero, I would make
thee

Thy Master’s Betters, and myself thy Friend.

Plynus.

Sir, without Vanity, I cannot think

That Nature form’d me for his Lordship’s Slave.

I have a Spirit daring and ambitious;

’Tis fashion’d too with ev’ry little Art:

Might serve its End in some genteel Employment.

First for the Law a Conscience ready sear’d;

A Soldier’s Impudence; a Draper’s Lye;

Dissimulation for the Court;—and then

Perhaps my Brains would hardly style me Poet;

Yet by my Poverty I think I’m one.

Leonardo.

Why, thou’rt the very Essence of my Wants;

A useful Complication of Abilities.

Here, take this Purse, and with it ev’ry Wish;

For there lies Honour, Pleasure, and Esteem,

Nay, Friendship too; for in our Trading Age,

That, like the rest, is hourly bought and sold.

Plynus. M5r 169

Plynus.

What future Service must your Slave perform,

For this so large unmerited Reward?

Leonardo.

Thy Faith, my Plynus; That I only ask:

To wear my Trust; and shake thy Master’s off.

But first away with ev’ry puny Doubt,

Each Pause of Honour, and religious Qualm.

Plynus.

That’s a Distemper that I never knew.

Leonardo.

Know then, our Bus’ness is Revenge and Hate,

To light up Jealousy, and cruel Rage:

But be thou secret; yes, and faithful too;

For if thou dar’st to make this Friend thy Foe,

’Twere better thou hadst play’d with burning
Sulphur,

Or ventur’d naked through a Conflagration.

But come with me, and thou shalt learn thy Lesson.

Exeunt.
Scene M5v 170

Scene the Second.

Emilia. Terentia.

Terentia.

Alas! forbear thy Suit, my gentle Friend.

The Alpine Mountains are not colder:—No;

Nor frozen Scythia’s unfrequented Wilds,

Than is my Heart, whene’er Lycander’s nam’d.

Emilia.

And yet, my lov’d Terentia, one would think

The sunny Beams that round thy Features play,

Join’d to the Sighs of a beseeching Friend,

Would make the icy Citadel dissolve.

Terentia.

No, my Emilia; not the scorching Rays

That sparkle on Arabia’s burning Sands,

Could change the State of this relentless Breast,

Without the Image of its lov’d Polonius.

Emilia.

Lycander’s Form may please the nicest Eye:

His Shape, his Features, and majestic Air,

Are M6r 171

Are such as Queens might gaze on with Delight.

Then say, Terentia, what’s the secret Charm,

The wond’rous Spell that clouds thy partial Eyes,

And draws thy Spirit to my younger Brother?

Terentia.

Polonius wears an universal Charm.

Whate’er you find that strikes a tender Fancy

In soft Romances, or in rapt’rous Song:

What charming Objects meet our ravish’d Eyes

In smiling Nature, or the Realms of Art:

These Graces fly, as to their native Home,

And centre in the Face of my Polonius.

Emilia.

I know, my Friend, ’tis Folly to dispute

With Love, with Madness, and a Woman’s Fancy:

But yet, Terentia, yet I fain would know

Where lies the Ground of your Distaste; and why

Lycander, who can charm his list’ning Friends,

Who never ceas’d, but the admiring Circle

Attentive sat, and wish’d him to proceed,

Should thus fall short of his Terentia’s Favour.

Teren- M6v 172

Terentia.

Pride is a fav’rite Passion of the Soul.

Some latent Sparks and some minute Degrees

Of Self-Conceit are wove with ev’ry Mind.

This Vice, when planted in a gen’rous Soil,

Shoots into Enterprizes and Exploits,

To manly Courage, and to grand Ambition.

Our Souls are much more nice, tho’ not so daring.

Small Trifles take Possession of our Spirits,

And stir them up to Rapture, or Disdain;

And sure there’s nothing grates a Woman’s Pride

Like the Behaviour of a haughty Lover.

Methinks, whene’er Lycander walks beside me

With awful Brows, and stern Interrogations,

I gaze upon him with a kind of Horror,

While his fierce Eye-balls sparkle with Disdain.

Then, who, my dear Emilia, who would trust

Her Person with a Man that fain would hate her?

Emilia.

Your tender Years, Terentia, make you slight

Substantial Merit for a smiling Face.

Too partial Maid, you wrong Lycander’s Love,

Who M7r 173

Who for your sake has risqu’d his Father’s Anger,

And wanders lonely in the poplar Shade,

Till the dim Night shall favour his Retreat:

Till then, he stays to take a short Farewel,

And begs an Audience of his lov’d Terentia.

Terentia.

What says Emilia!—Surely I mistake:

Thou art my Guide, my Counsellor, and Friend:

And wouldst thou lead my unexperienc’d Soul

Thro’ the dark Paths of Falshood and Deceit?

Shall I delude the dear believing Youth

With Shews of Kindness, and fictitious Vows?

But ere the Sun, that saw our parting Tears,

Has made his nimble Circuit round the Globe,

Shall I (i’th’ Face of Heaven and Dycarbas)

Discard his Image from my changing Heart,

And make an Assignation with his Brother?

Emilia.

Not so, Terentia: You have wrong’d my Love,

To think I favour Perjury and Crimes.

’Tis true, Lycander for his Portion claims

The greater Share of this too partial Heart.

Our equal Years, our mutual Pleasures, join’d,

And M7v 174

And gave to him the Birth-right of Esteem.

I view his Failings with a mournful Eye,

Partake his Sorrows, and divide his Care.

And well, Terentia—O! too well you know

Th’impetuous Temper of my Brother’s Mind.

Hearts, great as his, are not with Ease reclaim’d:

Mad with Reproach, they’d rather break than
yield:

Such boiling Spirits should be gently tam’d,

Gain’d o’er by Hope, and cheated into Reason.

Terentia.

Then what, Emilia, wouldst thou have me do?

Ah! find some Way, without the Help of Guile,

Or some Excuse, to palliate its Wrong.

Why was I born? And wherefore came I here?

To breed Distraction in these friendly Walls?

O! had I liv’d neglected and forlorn

In some low Dome, where Dirt and Hunger reign;

Then should this Form, enwrapp’d in rustic
Weeds,

And rudely blasted by the Summer’s Sun,

Allure no wand’ring Eye, nor be the Cause,

The cursed Cause of Jealousy and Rage.

Emilia. M8r 175

Emilia.

Be calm, Terentia, and restrain thy Tears,

And form no more imaginary Crimes.

What mighty Boon is this, that I request,

To see Lycander?—Take a gentle Leave,

And send him hence in Doubts, but not Despair.

Then say, Where lies the Guilt in this Concession?

And where’s the Cause of this romantic Grief;

This frighted Aspect, and these streaming Eyes?

Terentia.

This Tongue, unlearn’d in the dissembling Trade,

Will surely speak the Dictates of my Heart:

Nor think, Emilia, tho’ the balmy Sweets

Of Hybla dwelt upon thy melting Tongue,

Think not to change the Temper of my Soul:

Then yet desist, and drop th’ unpleasing Theme.

Emilia.

So deeply fix’d—Then I will try no more,

No more, to change the Object of thy Love:

But, O! if Friendship ever warm’d thy Breast,

Or Pity touch’d the Fibres of thy Heart,

I charge thee yet comply with my Request,

The M8v 176

The little Favour of a short Farewel;

For, ah, the deadly Consequence I dread,

Which may attend on thy too rash Denial.

Terentia.

In what a Labyrinth am I involv’d?

And who will bear me from the giddy Maze?

Am I—Am I, to be th’ imputed Cause

Of Hate, Dissension, and—(O! save, Emilia,

O my Emilia! save me from the Thought)

Of Death and Slaughter? Horrible to name!

Yes, I will go: I’ll go where you desire:

And when the Sun has left our weeping In the Original, a Pin is stuck against the Word “Time”; also,
against the Words, “Stood like a Post”; and a little lower, against
the Word “resolv’d”; which seem intended to be alter’d for some
other, had the Authress lived to revise her Works.
Where-ever the Pin is found for the future, an Asterisk [*]
will be inserted.
Field,

Thyself shalt lead me to the poplar Grove;

Tho’ my foreboding Heart is big with something

Fearfully black, and terrible as Night.

Emilia.

Throw off these coward Vapours of the Brain,

These fansy’d Shadows, that torment the Sex.

We rack our Bosoms with prophetic Ills,

Yet rush on those that lie before our View.

There can no Ill from your Compliance spring;

From your Refusal many might arise:

But N1r 177

But let us walk a little, and divert

These gloomy Thoughts that hover on thy Mind.

Exeunt.

Scene the Third.

Plynus. Leonardo.

Plynus.

Soft! This is my Lady’s Chamber.

Leonardo.

Now for some Instrument of sweet Revenge:

And here is one that suits my Purpose well.

Takes up a Glove, and wraps a Paper in it.

Come hither, Plynus: Do thy Spirits faint?

Look, here is that will make the Coward bold;

Can sweep the Horrors from Medusa’s Brow,

And make her lovely as the Queen of Charms.

Gives Money.

But hearkye, Wilt thou be a faithful Villain?

For by Alecto, and the steaming Lakes,

That roll blue Sulphur thro’ the Stygian Realms,

If thou art false, and balk’st my just Revenge,

Not Doors of burning Brass, nor Rocks of Adamant,

Nor Hell itself, shall guard thee from my Fury.

Vol. II N Plynus. N1v 178

Plynus.

Sir, fear me not; I am your Slave for ever.

Leonardo.

Come hither then. Dost thou behold this Brand?

This little Torch shall light up burning Rage,

And prove the Basis of eternal Jars.

This Paper seems as written by Emilia:

I have, with Care, exactly match’d her Hand;

Thanks to a scornful Billet of her own,

That serv’d me for a Copy.—But d’ye mark?

Those fraudful Lines contain an Assignation

Beneath the Shade of yonder poplar Grove;

And I have fill’d the well-dissembled Scrawl

With kind Reproaches, Hints of former Love,

And all the Daggers for a jealous Soul.

Now, what remains depends upon thy Care.

In one short Minute I shall leave this Place;

Then thou must bring this Paper with its Token,

To wound the Eyes of thy detested Lord,

And say I dropp’d it, as you held my Stirrup.

O! how it would delight my thirsty Soul,

To see Eustathius rage, and wish in vain

To meet the Sword of his imagin’d Rival.

Then, N2r 179

Then, for Emilia, she but justly suffers;

Her Punishment’s not equal to her Scorn.

I lov’d her once; but soon the transient Flame

Chang’d into Fury, and relentless Hate.

This haughty Spirit was not made to cringe,

Nor tremble at the Frown of worthless Woman.

Plynus.

Your Orders, Sir, shall truly be observ’d.

Leonardo.

See that thou dost it; and expect Reward:

I’ll heap Preferments on thy faithful Brow:

But, if you fail, make up thy ’Count with Heav’n;

For Death and Vengeance follow at thy Heels.

Exit Leonardo.

Plynus.

A bloody Fellow this!――

Why, what a Medly here has he made up

Of Vengeance, Death, and Heaven, all at once!

I fear the Bill is long ’twixt me and Heav’n;

We have not reckon’d for these many Years.

But, what said he before?

It was Preferment.—That’s a glorious Sound:

N2 Who N2v 180

Who would not be a Villain for Preferment?

Now to my Cue.—But if I chance to meet

A Stab i’th’ Guts, for my unwelcome Message?

What then!—Why, then I die a Soldier’s Death,

And sleep amongst those honourable Fools,

Who take the shortest Way to meet Preferment.

Exit.

Scene the Fourth.

Eustathius,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Enter Eustathius.

What Whims are these?—I am not jealous,
sure.

Methought, when Leonardo parted from us,

His cunning Eyes spoke something to Emilia;

But look’d on me with a disdainful Glare.

I know he once laid Siege to my Emilia;

But then he met a vigorous Repulse:

Her Inclination gave her Hand to me.

Besides, I’ve watch’d her Countenance; but there

The strictest Eye could trace no guilty Feature.

Then what curst Fury, with a Serpent’s Fraud

Has breath’d Suspicion in this aking Breast?

Henceforth I’ll guard the Outworks of my Heart,

And N3r 181

And not a Thought shall find Admittance there,

But, what are Friends to my belov’d Emilia.

Plynus. Eustathius.

Plynus.

My Lord!—Starting.

Eustathius.

Well: —And wherefore dost thou start and
tremble?

What’s in thy Hand; a Woman’s Glove? Whose
is it?

Plynus.

Indeed, my Lord, I know not whose it is:

Your Cousin dropt it, as I held his Stirrup.

Eustathius.

Hah! Let’s see’t. Confusion! ’Tis my Wife’s.

Slave, speak.—Say once again, Where didst thou
find it?

Plynus.

My Lord!

Eustathius.

Damnation!—Dost thou trifle?

N3 Speak N3v 182

Speak quick, or else I’ll pin thee to the Ground,

And tread thy worthless Carcase to the Centre.

Plynus.

Patience, my Lord! I told you once before,

Your Cousin dropp’d it. I can tell no further.

Eustathius.

Hence, Raven!Exit Plynus.

My Wife’s Glove!—Yes, it is my Wife’s.

O Torture! Stay; there’s something in it too.

Come out, thou cursed Packet of Iniquity!

Death and Furies! ’Tis Emilia’s Hand!

O! my sick Eyes would shun the hateful Scrawl;

But this inquisitive and curious Soul

Will needs be searching for the Depths of Ruin.

Reads.

My dearest Leonardo! Eust. Confusion blast him!

Not your Unkindness, no, nor Death itself,

Can blot the dear Remembrance from my Heart!

Eust. Good!

Of those past Hours that crown’d Emilia’s Joy.

I love thee still, thou dear dissembling Man:

Your late Repentance too has melted down

My Resolutions ne’er to see you more.

But, O! I fear my Husband’s jealous Eye;

Eust. Confounded Harlot!

There- N4r 183

Therefore be gone, and take a formal Leave:

But when the Night has spread her sable Wing

O’er the still Regions; then, my Leonardo,

O then, my lovely Penitent, return,

And I will meet thee in the poplar Grove.

Eustathius.

Racks, Whirlwinds, Lakes of living Fire!

O! these are nothing to the Pangs I feel.

The fabled Wretch in Pluto’s dreary Realms,

Whose rising Liver feeds eternal Pain,

And the keen Hunger of two raging Vulturs;

The Moral of the Tale is only this:

The Slave was jealous.—O my throbbing Heart!

The poplar Grove!—Remember that: —’Tis well.

O sweet Revenge! I hear thy cordial Whisper.

This Sword shall wash that horrid Shade with
Blood,

And make it famous as the Walls of Ilion.

But first on thee I’ll wreak my growing Rage,

Thou secret Pander of detested Lust:

To Atoms go, and mingle with the Air:

Infect the healthy Atmosphere, and breathe

A Race of Cuckolds on the tainted Kingdom.

What’s here? Emilia?—O thou fair Betrayer!

Look how she walks with that unruffled Air,

N4 As N4v 184

As unconcern’d as tho’ her Breast were Heav’n.

O! say, is’t possible tha beauteous Form

Should prove the painted Sepulchre of Sin?

Yet wonder not; since Fiends themselves can wear

Celestial Plumes, and tinge their Cheeks with
Heav’n.

But I’ll begone; for those bewitching Eyes

Would melt Resentment to unmanly Tears.

Exit Eustath.

Emilia.

Alas! What made Eustathius quit the Place,

As tho’ I’d been a Basilisk, and brought

Infectious Poison in my deathful Eyes?

Methought his Cheeks were pale, and wet with
Tears;

Grim Horror sat upon his alter’d Brow;

And when he cast his rolling Eyes on me,

Methought his angry Soul was mounted there,

And look’d as tho’ ’twould burst the crystal
Casements.

What have I done that may deserve this Usage?

Perhaps some Villain has defam’d my Virtue:

But that’s an idle Thought: For who was e’er

Condemn’d without th’ Appearance of a Crime?

I’ll think no more; but trust myself to Heav’n:

And N5r 185

And yet there’s something hovers on my Soul:

This cold Heart flutters, tho’ it knows not why;

And my Eyes rain involuntary Showers.

The Night comes on: I’ll haste to meet Lycander,

And lead Terentia to th’ appointed Shade.

Alas! what mean these melancholy Thoughts?

There’s something tells, this foolish Interview

Will find a Period tragical and dark.

My Father’s Fears dwell heavy on my Heart;

But sure no Punishment can point at him.

O Thou, from whom these rolling Worlds began,

Thou great Protector of unworthy Man!

What secret Guilt for angry Vengeance calls;

Whate’er Misfortunes threat our destin’d Walls,

Let good Dycarbasscape the falling Blow:

O! keep my Parent from the Jaws of Woe.

On me! On me, let all thy Shafts be hurl’d,

And sweep Emilia from the gazing World.

But when in Death these ghastly Eyes shall roll,

Extend thy Mercy to my parting Soul:

And let her rise amid the shining Host,

A blissful Being, and a guiltless Ghost.

Act N5v 186

Act IV.

Scene the First.

Eustathius. Emilia.

Emilia.

In vain you fly from her that still pursues,

And still unkindly hide the secret Cause

Of Discontent, that shakes your lab’ring Breast.

I know there’s something in your solemn Heaves,

Your broken Answers, and your sullen Frowns.

Eustathius.

Must I for Days, for Months, and rolling Years,

Be thus tormented with the Din of Tongues?

Suppose I’m sick: What then? — Or out of
Temper:—

My Thoughts are not accountable to you.

Heceforward know the Distance of a Wife;

Nor dare to step beyond her scanty Bounds.

Emilia. N6r 187

Emilia.

Is this your Fondness for your lov’d Emilia?

Am I already loathsome to your Eyes?

Look on my Face, that Face you lately swore

Was fair as Morning, or the smiling Spring.

Am I grown old since Yesterday? And have

The transient Charms so quickly lost their
Dwelling?

Am I despis’d, while yet the ruddy Blush

Glows in my Cheek?—In Youth am I despis’d?

What then remains for Wrinkles and old Age?

Weeps.

Eustathius.

Aside.

O Crocodile! O well-dissembled Tears!

Say, shall I now upbraid her with her Crime,

And dash her Guilt on that designing Face?

No, that will but employ her female Arts,

Dark-winding Subtlety, and smooth Evasion:

As yet in secret I’ll endure my Wrongs,

And trace her Falshood to its utmost Length.

To Emilia.

No, my Emilia, thou art still as fair.

As N6v 188

As Love’s bright Queen, to ev’ry Eye but mine:

Yet I had rather, for the sake of Change,

That thou wert foul and ugly as Medusa.

Emilia

’Tis strange, my Lord, how much your Palates
vary,

Ere your proud Stomachs are reduc’d by Marriage.

Agreeable and soft will not go down;

Your Taste can relish nothing less than Charms;

Till Hymen comes with his contrasted Magic,

Makes ev’ry Object wear a brighter Face,

And nothing then is odious, but your Wives.

Eustathius.

Your Satire has exactly hit the Case:

Yet let us, since we can no more be happy,

Be calmly cold, and fashionably sullen.

Reproaches sound too harshly on the Ear;

They tire the Hearer, and the Speaker too.

I’ll to my Study: Shall I ask your Presence?

Emilia.

Not yet, my Lord; I’d take the Air a little.

The solitary Skies are thick and gloomy;

Yet not unpleasant; and it suits my Temper.

Eusta- N7r 189

Eustathius.

Confusion!—

Aside. To Emilia.

Harkye, my Friend; a Word, before you go.

Have you not heard of unsuspected Danger;

Of Snakes, of Adders, hid with flow’ring Rose?

Once more, I say, beware of walking late,—

Aside Lest some of these may reach thy guilty
Heart.
To Emilia.

Farewel.—

Exit Eust.

Emilia.

What does he mean? His rolling Eyes shot Fire,

And turn’d upon me with a horrid Glare.

Is this the Treatment of unhappy Wives?

Ah! who would then be counted in the Number?

And why did Heav’n’s creating Power form

Amongst his Works, one Creature only doom’d

To lasting Anguish, and perpetual Chains?

And yet inspir’d us with a thinking Soul,

To taste our Sorrows with a keener Relish?

Our servile Tongues are taught to cry for Pardon

Ere the weak Senses know the Use of Words:

Our little Souls are tortur’d by Advice;

And moral Lectures stun our Infant Years:

Thro’ N7v 190

Thro’ check’d Desires, Threatnings, and Restraint,

The Virgin runs; but ne’er outgrows her Shackles;

They still will fit her, even to hoary Age.

With lordly Rulers Women still are curs’d;

But the last Tyrant always proves the worst.

Scene the Grove.

Emilia.

In what dark Alley have I lost Terentia?

What Whim, what sep’rate Fancy could induce

That simple Girl to wander from my Side?

I thought my Brother had been here before me.

The Night is gloomy, and the sullen Clouds

In Circles gather round the sickly Moon.

Hark!—What was that? The Raven’s horrid Cry!

What means this Alteration in my Temper?

My Soul has hitherto a Stranger been

To female Cowardice, and Virgin Fears;

Yet now I startle at the smallest Noise.

The Winds that pant amongst the trembling Leaves,

To me are dismal as a fun’ral Bell.

I’ll sit me down, and try if potent Reason

Can drive the Coward from my trembling Heart.

What do I fear?—Is not this Spot our own?

The N8r 191

The Shade where I and my unkind Eustathius

Have wander’d many—many a happy Hour?

No injur’d Spirits haunt this peaceful Gloom;

Nor murd’rous Hounds, that hunt for Blood and
Slaughter.

Again!—There’s something made a rustling Noise!

’Twas only Fancy: All is silent now,

And still as Midnight, and the lonely Grave.

Eustathius,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Enter Eustathius.

Eust. Aside.— Softly. ’Tis so.—Emilia’s here already!

When comes her Paramour?—O cursed Thought.

Now for a thousand Daggers, all at once.

To print ten thousand Wounds upon their Bodies.

But, soft, my Soul.—Whence comes this killing
Anguish?

And why this coward Trembling at my Heart?

Is it the Sight of that beloved Traitress;

That beauteous Serpent of my aking Breast?

’Tis that which makes my feeble Hand go back,

And palls the Rigour of its just Revenge.

Emilia!—O! there dwells a secret Charm

In ev’ry Letter of the Fair-one’s Name.

That I could find some other, which would paint

The fairest Person, and the basest Mind,

And N8v 192

And speak at once the Traitress, and her Treason!

O say! thou shining Minister of Wrath,

Dares thy rude Point invade her tender Bosom,

And stain with Crimson that unblemish’d Snow?

And shall this Hand arrest her guilty Soul,

And plunge it headlong to eternal Shade?

O that I ne’er had seen this cursed Hour!

That I could wake, and find it but a Vision,

Or sleep and dream my future Life away!

Enter Lycander.

Eustathius.

Hah! — Here he comes; and Darnkess shan’t secure
him.

Now, rise Revenge.—Ye tender Thoughts, farewel.

Villain, thou dy’st—

Emilia.

Eustathius!—Ah! what would thy desp’rate Hand?

Eustathius.

I’ll tell thee—

Stabs her.

Emilia.

Ah! wherefore am I slain?—O cruel Husband!

Dies. Lycan- O1r 193

Lycander.

Monster!—black as Midnight, or the Depths of
Hell,

Receive a Death, too glorious for a Villain.

Strikes him.—Eust. falls.

Eustathius.

Was that the Bird of Night which struck my Ear

With boding Shrieks; or was’t my Brother’s Voice?

Lycander.

Brother!—No, Traitor, I disown the Name;

And cursed be the Day, the fatal Day,

That gave my Sister to thy baneful Arms.

Behold those Hands still reeking with her Blood;

My Sister’s Blood! — And dar’st thou call me
Brother?

Eustathius.

O thou, Lycander! who wast once my Friend,

(Whatever mystic Fates have brought thee here)

Forgive a Wretch that never meant thee Wrong.

’Tis true, this furious Hand has done a Deed

Which racks my tortur’d Soul with bitter Anguish,

Vol. II. O And O1v 194

And makes this Heart bleed faster than my Wound.

But she was false: Abominably false.

’Twas not Eustathius did this horrid Deed;

’Twas Love: ’Twas madding Jealousy, more fell

Than hunted Tygers on the Libyan Shore.

Lycander.

Take heed, Eustathius! You’re a dying Man:

You stand upon the Outside of this World;

And the next Step you take is Hell, or Heaven.

Eustathius.

Let Heav’n dispose the Fortune of my Soul:

But she was false:—Yes, false with Leonardo.

He dropt a Letter, which my Servant found,

Wrote by my Wife:—’Twas wrote by my Emilia,

Where the lost Fair made him an Assignation;

And this, O this, was the detested Place.

Here are some Fragments that my Fury spar’d;

And this will serve to prove the horrid Truth.

Is’t not Emilia’s Hand?

Lycander.

’Tis so: But strange, and full of Contradiction!

That she would fly to screen her guilty Love

In O2r 195

In the same Place she was to meet her Brother.

Plynus,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Enter Plynus.

O! what a Tyrant is a guilty Conscience?

’Tis Night; and yet I cannot think of Rest.

These Shades are pleasant; yet to me they seem

Black as the Grave; and ev’ry Tree a Ghost.

Hah! What is here?—O miserable Sight!

Emilia murder’d!— and my Master too!

Is this the End of my apostate Guile?

Nay, then, I stand the first of branded Villains;

And curs’d be he that drew me in the Snare!

Ah! my dear Lord, behold a guilty Wretch:

Look up, and seal my Pardon, ere you die.

Eustathius.

What art thou?—Why dost roll thy haggard Eyes?

What Guilt is this that shakes thy trembling Frame?

Plynus.

O! you’re deceiv’d; and fair Emilia’s wrong’d.

The Letter’s forg’d; and I was hir’d to bring it.

Lycander.

Hah, Slave!—’Tis well thou art not worth my
Sword,

O2 Else O2v 196

Else would I scar thee with ten thousand Wounds:

But I’ll reserve thee for the Rod of Justice;

And thou shalt perish by the Hangman’s Hand.

Exit; dragging him off. Enter Lycander, Dycarbas, Paulus,
Terentia.

Lycander.

I’ve told our Story; and you see its End:

My Horse is ready; I’ll pursue the Traitor.

Should the Winds lend him their officious Wings,

My swifter Vengeance shall o’ertake his Heels,

And plungeplunge this Dagger in his guilty Breast.

Exit Lycander.

Eustathius.

My Father here!—Fly hence, thou good old Man:

Turn off thy Eyes; nor wound them with a Sight

Will freeze thy Heart, and turn thy Limbs to
Marble.

Here lies the Darling of thy hoary Age;

A wither’d Rose; and she was cropt by me.

O Torture! Torture! I’ll not bear the Thought,

Nor drag the Chain of Life a Moment longer.

Her Lips are cold, and have forgot to smile:

That O3r 197

That pleasing Form is pale and breathless now;

But still ’tis fair as monumental Marble.

Where shall I find thee, O my injur’d Wife!

What happy Fields retain thy smiling Shade!

Emilia! Oh!Dies.

Dycarbas.

Alas! he’s gone.—Farewel, thou noble Youth!

May Angels bear thee to the Realms of Bliss!

Ill-fated Couple!—Yet, be still, my Heart:

’Tis Heav’n afflicts; and I should not complain:

But Nature, struggling Nature, will have way,

Or mighty Grief will crack the swelling Strings.

Emilia, O thou Flower of my Age!

Where is that Face, which not an Hour past

Blom’dBloom’d like a Morning of the early Spring?

But now the Roses have forsook their Dwelling,

And thy pale Cheeks are cold as shiv’ring Winter:

Too early wither’d, O unhappy Girl!

Thou canst not hear me, tho’ my Griefs are loud

As the rude Winds, that vex the raging Tide.

Terentia.

My frozen Heart is stung with killing Anguish:

I stand myself a Monument of Woe:

What can I say, my Lord, to comfort you?

O3 Dy- O3v 198

Dycarbas.

Forbear thy Consolations, gentle Maid:

I am a Man, and therefore cannot see

This horrid Sight without a Father’s Pang:

But when the Transport of my Grief is over;

Then Reason shall again resume her Throne,

And the still Soul will listen to her Lore.

Terentia.

I only ask to have my Share of Woe;

I’ll be a faithful Partner in your Grief;

Sigh when you sigh, and answer to your Tears.

Dycarbas.

No! Heav’n has sure reserv’d a milder Fate

And happier Days for thee, thou lovely Mourner.

Ye gracious Pow’rs, preserve this weeping Fair;

Keep her from Sorrow, and divide her Fate

Far—far from that of her unhappy Friend.

Can any tell me where Lycander went?

I fear some Ill from his ungovern’d Rage.

Paulus.

He went, my Lord, in Chace of Leonardo.

Dycar- O4r 199

Dycarbas.

Then Rage and bloody Vengeance will ensue.

O! spare, ye Powers—spare these aged Eyes;

Let them no more behold the Face of Death,

Nor the black Image of detested Murder.

The savage Race of unfrequented Wilds,

Voracious Wolves, fierce Pards, and roaring Lions,

In spite of Hunger’s unrelenting Call,

Break not the Ties of Nature with their Kind.

O Shame to Man! whose far more cruel Eyes

With vengeful Smiles can see another’s Ruin.

Terentia.

Behold, your Son; and with him comes the Traitor.

Lycander with Leonardo, wounded.

Lycander.

See! here’s a Sight would melt a Heart of Stone:

Thou cursed Flower of eternal Villainy,

Lie there, a pleasing Sacrifice to those

Thy Project brought to this untimely End.

Dycarbas.

What hast thou done to rob the Hand of Justice?

Presumptuous Boy! His Life was not thy Due.

O4 Leo- O4v 200

Leonardo.

Thou feeble Dotard!—Think’st thou Leonardo

Was born to suffer by the puny Laws?

That I am conquer’d, let him thank his Stars.

Had not the Fates oppos’d my best Endeavour,

This better Arm had laid thy Son as low:

But I have liv’d to taste of sweet Revenge,

And glut my Eyes with their desired Ruin.

Dycarbas.

Boast not of Mischief with your latest Breath:

You stand on tiptoe on the slipp’ry Shore,

With Death’s immeasurable Gulph before you:

Ah! weigh the Danger of your parting Soul,

And send a few repentant Sighs to Heaven.

Leonardo.

Repentance!—Preach it to your coward Slaves,

Whose dastard Spirits tremble at their Fate.

I only wish my fainting Lungs would hold,

To breathe a Curse on yon aspiring Boy.

Now for some horrid Earthquake, that would rock

The strong Foundations of the solid Globe;

That nodding Tow’rs might crush their Owners
Heads,

And O5r 201

And Kingdoms share the Fate of Leonardo!

Dies.

Dycarbas.

The furious Soul has left her Habitation:

Yet still his Visage wears the Mark of Rage.

Ah! so it is when Anger and Revenge

Are grown habitual to a guilty Mind.

They shut out Penitence and pleasing Hope;

And plunge the Wretch in horrible Despair.

How is’t, Lycander? You are pale, my Son.

Ah! Dost thou bleed!—Oh, for Assistance!
Quick!

Lycander.

All Help is vain; and ’tis as I would have it.

That Villain’s Sword has sav’d my own the Labour.

Think not, my Father, I would live to bear

The keen Reproaches of a conscious Soul,

Which ev’ry Hour would tell this gloomy Breast,

My Folly caus’d the Death of dear Emilia.

O! stay your Tears; I cannot bear the Sight:

’Tis far more painful than my aking Wound.

Terentia, now come near, thou lovely Maid;

I only stay’d to view that pleasing Face:

And now I take a long Farewel indeed.

Hah! O5v 202

Hah!—Dost thou weep? Restrain those falling
Showers,

And lavish not those precious Drops for me.

Remember this: —When next you meet Polonius,

Tell him I bless’d him with my dying Breath,

And left Terentia to his faithful Arms.

Dies.

Dycarbas.

Merciful Pow’rs, assist my feeble Age,

And let not Reason stagger from her Throne!

Can these wan Eye-balls keep their frighted Orbs?

My Spirit struggles in her aged Prison,

And threat’ning Tremors shake the feeble Walls.

If e’er succeeding Ages should produce

A miserable Father, like myself,

Whose Soul can relish nought but gloomy Tales;

Who wants some sad Comparison of Woe,

To charm the Pressure of his own Misfortunes;

Let them repeat the Story of Dycarbas.

Paulus.

Have Patience, my dear Lord.

Dycarbas.

Of that hereafter.—Patience seems at present

Too O6r 203

Too cold a Virtue for my boiling Soul.

Let some be sent to fetch Polonius back,

If yet his Bark has not forsook the Shore:

Let him return to his dear Father’s Side,

From whence these Branches are so lately torn.

Farewel, ye smiling Comforts of my Age.

O dreadful Sight! These Soles are dipt in Blood.

My Childrens Blood.――O Heavens!—

Faints.

Paulus.

Ah! see! he faints; the weary Spirit fails:

Come let us bear him from this fatal Place.

Exeunt Paul. & Dycarb.

Terentia.

Now where, ah! whither, shall Terentia fly?

Emilia! O thou more than lovely Sister!

Thou dear Companion of my infant Days!

Are these the Wages of thy kind Indulgence?

The sad Requital of a Sister’s Love?

Unhappy Youth! — Unfortunate Lycander!

What cruel Star presided at our Births,

And sent us here, as Omens of Destruction,

To blast the World, and mark our Steps with Ruin?

That Villain’s Plot had fail’d its tragic End,

Had O6v 204

Had not Lycander met Emilia here.

But, O! thy Face, Terentia, was the Cause;

For which I’ll stain it with continual Tears.

Each throbbing Art’ry shall its Juices yield,

Till the dry Carcase can afford no more;

Till these chang’d Features shew no more Terentia,

But look the meagre Skeletons of Woe.

So, constant dropping, stands a wounded Vine,

Till the Leaves wither, and the Boughs recline:

The Root grows shrivel’d in its native Mold:

Its feeble Arms forsake their curling Hold:

The fost’ring Sap from ev’ry Tendril flies,

And thus, like me, the senseless Mourner dies.

Act V.

Scene the First.

Paulus with a Sailor.

Paulus.

Fain would I disbelieve your horrid Tale,

But that your Proofs are ocular and strong.

Did none attempt his Rescue?—

6 Sailor O7r 205

Sailor.

All Help was vain; but yet his desp’rate Servant

Leap’d in the Ocean to his Lord’s Relief;

And, as we think, serv’d to enlarge the Meal,

And glut the Maw of that voracious Monster.

Paulus.

Now, who shall bear this Story to my Lord?

Ah, wretched Man! no more a Father now.

His eldest Hope, the Glory of his Youth,

His lovely Daughter with her noble Spouse,

Swept from the World by Treach’ry and Revenge.

All these To-morrow’s Ev’ning Sun must see

Laid in the cold Receptacles of Death.

One Hope was left, the Darling of his Age,

Polonius; but the unrelenting Fates

Have torn that only Blossom from his Side;

Made the Provision of a hungry Shark;

O Gods!—And buried in a living Tomb.

Now, who will be the Raven, which shall wound

A Father’s Ear with this most horrid Tale?

O ye unpitying Fates! if yet you have

In your black Register some future Plagues,

Down with them all, that we may find an End.

Exeunt.
O7v 206
SteneScene draws, and discovers Dycarbas as reading.

Dycarbas.

Thro’ these black Scenes of unexampled Woe,

That hang so heavy on my drooping Soul,

Methinks there’s something dreadful yet to come:

So let it be; with Patience I would bear:

When Heav’n afflicts, ’tis Folly to repine.

Presumptuous Man! at whom wouldst thou repine!

At that great Pow’r who made thee what thou art?

Who brought thee from a State of Non-Existence

To chearful Day-light and the glorious Sun?

Whose Breath inspir’d this imperial Clay

With conscious Knowledge, and a reas’ning Soul;

A glorious Soul, whose Birth-right is Eternity?

For soon this feeble Case, worn out with Age,

Shall sleep and moulder in its dusty Cell.

Then the freed Spirit shall exulting fly

To glorious Regions, and immortal Fields.

Perhaps th’ All-wise Dispenser saw ’twas good,

That sad Dycarbas should be thus afflicted.

The Heart grows wanton with continual Joy,

And gathers Rust beneath the Wings of Pleasure.

Then Sorrow comes to rouse the lazy Sense;

Turns O8r 207

Turns up the close Recesses of the Breast,

And set the trembling Soul before its Judge,

A naked, humble, and repenting Criminal.

Yet hear, O hear me, thou all-gracious Power!

In thy large Store-house of unnumber’d Joys,

If there is any Good reserv’d for me,

Bestow it on my yet surviving Child;

(O killing Throught!) my only Son Polonius.

Paulus. Dycarbas.

Paulus.

Alas! my dearest Lord!

Dycarbas.

Hah! What art thou, that with a hollow Tone

Art like the shrieking Messenger of Fate?

Why dost thou look so like a warning Shade,

Sent from the Regions of imperial Death,

To shake my Reason with thy Spectre’s Visage.

Paulus.

Ah! dreadful Tale, my Lord!—Your Son Polonius

Dycarbas.

Hah! What of him?—

Speak O8v 208

Speak quickly; do—unfold thy horrid Tale,

While yet my stagg’ring Sense has Pow’r to hear.

Paulus.

Prepare your Temper for the sad Relation,.

And summon all the Courage of your Soul.

We sent, my Lord, to call your much-lov’d Son

Back to the Side of his unhappy Father.

The Ship was launch’d, and had forsook the Bay,

Yet not so far but that a Boat might reach her.

Astonish’d at the News of our Misfortunes,

With too much Haste he left the Ship, and set

His heedless Foot upon the slipp’ry Plank,

Which with a Slide betray’d him to the Waves.

The screaming Sailors flew to his Relief:

But of a sudden the convulsive Ocean

Appear’d to labour with a monstrous Birth.

A fatal Shark, the largest of its Kind

Roll’d his unwieldy Carcase through the Deep,

and toss’d above the Waves his horrid Jaw.

The stoutest Bosoms then were froze with Fear:

But Timnus, faithful to his dying Lord,

Rush’d in the Waters to partake his Fate.

Dycarbas.

O! say, ye Pow’rs, Why this uncommon Scourge?

This P1r 209

This reeling Frame that stoops beneath the Weight

Of threescore Winters, and a wounded Soul,

Would soon have dropt into its destin’d Grave,

And needed not this last, this deadly Blow.

But now ’tis done: —My Art’ries throb no more,

And this still Heart has quite forgot to heave.

Mount;—Mount, my Soul, where the Afflicted
rest;

Where Sorrow smiles, and Orphans weep no more;

Where wretched Fathers may forget their Woes,

And Hallelujahs fill the Place of Groans.

And you, my Children, if your sainted Shades

Can stoop a Moment from their happy Fields;

This once descend, and on your filial Wings

Receive the Spirit of a dying Father.Dies.

Paulus.

Alas! he faints:—Ah, no! ’tis Death indeed.

Down his pale Temples rolls a mortal Dew:

His Eyes are clos’d, and he is gone for ever.

Paulus. Terentia. Claudia.

Terentia.

O horrid Triumph of luxurious Death!

Vol. II. P This P1v 210

This House is now a Scene of matchless Woe.

Ah, my lov’d Guardian! Ah, my dearest Lord!

Thus will I clasp in Death thy rev’rent Image:

Thus will I on thy lifeless Bosom sigh,

Till my Heart burst, and crack the stubborn Strings.

Paulus.

Have Comfort, dearest Lady.

Terentia.

Blasted be the imaginary Name!

When the stern Fates in their eternal Book

In sable Characters set down Terentia,

They underneath it writ a List of Woes,

And banish’d Comfort from the deadly Scroll.

Claudia.

Come, let us hasten from this gloomy Place:

Time will sweep away the sad Remembrance,

And there may still be happy Days for you.

Terentia.

Hence, Claudia, with thy ill-tim’d Consolations.

Did I not lately view a horrid Sea

Of kindred Blood, in one promiscuous Tide,

And streaming dreadful on the crimson Floor?

Behold P2r 211

Behold the Guardian of my youthful Years,

My Foster-father, pale and breathless there;

And then to strike all Nature dumb with Horror,

Think on the Partner of my faithful Breast

Deny’d the usual Honours of a Grave;

His trembling Flesh torn from the living Bones,

To glut the Hunger of a raging Monster.

O Guardian Angels! Save me from the Thought,

Lest my distracted Soul should turn a Fury.

Go, search the Globe, and find where Sorrow reigns;

Explore the Dwellings of unpity’d Woe;

Turn up the Dens of Wretches, doubly curst,

Who hide their Eyelids from the hateful Sun;

There see; ah! see, if thou canst find a Wretch

Will change a single Torment with Terentia.

Claudia.

Ah! dearest Lady,—see your Servant’s Tears:

If Claudia e’er was pleasing in your Eyes,

Thus on my Knees I beg you would not stay

In this sad Place, to aggravate your Sorrows.

Terentia.

Then take me; lead me to some gloomy Cave,

Never inhabited by human Creature.

P2 Let P2v 212

Let it be seated in a thorny Wild,

And ev’n a Stranger to the glimm’ring Moon:

Let frowning Rocks compose the dismal Roof,

And not a Star presume to twinkle there.

So let us dwell with only one dim Taper,

And think and talk of nothing but Despair.

Exeunt Ter. & Claud.

Paulus.

Ye Powers! If Innocence be still your Care,

Restore the Peace of this afflicted Maid.

What do I hear? —A Knocking at the Gate?

Who is so wretched to come near this Place,

And crave an Entrance at the Doors of Woe?

Re-enter Paulus with Timnus.

O Timnus! Thou art like the chearing Sun,

When Storms have lately shook the troubled Sky.

Polonius lives!――O, Heart-reviving Sound!

But comes too late for his unhappy Father.

Thou might’st, hadst thou been here an Hour past,

Have sav’d a Life more precious than a Kingdom.

Timnus.

No Speed was wanting on my Side: But that

Officious P3r 213

Officious Sailor found his Way before me:

Nor had we liv’d, but that the heav’nly Pow’rs

Still temper Mercy with their stern Decrees,

And sent between us and the raging Monster

The floating Carcase of a shipwreck’d Man:

His greedy Jaws devour’d the ready Prey,

And left pursuing our forbidden Lives.

Paulus.

Now, who shall bid Polonius welcome here?

For this ill-fated Mansion is become

The gloomy Seat of arbitrary Death;

And the pale Tyrant keeps a Revel here,

With his grim Sisters, Horror and Despair.

Claudia. Paulus.

Paulus.

Claudia, how fares your Lady now?

Claudia.

I went, transported with the joyful News;

But found my lady in a peaceful Slumber.

I drew the Curtain, with Intent to wake her;

But Reason soon recall’d the rash Design.

I stay’d my Hand, and thought it might be ill.

P3 Pau- P3v 214

Paulus.

’Tis well thou didst: Perhaps the sudden Joy

Had seiz’d her Spirits with too great a Violence,

And prov’d an Evil, worse than all her Woes:

But, let us haste to meet my Lord Polonius.

Exeunt. Scene draws, and discovers Terentia in Black—
A Table, a Cup of Poison, and a Light.

Terentia.

This well-dissembled Slumber has deceiv’d

The prying Eyes of my officious Maid.

Claudia, farewel.――Ah! when thy faithful Care

Shall wait the Rising of thy wretched Mistress,

Then thou wilt find her in a Sleep indeed.

Thrice to my frighted Ears the warning Cock

Has sent the Notice of approaching Day.

The pale Light struggles with the sullen Clouds;

But I will ne’er behold its Beams again.

Methinks the sympathizing Air grows sensible,

And Nature trembles at my horrid Purpose:

A heavy Mist hangs o’er the dreary Room,

And this dim Taper burns a mournful Blue:

This sable Garment suits the blacker Deed;

It P4r 215

It answers to my Soul; ’tis dark and dismal.

But wherefore do I aggravate the Horrors?

’Tis but a Draught, and all will then be still.

Stern Death lies frowning in these silver Walls;

This little Cup can hold the King of Terrors.

Why does it tremble in my shaking Hand?

Why o’er my Temples rolls a fainting Dew?

But, sure, it is a weighty Thing, to die!

I’ll set it down, and think on’t once again.

How will Terentia look, when that cold Draught

Has ta’en Possession of her frozen Bowels?

Eyes wan and ghastly!—Cheeks, as Winter, pale!

With the rank Poison fest’ring on my Lips!

All living Creatures will abhor the Sight,

And hurry this loath’d Carcase to a Grave.

Then for my Soul; thro’ what immortal Paths

Must that pale Wand’rer take its dubious Way?

But we are taught, that there are happy Fields,

To give afflicted Innocence Repose.

But then—I fear—Ah! yes, I feel I do,

That this rash Deed will shut the Gates of Heav’n.

’Tis not too late:—I breathe the vital Air:

Yon deadly Potion yet remains untasted,

And I may live:—But how,—without Polonius?

That Thought, again, has rous’d my tim’rous Soul.

P4 Thou P4v 216

Thou desp’rate Cordial! we will part no more;

I’ll drink thee off, and quaff the baneful Lees.

Hark—what was that!—O tardy Wretch, be quick;

Some friendly Ghost is come to see thee die.

Polonius,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Polonius within.

What Wretch is this, who with Terentia’s Voice

Dares talk of dying, while Polonius lives?

Terentia.

Hah!—That was like the Voice of my Polonius:

Then ’tis his wand’ring Spirit come to take

A sad Farewel, and bid Terentia follow.

This way it call’d:—O, save!—O, save me, Heav’n!

Polonius,[Speaker label not present in original source]

Enter Polonius.

Ah, desp’rate Girl! What was thy rash Design?

What means this Cup within thy trembling Hand?

Hast thou been dealing with the Drugs of Death,

To heap more Horrors on my loaded Heart,

And make my Woes too great for human Nature?

Why dost thou look so earnestly upon me?

Why sits Amazement in thy rolling Eyes?

Speak out, my Fair, and give thy Passion Vent.

Teren- P5r 217

Terentia.

O! my Polonius!—But it cannot be;

’Tis some Illusion, or the Dream of Death.

Methinks I’ve newly past the dreadful Streams

Of Styx, and now am landed on Elysium.

Yet tell, O tell me, if thou art Polonius,

What gracious Pow’r has giv’n thee back to Life?

And sent thee, like the Genius of her Soul,

To save Terentia from the yawning Grave?

Polonius.

That shall be told my Love at happier Hours:

But now my tott’ring Sense is shook with Anguish;

Nature rends up the Sluices of my Heart,

And from their Fountain draws the living Streams.

Late, my Terentia, I could boast a Father,

A Brother, Sister, and a fair one too.

But now they’re gone, and thou art all that’s left

To keep a Wretch from terrible Despair.

Terentia.

O! that some Cherub would instruct my Tongue

To charm thy Sorrows with celestial Music!

For I have quite forgot the Use of Words,

And know no Eloquence, but to complain.

Polo- P5v 218

Polonius.

Forgive, thou fairest Partner of my Soul,

Forgive Polonius these unmanly Tears:

The stubborn Griefs will force me to complain,

Ev’n in thy Presence, whose delightful Charms

Smile like the Morning thro’ her pearly Dews.

Terentia.

Nay, still weep on; I’ll answer Tear for Tear:

Let frequent Sighs employ the lonely Hours,

And Grief be all the Bus’ness of our Lives.

Polonius.

If Tears could make but Yester-morn return,

And to these Arms restore my living Friends,

I’d call the Juices from their secret Cells,

And teach these Eyes to pour continual Streams.

But Death regards nor Pray’rs, nor melting Woe;

Fate stands between, and frowns upon our Tears;

Then pointing shews the Grave,—our common
Way.

Unseen we tread th’irremed’able Path,

And stagger thither ere our Cheeks are dry.

So P6r 219

So two kind Friends in some toss’d Vessel ride,

Where a black Tempest swells the raging Tide:

Trembling they stand, and weep their native Shore,

While the Sky thunders, and the Waters roar;

Till unawares some envious Billow sweeps

One lov’d Companion in the frothy Deeps.

His wretched Fellow rends the Air with Cries,

Calls on his Name, and rolls his ghastly Eyes

Round the vex’d Ocean, and the dismal Skies:

His frantic Hands tear off his scatter’d Hairs;

Now calls on Heav’n, yet of its Help despairs;

Till the kind Waves his short-liv’d Sorrows end,

And wash the Mourner to his sinking Friend.

The P6v P7r 221

The following Scene, which seems to have been designed
by the Author to be interwoven in the preceding
Play (together with the brief History, as it
may be presumed, of the Parties introduced in it)
has some Strokes in it, that render it, altho’ imperfect,
deserving of a Place among her Works.

Act I.

Scene the Field.

Lucy and Meriah, meeting.

Meriah.

Good Morrow, Lucy! —How’s thy Heart
To-day?

Methinks thy Eyes express a happier Soul,

And all thy Features smile.

Lucy.

Your Friendship, Madam, and the chearful Season,

Have help’d a little to divert my Spleen.

And P7v 222

And tho’ ’tis impossible for a Person in my Circumstances
to be happy, yet my present State
agrees with my Notions of the Popish Purgatory;
that is, neither blest nor wretched, but a
kind of gentle Torment, or imperfect Pleasure.

Meriah.

It is not right to whet thy Griefs again,

Nor conjure up thy Wrongs, that long have slept:

Yet, Lucy, I could wish that thou hadst ended

The mournful Tale which you begun last Night.

Lucy.

I’ve us’d so long to muse upon my Woes,

That I can tell ’em now without Emotion.

I’ve told you that my Parents left me young,

An helpless Orphan, with a narrow Fortune:

A cruel Guardian shar’d the most of That.

I’d little left, except the Care of Heav’n.

And useless Pity from the tender Few:

My Age Sixteen, with Spirits soft and mild;

A Stranger both to Artifice and Sin.

In this weak Age I saw myself involv’d

In the black Jaws of Poverty and Care.

My Face was fair: —Curs’d be the Name of
Beauty!

’Twas P8r 223

’Twas that which drew Lycander’s Eyes on me:

Lycander, whose proud Heart disdain’d to lose

Whate’er it ask’d for;—whether the Desire

Was lawless Love, Ambition, or Revenge.

He first seduc’d me from my native Home,

With Vows of Friendship, and Platonic Love

My thoughtless Soul was easily deceiv’d,

And saw no Fraud upon his artful Brow:

But soon the Saint threw off his borrow’d Robe,

And stood confest, a Villain doubly dy’d.

P8v
Q1r

Some Acts of a
Second Play,
Written

At the Request of a Friend,
In about a Fortnight.

Q Q1v Q2r 227

Act I.

Scene the Royal Tent. Edwi. Eleonora.

Eleonora.

Why sits pale Sorrow on your faded Cheek?

Why on the Ground are fixt your mournful
Eyes?

Look up, my Lord!—Tho’ Fortune frown To-day,

To-Morrow’s Sun may see her dress’d in Smiles:

Fear, Grief, and Cares, are but the Shades of Life,

That serve to brighten each opponent Joy:

And who aspires at a godlike Crown,

Must wade to Glory thro’ a Gulph of Woe.

Q2 Edwi. Q2r 228

Edwi.

Ah! sooth me not: —In vain, my gentle Mother,

In vain you try to heal this wounded Heart.

You ’noint the Surface; but the cheating Balm

Finds no Access to the corrupting Core.

Few Months are past, since Edwi you beheld

I’th’Robes of pompous Majesty array’d;

Plac’d on a Throne, and courteously teaz’d

With the mock Homage of my silken Slaves:

Now view me, now, abandon’d and betray’d,

A pageant Wretch, the Shadow of a King.

Behold yon Army, whose proud Banners wave

High in the Air, and dare me to the Field:

Those late approach’d me with a cringing Knee,

Obey’d my Nod, and trembled at my Frown;

But now their Spears are pointed at my Breast:

Their greedy Fauchions thirst for royal Blood,

And Edwi’s Name is made the Sport of Tongues.

Eleonora.

I’m told the Traitors have this Morning sent,

To see if you’d agree on certain Terms;

But sure the tow’ring Eagle should not stoop

To stand a Parley with the abject Crow.

Edwi. Q3r 229

Edwi.

O, Eleonora! Can these Eyes behold

My Country ravag’d by a Civil War?

See madding Sons against their Fathers rise,

And raging Sires shed their Childrens Blood?

Pale Nature starts and shivers at the Sight,

And the sick Earth refuses to imbibe

The kindred Gore that on her Surface flows.

The Fields, untillag’d, yield their Fruits no more;

But o’er his Plough the famish’d Hind expires.

O horrid Scene!—My languid Spirits faint,

And this sad Heart bleeds from its inmost Cell.

Might Edwi’s Death my People’s Peace restore,

This willing Head should bend beneath their Rage,

And meet with Pleasure the decisive Blow.

Eleonora.

And are you conquer’d?—Will you tamely yield?

But know, fond Prince, ’tis not thy Death alone:

Not That their impious Fury will apease.

Me they abhor: And let them hate me still;

I neither ask their Mercy, nor their Love.

But, O, my Elgiva, my tender Child!

That fairest Blossom of my wither’d Age!

Q3 The Q3v 230

The gath’ring Tempest hovers round her Head,

And Rage and Lust bring on the horrid Storm.

Ah, Edwi, say, how wilt thou bear the Sight,

When they shall drag her shrieking from thy
Arms,

While thou with fruitless Rage shalt spurn the
Ground,

And call on Death and Elgiva in vain?

She shall be led in ignominious Chains,

To serve the Pleasures of the Victor Foe.

Think—Think on this—.

Edwi.

I do— O Eleonora!

O, thou hast stabb’d me to the inmost Soul:

Shall that soft Dove, shall Elgiva be torn,

From these fond Arms, that grasp their Hold in
vain?

Shall she be led through unrelenting Crouds

(Whose brutal Souls Compassion never knew)

To the proud Tent of an usurping Foe,

There left to weep, and strike her throbbing Breast,

To call on Edwi, but to call in vain?

He, in some distant Dungeon strongly pent,

Shall mourn for her, and with convulsive Pangs

Strain Q4r 231

Strain the black Sinews of his shackled Arms,

And wash the Ground with unavailing Tears.

Shall it be thus?—Ah, no! Methinks I feel

The Lion rouse within my glowing Breast:

Ere this shall be, let Edwi press the Field,

All grim in Dust, and purpled o’er with Wounds.

The Sun grows high—I’ll to each loyal Tent

And rouse my Troops to the decisive Blow:

This Sword shall know its lazy Sheath no more;

No more shall rest, till I or Treason fall.

Exit Edwi.

Eleonora.

Thus have I wrought his Temper to my Will:

Thanks to my Genius, and successful Arts:

His quiet Spirit ne’er was made for War;

But mighty Love can warm his frozen Blood,

And wake the Lamb to more than Tyger Rage.

He doats on Elgiva: ――On that depends,

On that nice Point, her Safety, and my own.

My Father ne’er obey’d those froward Priests;

For which they vow’d Revenge to him and his,

Through the long Record of succeeding Time.

Then what have I to hope from Peace?—’Tis War!

War, crown’d with Victory, must be my Aim,

Q4 And Q4v 232

And the hard Task to warm this gentle Prince,

To shake off Pity from his shrinking Soul,

And push him on to Laurels, or Oblivion.

Exit.

Scene the Enemy’s Camp.

Odoff and Dusterandus.

Odoff.

Our Messengers are just return’d, and bring

A haughty Message from the headstrong
Prince:

That blinded Boy returns our proffer’d Peace

With scornful Air, and insolent Reply:

But ere the Sun shall drive his weary Wheels

Down the bright Slope of yon descending Sky;

Or I’m mistaken, or the lofty Youth

His Morning Arrogance shall dearly buy.

Dusterandus.

The Fortune of the Day be ours.—Then

O then, my Odoff, —say; beats not thy Heart

At Thought of something dearer than Ambition?

Or I am poorly read in Love’s soft Page;

Or Q5r 233

Or else those Eyes betray the lambent Fire,

When they are cast on Elgiva the Fair.

Odoff.

Yes, Dusterandus, yes, I will confess,

That those bright Eyes have gain’d upon my Heart;

So far have gain’d, that to obtain the Prize,

I’d wade thro’ Seas of reeking Blood, and make

Such horrid Devastation, that the Sun

Should start to look on:—Yet this roving Soul

Not long shall wear her Chain: —I would but taste

Her Charms;—Then cast her off for something
new.

Dusterandus.

That’s well, my Friend, and like a Soldier spoke!

Just so the beauteous Emmel I adore;

Emmel, whose Cheeks are like the opening Rose,

Ere the bright Sun has warm’d its dewy Leaves.

Give me to share the Morning of her Charms,

When those are flown, like other rusty Spoils

I’d cast her by, and throw her to my Slaves.

Odoff.

The rev’rend Fathers have begun this War:

Thanks Q5v 234

Thanks to their Zeal that furnish’d us with Means,

Under the Shew of public Good, to serve

Love and Ambition.—That’s a Soldier’s Pay;

And the grave Dotards shall be taught, that we

Are not put off with scanty Recompence:

Weath, and Dominion, Elgiva, and Emmel,

They are the Sounds that charm my glowing
Breast;

Nor let them fansy these aspiring Swords,

That dare to hurl young Edwi from his Throne,

Shall creep into their Scabbards, at the Frown

Of sable-vested Priests, and bald-pate Friers.

Dusterandus.

That’s right, my Friend! O! let me clasp thee here,

Thus, to my Breast, and join our faithful Hands;

And vow to serve no Deities, but Love;

Love and Ambition, Int’rest and Revenge.

A Warrior’s Soul should like his Limbs be fram’d,

Robust and hard, nor quickly made to feel;

Of Brass his Forehead, and his Heart of Steel.

Exeunt.
Scene Q6r 235
Scene the Royal Tent. Edwi and Elgiva.

Edwi.

Look up, my Love, and stay those lucid
Streams:

Look up, and chear thy Husband with a Smile:

Not all the Horrors we must soon behold,

Of bleeding Armies, and expiring Troops,

Can wound my Soul like those fair streaming Eyes.

Yet Edwi lives! Then wherefore dost thou mourn?

O! stay thy Tears, till some more potent Cause

(Perhaps) shall force them from thy melting Eye.

Elgiva.

What greater Cause!—Already I behold,

Already view thee prostrate on the Dust

Breathless and pale, and scarr’d with purple
Wounds.

Distraction!—Where, then, whither shall I flee?

In what black Dungeon hide this cursed Head

This Head, the Cause of royal Edwi’s Woe!

My Fathers, and the froward Clergy liv’d

At Enmity; and still their Hate descends

On Q6v 326

On guiltless Me, who never wish’d them Wrong.

But say, ye Powers, whose Foreknowledge sees

Our Torments in the Embryo of Fate,

Why did you not in Mercy sweep me off,

And let me perish, while a thoughtless Babe?

Then had these Lips been Strangers to Complaint,

But calmly clos’d, and have a parting Smile.

Edwi.

Be calm, thou dearest Partner of my Soul,

And let us not expostulate with Heav’n;

That Heav’n which still can bless thy happier Days,

And make them chearful as a Morning Sun:

Thy Edwi yet may ’scape the furious Bands;

May live to see this troubled Land in Peace,

And at thy Feet the smiling Olive lay.

Elgiva.

O! trust not to the Chance of doubtful War;

But make thy Peace with yon aspiring Priests,

Ere their proud Banners dare thee to the Field:

Think not of me:—Tho banish’d from thy Arms,

In some lone Island, where no human Foot

E’er press’d the Shore, or mark’d the hollow Sand,

Without repining I could spend my Days,

3 So Q7r 237

So these glad Ears might hear the joyful Tale,

How undisturb’d my Edwi wore the Crown,

And wiser Albion bless’d his gentle Reign.

Edwi.

O, Elgiva! art thou so little known

In Edwi’s Soul, to think that he would buy

Crowns and Dominions, with the Loss of thee?

(Unjust Suspicion!) — No, those lovely Eyes

Shall see this Arm sustain the horrid Shock

Of black Rebellion, and ward off the Blow

From thy lov’d Head, or perish in the Cause.

Not all the Torments Nero’s Rage could find,

(Improv’d by some inventive Tyrant’s Brain)

Should tear thy Image from this loyal Heart,

Or make it waver in its Trust to thee.

Come then; O come! and on this faithful Breast

Pour out thy Sorrows, and divide thy Cares.

Enter Oswin and Emmel.

Oswin.

Haste, royal Edwi! for thy honest Troops

Are plac’d in Form on the decisive Ground:

The vaunting Foes are pouring from their Tents,

And thick as Locusts darken all the Field:

Our Q7v 238

Our daring Soldiers only wait for thee,

To lead them on, to Glory, or the Grave.

Edwi.

I come, my Oswin! —(Thou for ever dear!)

I fly this Instant to the loyal few,

Who dare be honest, and defend their King.

But, O ye Gods! Must each successful Dart,

Each guilty Lance, be stain’d with British Blood,

Whose gasping Sons shall press the purpled Ground!

That Thought strikes Horror to my bleeding Soul.

No more on’t for the present.—Now, farewel!

Farewel, my Queen. Ah! stop that gushing Tide;

Nor fright thy Spirit with imagin’d Ills:

Those Pow’rs that wait on Innocence, like thine,

Will for Thy sake preserve thy Edwi’s Life,

And give him back to thy expecting Arms.

Elgiva.

O! for the Constancy of Cato’s Daughter!

Now, Elgiva, sustain the deadly Shock.

Ah! Wretch, thou’rt lost: —Lost on the stormy
Sea;

And who will bring thee to the friendly Shore?

Faints. Edwi. Q8r 339239

Edwi.

O, Heavens!—But she wakes:—My Queen!
My Love!

O gentle Emmel! take her to thy Care:

Prest to thy Bosom, lull her into Peace,

And try to sooth the Anguish of her Soul.

Ye Guardian Angels, round her Curtains wait;

Wrapt in celestial Visions let her rest,

Lost to her Griefs; and slumber out the Day,

Exeunt Edwi, Emmel, and Elgiva.

Oswin[Speaker label not present in original source]

Manet Oswin.

Is Emmel gone; and not One Farewel Sigh?

But Sorrow reigns without Distinction here:

Each faithful Breast is full of Edwi’s Wrongs,

And mean Self-Interest can find no Room.

But she returns, fair as the Morning Ray.

Enter Emmel.

O thou, too dear! say, shall thy Oswin go

To Death’s grim Mart, unbless’d, without a Smile?

Emmel.

Talk’st thou of Smiles, where gloomy Terrors
reign

O’er Q8v 240

O’er the dull Roofs, and threaten us with Ruin?

On yonder Couch behold the Royal Fair

Trembling and pale, with Lips as Winter cold;

And languid Eyes that pour incessant Show’rs:

Her Spirit seems full of presaging Horrors.

Just now she strove to close her weary Lids;

Then, starting, cry’d, O! Oswin, save my King!

And, groaning, fell, and grovel’d on her Pillow.

Oswin.

Ah! wretched Pair, whose Lives are, in their Dawn,

O’ercast with Clouds of Misery and Tears!

But I must fly to head the martial Bands

Who still are faithful to my Edwi’s Cause.

Adieu, thou Fair one; thou whose firmer Soul

Bears calmly up amidst the growing Storm;

In whose bright Frame united we behold

Thy Mother’s Prudence, and thy Sister’s Charms:

But if this Day ’tis Oswin’s Lot to fall;

If he must view those dazling Eyes no more;

Grant me One Sigh (I ask but One) to please

My shiv’ring Ghost, and chear the Paths of Death.

Exit Oswin. Emmel. R1r 241

Emmel.

Adieu!—One Sigh!—No, One will not suffice:

I have not gain’d such Conquest o’er myself.

Spite of the Calm that dwells upon my Brow,

Within this Breast the smother’d Tempest rolls:

Philosophy but wanders round the Verge:

This silly Heart still wears the Stamp of Woman.

And when to Heaven I direct my Vows,

For my sad Sister, and her Royal Spouse,

For Edwi’s Safety, and this Land, I pray;

Yet then my Lips this glowing Heart betray;

And while I press each Guardian of the Sky,

O, save my Oswin! (unawares) I cry.

Act II.

Scene the Tent.

Emmel and Elgiva.

Emmel.

My Royal Sister, stay theythy Tears a while,

And stop the Torrent of this fruitless Woe.

You catch the Rod of Heaven, ere it falls,

R And R1v 242

And heap dark Mountains of prophetic Ills:

But let us not forestal the Hand of Fate:

Let chearful Hope delude the present Hour,

Our Lives will yet be long enough for Woe.

Elgiva.

O gentle Emmel! Thou, whose quiet Breast

No Passion tears, but Reason keeps her Throne;

Nor dreads Rebellion from her subject Pow’rs:

Thy prudent Thoughts enjoy perpetual Calm,

Still as the Ev’ning of a Summer’s Day.

Not so this Bosom!—That unguarded Fort

Is hourly ravag’d by contending Foes;

Cold Fears, and wasting Sorrows, melt me down,

Till Life’s warm Current stagnates in my Veins.

Emmel.

These gloomy Evils gather Strength, while you

Indulge the native Softness of your Soul:

A Woman’s Heart, so aptly fram’d for Woe,

Has much more Need of Fortitude, than Man’s.

We want the Art to gild a Passion o’er

With fraudful Smiles, or hide it with another:

Our ready Organs all betray their Trust;

2 Our R2r 243

Our Eyes, our Tongues, confess the ruling Storm,

Or whether it be Sorrow, Rage, or Love.

Elgiva.

In vain, my Sister, yes, in vain, you try

To sooth the Griefs of this distracted Breast:

Not Reason there, but Edwi’s Image rules.

I see him now in Dust and Blood involv’d,

Oppress’d with Numbers, and with smarting
Wounds:

See the Rose tremble in his fading Cheek,

While down his Temples rolls a fainting Dew:

Then yelling Crouds shall rush like Tygers on,

And tread him down—My Edwi!—O! my Heart!

Ah Emmel! save me; hide me from myself;

From my own Thoughts, and from the Light,
for ever.

Emmel.

A Moment’s Patience!—Yet your Edwi lives,

And yet may live for long succeeding Years.

When the dark Minute shall come on to close

His Life, and lay him with his Parents low,

’Twill then be soon enough (believe me ’twill)

To sigh, and wash your widow’d Veil with Tears:

R2 But R2v 244

But now to Rest devote the present Hour,

And try to lose the Terrors of this Day.

Elgiva.

O gracious Heav’n! if e’er thou heard’st the Cry

Of a wrong’d Orphan, or a widow’d Wife;

Hear me; —me Wretched, as the last of those!

And spare my King, or sweep us off together.

I ask—(Ye Saints, be Witness to my Pray’r)

For him to live, or with him greatly die.

Exeunt.

Scene the Second.

Eleonora.

Ambition!—O what Cares have I gone through,

To serve thy End!—And more are yet to come.

Not long it is since with my Daughter’s Charms

I won the Friendship of this luckless Prince:

But this Alliance answers not its End:

His Throne already from its Bottom shakes,

And with the pond’rous Ruin we must fall,

If some Expedient be not quickly found.

The Traitor Barons are of Beauty fond;

Hah! R3r 245

Hah! there’s a Hint:—My Girls are young and
fair,

And, as I’m told, are by the Gen’rals lov’d.

It shall be so:—But why comes not Leander?

I sent him out, to spy the Field of Death,

And see which Way Success would move her Wing.

He comes.—Ill Tidings by that mournful Brow.

Leander.

Ah, noble Lady! Pleas’d with your Commands,

I took th’Advantage of a neighb’ring Hill,

Whose Top commanded the destructive Field:

There my sad Eyes beheld the hated Sight

Of kindred Arms against each other rais’d,

And bleeding Britons prostrate on the Dust:

Strong was the Contest, horrible the Fray,

And shifting Conquest often mov’d her Wing:

At length the Royal Troops began to faint,

And the flush’d Rebels visibly prevail’d.

Three times young Edwi from his Steed was
hurl’d,

And thrice he rallied on the vaunting Foe:

I saw no more; but turn’d my Eyes away,

And hasted hither with the mournful Tale.

R3 Eleo- R3v 246

Eleonora.

Enough—Leander, leave me to myself.

Exit Leand.

Now, Eleonora, What is to be done?

Haste, some inventive Genius, to my Aid!

I’ll write to Odoff in submissive Terms,

And vow this Night to quit young Edwi’s Camp,

And give my lovely Daughters to their Arms.

Twill do; —and Eleonora still shall live

In Splendor,—safe beneath the Victor’s Smile.

But now my Daughters, with their puny Virtues,

In them the hardest of my Task remains.

I’ll trust ’em not, but serpentizing Fraud

Shall from our Guards the Simple ones allure:

Then they are safe; and let ’em rage in vain.

’Tis not their Anger I have Cause to fear:

And should they curse me, ’twill be lost in Air.

It is resolv’d; and now for the Event.

Exit.
Scene R4r 247

Scene the Field.

Odoff. Dusterandus.

Odoff.

Thus far we’ve conquer’d; made the stubborn
Foe

Recoil, and leave us Masters of the Field.

Who would have thought the Royal Stripling bore

Such wond’rous Mettle in his slender Frame?

The Victory is not so cheaply won

As I could wish;—But let it rest a while:

I trust the fainting Troops, that yet remain,

Shall not behold To-morrow’s Ev’ning Sun.

Dusterandus.

Our rev’rend Prelates take a speedy Way

To win their Converts; not with slow-pac’d Reason,

But the shrill Trumpet, and the shining Spear.

Then who would to a sleepy Audience preach,

When such keen Rhetoric as this, brings o’er

Five thousand Proselytes in one short Day?

Odoff.

I like their Method, as it serves our End.

R4 We R4v 248

We Soldiers cannot live by canting Morals:

’Tis Pay and Plunder is the Text for us.

So let ’em squabble with succeeding Kings:

Be theirs the Pride, the Profit shall be ours.

Dusterandus.

Well said, my Friend;— and let religious Fools

Stand humming o’er a Cause:—We know ’tis good,

Provided it can shew the Stamp of Gold;

Gold that can heal a formidable Breach,

Or break a Flaw in the most sacred Bond.

Enter a Soldier.

Soldier.

My Lord—A Letter from King Edwi’s Camp.

Odoff.

Hah! A Letter! Would the Varlet treat?

It comes too late.—Let’s see’t.

Reads.

My Lord—Knowledge of your Virtue—

Valour—Pity—Love to Elgiva

Midnight—Edwi’s Camp—Clemency—

Royal Guards—Distress’d—Eleonora.

Odoff. R5r 249

Odoff.

’Tis well!—Retire.Exit Sold.

Come here, my Dusterandus: Here, my Boy.

Who would not be a Soldier!—See, proud Fortune,

That flies indignant from her Slaves of Merit,

Creeps like a Spaniel fawning to our Knees.

Behold these Lines! They’re sign’d by Eleonora;

Who vows to bring her lovely Daughters forth,

Through the King’s Guards, and meet us in the
Field,

And give those Beauties to our happy Arms!

Dusterandus.

Surprising this!—’Twere best to go attended;

Nor trust too firmly on the fraudful Lines.

Is Nature banish’d from her impious Heart,

That she can sell her Children to the Foe,

As the rich Price of that unworthy Head?

Odoff.

She dares not now dissemble; for her Life,

She knows, will quickly be at my Disposal.

’Tis Fear has made her fly for Shelter here:

And R5v 250

And what’s her Crime to us?—The Joy be ours:

The Punishment be hers.—The Bawd shall perish

As soon as we’ve secur’d each blooming Fair:

We have no room for greasy Matrons here.

Dusterandus.

’Tis right, my Oracle!—O bless this Night!

This Night the haughty Emmel shall be mine!

Not sar I could envy, blest with her,

As thou with Elgiva’s more gentle Charms!

O how ’twou’d please my Pride to clasp her here

To this glad Breast!—While Horror, Rage, and
Grief,

Shall reign alternate in her glowing Eyes!

Whilst raving, weeping, struggling, in my Arms,

I gaze with Rapture on her vary’d Charms.

Exeunt.
Scene R6r 251

Scene the Tent.

Eleonora and an Officer.

Eleonora.

You say King Edwi sleeps i’th’ Field To-night.

Officer.

He does, encircled by his faithful Troops,

Who vow to lavish their remaining Blood

For his lov’d Person, and his rightful Crown.

Eleonora.

Take back our best of Wishes to the King:

I’ll bear your Message to the Royal Ear.

This Errand suits my purpose to an Hair:

Exit Officer.

And the King’s Absence.—But behold his Spouse.

Enter Elgiva.

Look up, my Child; thy much-lov’d Edwi lives,

And sends fair Greeting to his gentle Bride.

Elgiva.

Does Edwi live? O let me hear once more

That Sound! More soft than Music to my Soul!

But R6v 252

But why returns he not to bless these Eyes?

These Eyes, whose only Business is to weep,

And find no Respite till they’re bent on him.

Eleonora.

To-night he sleeps amidst his circling Troops,

On the cold Ground; nor to the Tent returns.

Elgiva.

Unhappy King! In a dark Moment born!

What sullen Star presided at our Births,

And stamp’d us wretched with the Mark of Fate?

Shall those soft Limbs, unus’d to rugged War,

Press the cold Earth, and clasp the ruthless Stones?

Is this the Badge of Royalty and Pow’r?

The sad Distinction of a sceptred Wretch?

In some lone Village better had we liv’d,

The happy Children of two neighb’ring Swains:

There our still Lives had smoothly pass’d away,

Alike unknown to Flattery or Woe;

Our mournful Story had not then been told,

Nor pitying Eye shou’d melt at Edwi’s Name;

But we, not singled from the common Herd,

Liv’d calmly blest, and happily obscure.

Eleo- R7r 253

Eleonora.

It grieves me, Elgiva, to hear thee mourn;

And more, that Edwi comes not to his Tent.

To-morrow will renew the Face of War:

If then—

Elgiva.

Why will you rack me with a horrid If?

I know these Eyes shall ne’er behold him more.

I see, already see, my Edwi slain!

Nor shall we meet to sigh a kind Farewel.

Eleonora.

Weep not, my Child; thou shalt behold the
King:

Myself will lead thee to the martial Field:

One of our Guards shall lead us to the Place,

Where Edwi rests amidst his loyal Friends:

We’ll take no more than one――No pompous
Train;

Lest haply we alarm the distant Foe.

Elgiva.

And will you tempt the Dangers of the Night,

To R7v 254

To please your Child, and sooth her frantic
Grief?

Eleonora.

With thee o’er Waves and horrid Rocks I’d go,