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J. NICHOLS'S SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS. VOLUME III.
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RIDENTEM DICERE VERUM, QUID VETAT? Hor.
W. KING, LL.D. Aet. 49.
T. Cook sculp
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A SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS: WITH NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL.
THE THIRD VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY AND FOR J. NICHOLS, RED LION PASSAGE, FLEET-STREET. MDCCLXXX.
[1] A SELECT COLLECTION OF MISCELLANY POEMS.
THE EAGLE AND THE ROBIN*, An APOLOGUE; tranſlated from the Original of AESOP, written Two Thouſand Years ſince, and now rendered in familiar Verſe by H. G. L. Mag.
GOOD precepts and true gold are more valuable for their antiquity. And here I preſent my good reader with one, delivered by the firſt founder of mythology, Aeſop himſelf. Maximus Planudes takes notice of it, as a very excellent part of his production; and Phae⯑drus, Camerarius, and others, ſeem to agree, that his Eagle, and five others not yet tranſlated, are equal to [2] any of his that are handed down to us. Though Mr. Ogleby and Sir Roger L'Eſtrange had the unhappineſs to be unacquainted with them, yet I had the good for⯑tune to diſcover them by the removal of my old library, which has made me amends for the trouble of getting to where I now teach. They were written, or dictated at leaſt, by Aeſop, in the fifty-fourth Olympiad: and though I deſigned them chiefly for the uſe of my ſchool (this being tranſlated by a youth deſigned for a Greek profeſſor), yet no man is ſo wiſe as not to need inſtruc⯑tion, aye, and by the way of fable too; ſince the Holy Scriptures themſelves, the beſt inſtructors, teach us by way of parable, ſymbol, image, and figure; and David was more moved with Nathan's "Thou art the man," than all the moſt rigid lectures in the world would have done. Whoever will be at the trouble of comparing this verſion with the original, let them begin at the tenth line, and they will find it metaphraſtically done, verbum verbo, as the beſt way of juſtice to the author. Thoſe that are meer adorers of [...] will not be angry that it is in this ſort of metre, for which I gave leave, the lad having a turn to this ſort of meaſure, which is pleaſant and agreeable, though not lofty. For my own part, I concur with my maſter Ariſtotle, that [...] are very far from being unneceſſary or unplea⯑ſant. May this be of uſe to thee; and it will pleaſe thine in all good wiſhes,
HORAT. GRAM.
THE EAGLE AND THE ROBIN.
[3]A LADY liv'd in former days,
That well deſerv'd the utmoſt praiſe;
For greatneſs, birth, and juſtice fam'd,
And every virtue could be nam'd;
Which made her courſe of life ſo even,
That ſhe's a Saint (if dead) in Heaven.
[4]
This Lady had a little ſeat
Juſt like a palace, 'twas ſo neat,
From aught (but goodneſs) her retreat.
One morning, in her giving way,
As was her cuſtom every day,
[5]To cheer the poor, the ſick, and cold,
Or with apparel, food, or gold,
There came a gazing ſtranger by,
On whom, ſhe quickly caſt an eye.
The man admiring, made a ſtand;
He had a bird upon his hand:
[6]" What's that, ſays ſhe, that hangs its head,
Sinking and faint? 'Tis almoſt dead."
" Madam, a Red-breaſt that I found,
By this wet ſeaſon almoſt drown'd."
" Oh! bring him in, and keep him warm;
Robins do never any harm."
They ſoon obey'd, and chopt him meat,
Gave him whatever he would eat;
The Lady care herſelf did take,
And made a neſt for Robin's ſake:
But he perkt up into her chair,
In which he plenteouſly did fare,
Aſſuming quite another air.
The neighbours thought, when this they ſpy'd,
The world well mended on his ſide.
With well-tun'd throat he whiſtled long,
And every body lik'd his ſong.
" At laſt, ſaid they, this little thing
Will kill itſelf, ſo long to ſing;
We 'll cloſet him among the reſt
Of thoſe my Lady loves the beſt."
They little thought, that ſaw him come,
That Robins were ſo quarrelſome:
The door they open'd, in he pops,
And to the higheſt perch he hops;
The party-colour'd birds he choſe,
The Gold-finches, and ſuch as thoſe;
With them he'd peck, and bill, and feed,
And very well (at times) agreed:
Canary-birds were his delight,
With them he'd tête-à-tête all night;
[7]But the brown Linnets went to pot,
He kill'd them all upon the ſpot.
The ſervants were employ'd each day,
Inſtead of work, to part ſome fray,
And wiſh'd the aukward fellow curſt
That brought him to my Lady firſt.
At laſt they all reſolv'd upon 't,
Some way to tell my Lady on 't.
Meanwhile he 'd had a noble ſwing,
And rul'd juſt like the Gallic king;
Having kill'd or wounded all,
Unleſs the Eagle in the hall;
With whom he durſt but only jar,
He being the very ſoul of war,
But hated him for his deſert,
And bore him malice at his heart.
This Eagle was my Lady's pride,
The guardian ſafety of her ſide:
He often brought home foreign prey,
Which humbly at her feet he lay.
For colour, pinions, and ſtature,
The faireſt workmanſhip of nature;
'Twould do one good to ſee him move,
So full of grandeur, grace, and love:
He was indeed a bird for Jove.
He ſoar'd aloft in Brucum's field,
And thouſand Kites and Vultures kill'd;
Which made him dear to all that flew,
Unleſs to Robin and his crew.
[8]
One day poor Bob, puff'd up with pride,
Thinking the combat to abide,
A gooſe-quill on for weapon ty'd,
Knowing by uſe, that, now and then,
A ſword leſs hurt does than a pen.
As for example—What at home
You 've well contriv'd to do at Rome,
A pen blows up—before you come.
You are ſuppos'd to undermine
The foe—in ſome immenſe deſign.
A pen can bite you with a line;
There's forty ways to give a ſign.
Well—all on fire away he ſtalk'd,
Till come to—where the Eagle walk'd.
Bob did not ſhill-I ſhall-I go,
Nor ſaid one word of friend or foe;
But flirting at him made a blow,
As game-cocks with their gauntlets do.
At which the Eagle gracefully
Caſt a diſdaining, ſparkling eye;
As who ſhould ſay—What 's this, a flie?
But no revenge at all did take,
He ſpar'd him for their Lady's ſake,
Who ponder'd theſe things in her mind,
And took the conduct of the Eagle kind.
Upon reflection now—to ſhew
What harm the leaſt of things may do,
Mad Robin, with his curſed flirt,
One of the Eagle's * eyes had hurt;
[9]Inflam'd it, made it red and ſore:
But the affront inſlam'd it more.
Oh, how the family did tear!
To fire the houſe, could ſcarce forbear:
With ſcorn, not pain, the Eagle fir'd,
Murmur'd diſdain, and ſo retir'd.
Robin, to offer ſome relief,
In words like theſe would heal their grief:
" Should th' Eagle die (which Heaven forbid!)
We ought ſome other to provide.
I do not ſay that any now
Are fit, but in a year or two:
And ſhould this mighty warrior fall,
They ſhould not want a General."
As men have long obſerv'd, that one
Misfortune ſeldom comes alone;
Juſt in the moment this was done,
Ten thouſand foes in ſight were come;
Vultures, and Kites, and birds of prey,
In flocks ſo thick—they darken'd day.
A long-concerted force and ſtrong,
Vermin of all kinds made the throng;
Foxes were in the faction join'd,
Who waited their approach to ground.
By every hand, from common fame,
The frightful face of danger came.
One cries, "What help now—who can tell?
I'm glad the Eagle 's here, and well!"
Another, out of breath with fear,
Says, "Thouſands more near ſea appear;
[10]They'll ſwop our Chicken from the door;
We never were ſo ſet before:
We're glad the Eagle will forget,
And the invaders kill or beat."
Reſerv'd and great, his noble mind,
Above all petty things inclin'd,
Abhorr'd the thoughts of any thing.
But what his Lady's peace could bring:
Who bleſs'd him firſt, and bade him do
As he was wont, and beat the foe.
Burning and reſtleſs as the ſun,
Until this willing work was done;
He whets his talons, ſtretch'd his wings,
His lightning darts, and terror flings;
Towers with a flight into the ſky,
Theſe million monſters to deſcry,
Prepar'd to conquer, or to die.
The party, that ſo far was come,
Thought not the Eagle was at home:
To fame and danger us'd in field,
They knew he'd quickly make them yield:
But, on aſſurance he was near,
Incumber'd, faint, and dead with fear,
They made with hurry towards the lakes;
And he his pinions o'er them ſhakes.
They had not (with ſuch horror fill'd)
The courage to let one be kill'd:
They fled, and left no foe behind,
Unleſs it were the fleeting wind:
Only—a man by water took
Two fine young Merlins and a Rook.
[11]
The family had now repoſe:
But with the ſun the Eagle roſe;
Th' imperial bird purſued the foe,
More toil than reſt inur'd to know.
He wing'd his way to Latian land,
Where firſt was hatch'd this murdering band;
He darted death where-e'er he came,
Some of them dying at his name.
Their mighty foe—a fatal pledge,
Their bowels tore through every hedge:
They flutter, ſhriek, and caw, and hiſs;
Their ſtrength decays, and fears increaſe:
But moſt the chevaliers the Geeſe.
So many ſlaughter'd fowl there was,
Their carcaſes block'd-up the ways;
The reſt he drove, half ſpent, pell-mell,
Quite to the walls of Pontifell.
Robin at home, though mad to hear
He ſhould ſo conquer every where,
Expoſtulated thus with fear:
" Ungrateful I, that ſo have ſtirr'd
Againſt this generous, noble bird,
Waſt thou not firſt by him preferr'd?
Let's leave him in his gall to burn,
And back to Pontifell return."
There ſome to chimney-tops aſpire,
To turrets ſome that could fly higher;
Some 'bove a hundred miles were gone,
To rooſt them at Byzantium.
Alas! in vain was their pretence,
He broke through all their ſtrong defence:
[12]Down went their fences, wires, and all;
Perches and birds together fall.
None hop'd his power to withſtand,
But gave the neſt to his command;
They told him of ten thouſand more,
In flocks along the Ganges' ſhore,
Safe in their furrows, free from trouble,
Like Partridges among the ſtubble.
He ſpreads himſelf, and cuts the air,
And ſteady flight ſoon brought him there.
Lord, how deceiv'd and vex'd he was!
To find they were but meer Jackdaws.
A hundred thouſand all in light,
They all could chatter, not one fight.
" I'll deal by them as is their due:
" Shough! cry'd the Eagle; off they flew."
His flaſhing eyes their hearts confounds,
Though by their flight ſecure from wounds,
Which was a ſignal, fatal baulk
To a late ſwift Italian Hawk.
The Eagle would no reſt afford,
Till he had ſent my Lady word;
Who when ſhe heard the dear ſurprize,
Wonder and joy ſtood in her eyes.
" My faithful Eagle, haſt thou then
My moral foes deſtroy'd again?
Return, return, and on me wait;
Be thou the guardian of my gate;
Thee and thy friends are worth my care,
Thy foes (if any ſuch there are)
Shall my avenging anger ſhare."
[13]So—leſt new ills ſhould intervene,
She turn'd the Robin out again.
The Samians now, in vaſt delight,
Bleſs their good lady day and night;
Wiſh that her life might ne'er be done,
But everlaſting as the ſun.
The Eagle high again did ſoar;
The Lady was diſturb'd no more,
But all things flouriſh'd as before.
ROBIN RED BREAST, WITH THE BEASTS, AN OLD CAT'S PROPHECY;
Taken out of an old copy of Verſes ſuppoſed to be writ by JOHN LIDGATE a Monk of Bury.
ONE that had in her infant ſtate,
While playing at her Father's gate,
Seen and was moſt hugely ſmitten
With young Dog and dirty Kitten,
Had took them up and lug'd them in,
And made the ſervants waſh them clean*.
When ſhe to a fit age was grown,
To be ſole Miſtreſs of her own,
[14]Then to her favour and ſtrange truſt
She rais'd theſe two; in rank the firſt
The Dog: who, with gilt collar grac'd,
Strutted about. The cat was plac'd
O'er all the houſe to domineer,
And kept each wight of her in fear;
While he o'er all the plains had power,
That ſavage Wolves might not devour
Her flocks. She gave him charge great care
To take: but beaſts uncertain are!
Now ſee by theſe what troubles riſe
To thoſe who in their choice unwiſe
Put truſt in ſuch; for he ſoon join'd
With beaſt of prey the Dog combin'd,
Who kill'd the Sheep, and tore the Hind;
While he would ſtand, and grin, and bark,
Concealing thus his dealings dark.
A Wolf, or ſo, ſometimes he'd take,
And then, O what a noiſe he'd make!
But with wild beaſts o'er-run yet are
The plains: ſome die for want of fare,
Or torn, or kill'd; the ſhepherds find
Each day are loſt of every kind.
Thy ſilly Sheep lament in vain;
Of their hard fate, not him, complain.
The ſhepherds, and the ſervants all,
Againſt the traitor loudly bawl:
But there was none that dar'd to tell
Their lady what to them beſel;
For Puſs a Fox of wondrous art
Brought-in, to help, and take their part,
[15]By whoſe aſſiſtance to deceive,
She made her every lye believe.
One lucky day, when ſhe was walking
In her woods, with ſervants talking,
And ſtopp'd to hear how very well
A Red-breaſt ſung, then him to dwell
With her ſhe call'd: he came, and took
His place next to a favourite Rook;
Where Robin ſoon began to ſing
Such ſongs as made the houſe to ring;
He ſung the loſs and death of Sheep,
In notes that made the Lady weep:
How for his charge the Dog unfit,
Took part with foes, and ſhepherds bit;
Ev'n from his birth he did him trace,
And ſhew him cur of ſhabby race;
The firſt by wandering beggars fed,
His ſire, advanc'd, turn'd ſpit for bread;
Himſelf each truſt had ſtill abus'd;
To ſteal what he ſhould guard, was us'd
From puppy: known where-e'er he came
Both vile and baſe, and void of ſhame.
The Cat he ſung, that none could match
For venom'd ſpite, or cruel ſcratch;
That from a Witch transform'd ſhe came,
Who kitten'd three of equal fame:
This firſt, one dead, of tabby fur
The third ſurvives, much noiſe of her
Had been: a Cat well known, with eaſe
On errands dark, o'er land and ſeas,
[16]She'd journies take to cub of Bear,
From theſe intriguing beaſts, who ſwear
They'll bring him to defend the wrong
That they have done. Again he ſung.
How Tabby once, in moon-light night,
Trotted with letter Fox did write;
In which he ſends his beſt reſpects
To the She-bear, and thus directs:
" Madam, ſaid he, your cub ſafe ſend,
" None ſhall his worſhip ſoon offend;
" It 's all I can at preſent do
" To ſerve him, as his friends well know."
At this the beaſts grew in ſuch rage,
That none their fury coul [...] aſſuage;
Nay, Puſs her Lady would have ſcratch'd,
And tore her eyes, but ſhe was watch'd;
For ſhe 'd ſet up her back, and mew,
And thrice ev'n in her face ſhe flew.
The Dog, like an ungrateful ſpark,
At her would dare to ſnarl and bark.
Her tenants wondering ſtood to hear
That ſhe their inſolence would bear;
And offer'd their aſſiſtance to
Soon make them better manners know:
But ſhe, to avoid all farther rout,
Her window opening, turn'd Bob out;
Hoping that then her beaſts would live
In peace, and no diſturbance give.
Yet nothing ſhe can do avails,
Their rage againſt her ſtill prevails;
[17]Though Puſs was warn'd to fear their fate
In lines (by old prophetic Cat
Writ before her transformation,
When ſhe was in the Witch's ſtation)
Foretelling thus: "When beaſts are grown
" To certain heights, before unknown
" Of human race, ſome ſhall aloud
" Inflame and arm a dreadful crowd,
" Who in vaſt numbers ſhall advance,
" And to new tunes ſhall make them dance:
" When this begins, no longer hope,
" For all remains is ax and rope."
But, not deterr'd by this, they dar'd,
With ſome who of their plunder ſhar'd,
T' affront their Lady, and conſpire
To many with her money hire;
Contemning her, to pay undue
Regards unto this beſtial crew:
Though theſe reſembled human ſhapes,
They were indeed no more than Apes;
Who ſome in houſe, and ſome in wood,
And others in high boxes ſtood,
That chattering made ſuch noiſe and ſtir,
How all was due to Fox and Cur;
Till, by their falſe deluding way,
She found her flocks begin to ſtray.
Still Robin does for her his care
And zeal expreſs; on whom yet are
His thoughts all fix'd. On her he dreams
Each night. Her praiſes are his themes
[18]In ſongs all day. Now perch'd on tree,
Finding himſelf ſecure and free,
He pertly ſhakes his little wings,
Sets up his throat: again he ſings,
" That ſhe had left no other way
To ſave her flocks, and end this fray,
But ſoon to her aſſiſtance take
One who could make theſe monſters ſhake;
A well-known huntſman, who has ſkill
The fierceſt beaſts to tame or kill:
At her command he'd come, and he
Would make her great, and ſet them free;
That, ſhould theſe beaſts ſome evil day
Bring Cub into her grounds, ſhe may
Depend that not herſelf they'll ſpare,
Since to inſult her now they dare:
All ſhe at beſt can hope for then,
Is to be ſafe ſhut up in de [...];
Since by ſure ſigns all theſe ingrate
Are known to bear her deadly hate."
He ends his ſong, and prays to Heaven
That ſhe may have the wiſdom given,
Before it be too late, to take
Such reſolutions as may make
Her ſafe, and that theſe beaſts no more
To ravage in the plains have power.
BIBLIOTHECA: A POEM. OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF A MODERN LIBRARY. WITH SOME VERY USEFUL EPISODES AND DIGRESSIONS.
[20]BIBLIOTHECA*.
[19]—Ridiculum acri
" Fortius et melius magnas plerunque ſecat res.
"—Utile dulci."
HOR.
To the moſt noble Prince HENRY, Duke of Beaufort, Marquis and Earl of Worceſter, Earl of Glamorgan, Baron Herbert, Lord of Chepſtow, Ragland, and Gower; and the illuſtrious Brotherhood†, over which his Grace preſides; this POEM is humbly dedicated, by their moſt obedient, moſt dutiful, and humble ſervant.
THE tea was ſipp'd, Ocella gone
To regulate affairs alone;
When, from the marriage lumber freed,
The Doctor with himſelf decreed
To nod—or, much the ſame, to read.
He always ſeem'd a wondrous lover
Of painted leaf, and Turky cover,
[21]While no regard at all was had
To ſots in homely ruſſet clad,
Concluding he muſt be within
A calf, that wore without his ſkin.
Scott†, if in rags, was not admir'd,
While Lacy‡ ſeem'd as much inſpir'd,
And, in rich purple nicely dreſt,
Diſcours'd as ſaintly as the beſt.
[22]Great Sherlock, Barrow, and thoſe few
That teach our paſſions to ſubdue,
Without gilt backs he would deſpiſe,
Which ſeem'd at beſt but dully wiſe:
And Bunyan's Pilgrim ſhew'd the way
To Paradiſe as well as they.
But, though his thoughts were fix'd to read,
The treatiſe was not yet decreed:
Uncertain to devote the day
To politicks, or elſe to play;
What theme would beſt his genius ſuit,
Grave morals, or a dull diſpute,
Where both contending champions boaſt
The victory, which neither loſt;
As Chiefs are oft in ſtory read,
Each to purſue, when neither fled*.
He enters now the ſhining dome
Where crouded authors ſweat for room;
So cloſe, a man could hardly ſay
Which were more fixt, the ſhelves, or they.
Each with his golden title tells
Its author's name, and where he dwells;
And, to enlarge his credit more,
Directs us to his very door;
Boaſting of wonders to be ſeen,
If we have faith to look, within.
To pleaſe the eye, the higheſt ſpace
A fett of wooden volumes grace;
Pure timber authors, that contain
As much as ſome that boaſt a brain;
[23]That Alma Mater never view'd,
Without degrees to writers hew'd:
Yet ſolid thus juſt emblems ſhew
Of the dull brotherhood below,
Smiling their rivals to ſurvey,
As great and real blocks as they.
Diſtinguiſh'd then in even rows,
Here ſhines the Verſe, and there the Proſe;
(For, though Britannia fairer looks
United, 'tis not ſo with books:)
The champions of each different art
Had ſtations all aſſign'd apart,
Fearing the rival chiefs might be
For quarrels ſtill, nor dead agree.
The Schoolmen firſt in long array
Their bulky lumber round diſplay;
Seem'd to lament their wretched doom,
And heave for more convenient room;
While doctrine each of weight contains
To crack his ſhelves as well as brains;
Since all with him were thought to dream,
That flagg'd before they fill'd a rheam:
His authors wiſely taught to prize,
Not for their merit, but their ſize;
No ſurer method ever found
Than buying writers by the pound;
For Heaven muſt needs his breaſt inſpire,
That ſcribbling fill'd each month a quire,
And claim'd a ſtation on his ſhelves,
Who ſcorn'd each ſot who fool'd in twelves.
[24]
Say, Goddeſs! thou that tak'ſt delight
To live and lodge with folks that write;
What numbers juſtly may deſcribe
The orders of the learned tribe?
Fierce wits, that long at variance ſtood,
And drew much ink, but little blood,
Each other's pardon now implore,
The cudgels drop, and ſnarl no more;
And, filling now the ſelf-ſame place,
No longer combat, but embrace.
Here vanquiſh'd Bentley, dreading ſtill
The force of Boyle's victorious quill,
All ſuppliant now, devoutly ſwore
He ne'er would queſtion Aeſop more,
But own each page authentic ſtood
Some centuries before the flood;
Who, though the tyrant's bull of braſs
Did for a mighty wonder paſs,
On purpoſe wrote, to have it known
He made much bigger of his own*.
Maurus† and Garth their feuds ſurvive,
And here in endleſs friendſhip live;
Kindly concording, now impart
Their healing power and rhyming art;
Unrival'd heroes both confeſt,
To cloſe a life, or break a jeſt,
[25]But who can mention Maurus' name,
Without a line to crown his fame;
Upon whoſe brows inſpiring hung
Large poppy wreaths, whene'er he ſung,
Whoſe kindred rhymes their nature keep,
Gently diſpoſing folks to ſleep?
Then ſay, great Mirror of our Time,
(Not half ſo fam'd for cures as rhyme)
Why ſhould'ſt thou other means purſue
To heal with drugs, when verſe will do?
Five tender diſtichs, from thoſe ſtrains
Where Arthur moans, and Job complains,
Shall ever boaſt a power to ſteep
The wakeful'ſt eyes in downy ſleep.
When ſtrongeſt opiates nought avail,
Preſcribe thy Muſe, 'twill never fail;
Ne'er trouble phyſick with a cure,
Each page of thine will work as ſure;
With whatſoever ills oppreſt,
'Tis ſure to give thy patient reſt.
See next the Mantuan Bard appears,
And in his hand th' Aeneid bears;
Ten thouſand laurels, round him ſpread,
Bloom ready to adorn his head,
Their greens too languid to beſtow
That fame which to his verſe we owe.
Such magick fills each heavenly line,
We read, and reading grow divine;
Conſcious we feel the extacy,
And ſeem inſpir'd as well as he;
[26]With him we ſoaring gain the ſkies,
Yet know not whence or how we riſe.
But ſee what clouds of ſullen woe
Sadly obſcure his laurel'd brow!
While the bright glory, that ſurrounds
His ſacred head, his ſorrow drowns;
In vain the weeping Muſe eſſays
To eaſe his grief with proffer'd bays;
Though, fam'd beyond the ſtarry ſky,
She vow'd th' Aeneid ne'er ſhould die!
But, while we thus his grief explore,
Oh! view the cauſe, nor wonder more:
See, cloſely fixt on either hand,
His two tranſlators* near him ſtand,
Oblig'd to hear them both rehearſe
His wondrous ſong in doggrel verſe;
Thus doom'd to all ſucceeding times
To gingle in dull Britiſh rhymes.
" He never thought, great bard! to ſee
" His Roman ladies ſipping tea,
" Divine Lavinia taking ſnuff,
" Or grave Aeneas charge in buff,
" Againſt his Latian foes advance
" With muſket now, inſtead of launce;
" While mighty Turnus owes his fall
" Not to a javelin, but a ball;
" Shot through the belly in the fray,
" Expiring a genteeler way."
[27]
Had Withers, Shirley, or the good
Laureat of Cambridge near him ſtood;
No wrinkle had been ſeen, nay more,
Even R—ll's ſelf he could have bore
(Where Nature, taking wondrous pains
To furniſh guts, ne'er thought of brains):
But doom'd to periſh by a foe,
Yet hug the arm that gave the blow;
A fate was look'd on too ſevere
For Heaven to fix, or him to bear.
So much unlike appear'd their ſtrains
To thoſe he ſung on Lat [...]an plains
(Begging their readers to diſpenſe
With pretty cuts inſtead of ſenſe),
That from thoſe lines their pencil drew,
Scarce his own ſelf great Maro knew;
Till honeſt Loggan* let him ſee
In copper-plates it muſt be he;
No longer then he could refuſe,
But from the cuts confeſs'd the Muſe.
Oh! who can view without a tear
Great Pindar's Muſe, and D'Urfey near?
Whoſe ſoaring wit ne'er higher flew
Than to endite for Barthol'mew,
Setting, for ſots at country fairs,
Dull bawdy ſongs to Purcell's airs;
But here how ſweetly they combine,
Their fancies club, and numbers join!
[28]While the bold Grecian nobly ſings
Of gods, of heroes, and of kings,
And ſomething more than mortal fire
Exalts his voice, and warms his lyre,
That, fir'd with each tranſporting page,
We feel his heat, and catch his rage;
While each immortal warrior's name
His Muſe tranſmits to deathleſs fame,
Green wreaths upon their hearſe beſtows,
And every wound immortal grows!
But much, oh! very much below
Our meek Pindaricks gently flow,
In ſoft and eaſy metre creep,
And juſt oblige us not to ſleep,
While lovers ſtorm, and heroes weep.
Let thy dull Pegaſus no more
To Lyric ſong attempt to ſoar;
Nor with thy weight preſume to riſe,
With rival ſtrength, above the ſkies,
Which trots much better than he flies.
Let Pindar's Muſe record the flames
Of heavenly nymphs, celeſtial dames;
Be thou content to whine, and tell
How Strephon charm'd, and Phyllis fell,
Or with that willow grace thy ſong,
Where late deſpairing Chloe hung,
While the fad tree the ſtory owns,
Sprouting each May with ſighs and groans,
Which, fann'd with Zephyrs, never fail
To waft abroad the doleful tale,
[29]And ſhall to future times remain
Sacred to Love and Chloe ſlain.
Bright heroes in thy liſt ſhall ſtand,
In modern brunts that held command,
Whoſe bold adventures ſhall out-ſhine
The heroes all of Caeſar's line.
Brave Arthur and his daring crew
Shall kill each mother's ſon they view;
And great Pendragon's fatal blade
Convert each foe into a ſhade;
Guy for Alcides ſhall command,
And Highgate for Olympus ſtand.
See next, in purple ſeated high,
A dazzling Wit* attracts the eye,
Inviting, with his radiant hue,
If not to read, at leaſt to view;
Though his dark lowering aſpect ſhews,
That Nature meant the fool for proſe;
To waſte his little ſenſe and time,
In broaching any thing but rhyme.
Yet by degrees the wretch aroſe
To trade in verſe, from vending hoſe†;
And ſtill, in Nature's ſpite, thinks meet,
Though not in ſocks, to deal in feet.
The toothleſs ſatire that he writes
No other but its author bites
(Like thoſe miſtaken curs of yore
That for the ſtag their maſter tore);
[30]Where harmleſs pun and witty clinch
Mumble ſometimes, but never pinch;
And, aiming at a wound, are ſure
To give us ſmiles, and work our cure.
Hadſt thou no other damning crime,
Juſtice might fairly urge thy rhyme:
Heaven's votaries have ſtill pretence
To piety, at leaſt to ſenſe;
But villains dull as well as rude
A double juſtice muſt exclude.
If e'er thy ſins thou doſt rehearſe,
Be ſure in tears clap-in thy verſe;
Pardon for that with ſighs implore,
Confeſs thy guilt, and write no more;
Content to match thy fame with thoſe
That live, and [...] die, in proſe.
But, if no counſel can reclaim
Thy daring pen, and fancy tame,
That Engine * view, where lately hung
Thy Muſe, and thee exalted ſung;
Let that at leaſt engage thy fears,
And drop thy pen, to ſave thy ears.
Oh, of what ſtrange and powerful uſe
Are pillories to inſpire a Muſe!
Hark, in what hymns and grateful lays,
The pendent bard reſounds their praiſe
[31]From rotten eggs, that round him flew,
His happy inſpirations drew,
Whoſe balmy ſcent inſpir'd his vein
To ſend them back in verſe again.
Oh, help, Apollo! now 's the time,
To, ſave thy ſon, for future rhyme!
See on his wooden throne diſmaid,
He, peeping through, implores thy aid,
The only time he ever pray'd;
And begs thee to relieve his wants,
In Helicon or kinder Nantes,
A liquor of as ſovereign uſe
As Aganippe's noble juice,
To raiſe and cheer his drooping Muſe!
See round his venerable head
Bright turnip greens for laurel ſpread!
The luſtre that his temples crown'd,
In ſable ſhowers of ordure drown'd.
Yet, Phoebus, let this wretch ſurvive,
Revenge thyſelf, and let him live!
(Ador'd by thoſe his ſaucy Muſe
In ſcoundrel ſatire durſt abuſe,
Where oft the ſtarving villain fed,
Cring'd for a groat, and fawn'd for bread)
Atoning thus for each offence
Committed againſt thee and ſenſe,
Till all the ſtuff the idiot wrote
Will ſcarce gain credit for a groat;
Till, ſtarv'd and rotting in a gaol;
He trucks his poetry for ale
[32](Too richly pay'd if his three parts
Will fetch him in as many quarts);
And ſhould his boaſted labours bring
But pence beſide to buy a ſtring,
Let him, th' experiment to try,
Swing his own "Shorteſt Way*," and die!
Chaucer, the chief of all the throng
That whilom dealt in ancient ſong
(Whoſe laurel'd fame ſhall never ceaſe,
While Wit can charm, or Humour pleaſe),
Lies all in tatters on the ground,
With duſt inſtead of laurels crown'd;
Teaching mankind that Poets have
With vulgar Wits one common grave;
That all their boaſted labours muſt
Like other folks ſubmit to duſt;
Partake their fate the common way,
And verſe itſelf be turn'd to clay;
That none ſhall tell, while mix'd we lie,
Which mighty Spenſer was, which I;
Nor, in one common dungeon thruſt,
John Dryden's from John Bunyan's duſt;
Empty alike both ſkulls we view,
Of the ſame thickneſs, form, and hue;
Unknowing now which pate contains
The greater ſtock of ſenſe or brains;
While Bunyan here is every whit
As bright, and looks as like a wit;
[33]For the grim jaw of hungry Time
Has no regard at all for rhyme,
But bluntly down together mows
Wits fam'd for verſe, as well as profe;
Commanding oft the ſelf-ſame hearſe
To hide the poet and the verſe,
While ſweetly in one common fire
The labour and the bard expire.
This Tutchin* found, whoſe works a while
With melting ſoftneſs charm'd our iſle;
But, when their dying lord withdrew,
They took the hint, and vaniſh'd too.
Were once, but never heard of ſince.
The Muſe that in immortal lays
So nobly ſung Eliza's praiſe,
(Extoll'd, beneath a fancy'd name,
No Fairy but a Britiſh dame)
With all his boaſted power to ſave
All other laurels from the grave,
In a dark corner rudely thrown,
Now wants a power to ſave his own;
Though Heaven itſelf his boſom fir'd,
And all the God his breaſt inſpir'd,
That Phoebus ſelf from Spenſer's Muſe
Might ſofter ſtrains and numbers chuſe;
Make Daphne liſten to his lay,
And force the flying nymph to ſtay!
[34]With all his wit deſerves no more,
Than a poor ſhelf behind the door;
His heroes in each warlike page
In hotter feuds muſt now engage;
And foes more dreadful here withſtand,
Than all they drubb'd in Fairy Land;
Regardleſs now of raviſh'd dame,
Each guards a cuſtard from the flame,
Though whilom they diſdain'd to lie
Beneath ſo weak an enemy.
Brave Gyon and Sir Britomart,
Inſtead of nymphs, protect a tart;
Though once averſe to warm deſire,
Are deſtin'd now to fall by fire;
All his brave chiefs in order fry,
And every warrior ſaves a pye.
Melodious Wither* by himſelf,
In learned tatters, bends a ſhelf,
Though none ſo baſe as to diſpute
His title to a better ſuit;
He ſadly moans, expos'd to air,
His cover thin, and livery bare;
Grinning with envy to behold
His meaner rivals ſhine in gold.
Thy dying Muſe, when urg'd by fate,
Might ſure have claim'd to lie in ſtate;
Though living ſcorn'd, and never read,
Like other things, admir'd when dead:
[35]But ſee! ſhe hardly is allow'd,
Mingled among the common crowd,
The wretched honours of a ſhroud.
But both together muſt decay,
Kindly conſume and turn to clay;
No curious eye ſhall e'er preſume
To alter her appointed doom;
Her peaceful labours to moleſt,
But ſeal them up in endleſs reſt,
That ſleep allow her in the grave,
Which ſhe to all, when living, gave!
Cloſe by the door, if not behind,
Poor Ovid had a place aſſign'd;
And, in a muſty corner pent,
Begg'd for a ſecond baniſhment;
With all his wit, cloſe ramm'd between
Two rival bards of Aberdeen,
The firſt of all the northern clime
That turn'd adventurers in rhyme,
To teach mankind, and let them ſee
How zeal and verſe may well agree,
And that ſuch pious folks as they
Can rhyme ſometimes, as well as pray.
Inſtead of Aganippe's flood,
From Britiſh ſtreams each drank as good;
And boaſted hills as high as that
Where Phoebus and his Muſes ſat,
With this ſmall difference alone,
That had two heads, and ours but one!
Though no ſoft Tyber rolls along
To aid their verſe, and raiſe their ſong:
[36]Great Humber's ſtream, and Solway's tide,
As full of inſpiration glide;
With fancies fraught their waters flow,
And roll with raptures as they go!
Inſtead of Virgil's ſacred page,
That us'd his wonder to engage,
He now attends the rigid fights
Of doughty heroes, hardy knights,
One leg lopp'd off, that urg'd her foe
As fierce as when they fought on two!
For Turnus, great Argyll commands,
And Douglas for Aeneas ſtands;
Though Kincardin appear too long
To rhyme in verſe and Britiſh ſong,
What hero in the Latian Muſe
E'er ſounded half ſo big as Bruce!
Entail'd more glory on his race
Than his bold ſword in Chevy-chace!
Where doughty chiefs, renown'd for fight,
Obſcur'd the Roman valour quite;
Whoſe ſilly arms upon record
Were only vulgar pike and ſword,
While theſe with gun and piſtol found
A nearer way their foes to wound.
Behold the bard whoſe daring pen
The ſquabbles drew 'twixt Gods and men,
Alone upon a duſty ſhelf
Deſcribe their combats by himſelf;
For ages paſt no mortal ſight
Had once beheld the furious fight;
[37]None knowing if the champions ſtout
Engag'd in armour or without:
Whether the foe attack'd the wall
With battering ram, or iron ball,
How the fam'd Troy at length was won
With horſe of timber or of bone.
The weeping Queen of Beauty found
No reader to lament her wound;
And not a ſoul for years had read
Whoſe troops purſued, whoſe legions fled;
While Heaven's kind aid both ſides invoke,
How Jove himſelf receiv'd a ſtroke,
And, no celeſtial medicine found,
Took-up with balſam for his wound,
But, binding-on his plaiſter, ſwore
He ne'er would leave Olympus more,
Or peep from Heaven's ſecurer ſhades
To view again ſuch fighting blades,
Who, warring for ſo fair a prize,
Had no regard for Deities:
How Paris, free from hoſtile jars
Engag'd at home in ſofter wars;
Bade rival heroes ſtrive for fame,
In deathleſs annals write their name;
While bleſt with Helen's lovely eyes,
They ſhar'd the blows, and he the prize!
In Beauty's caufe his youth employ'd,
And, as they conquer'd, he enjoy'd.
Oh! who can thus unmov'd deſcry
The great Maeonian poorly lie;
[38]Entomb'd in duſt, nor on his hearſe
Kindly beſtow one grateful verſe!
Shall ſtates contend his birthright's fame,
And we not tremble at his name,
Our great arrears of duty pay,
And gratitude, as well as they;
Without a tear his heroes view,
New labours urge, new toils purſue,
More fatal far than all they bore
On fam'd Scamander's bleeding ſhore?
Great Priam in a kite aſcends,
And Hector's ſelf a caſement mends;
New trials for their valour find,
Inſtead of men, to combat wind;
The ſturdy Greek, whoſe hardy hide
Could ſtroaks of oak or ſteel abide,
And, worn inſtead of hardeſt buff,
Was deem'd both ſword and cudgel proof,
Is ſtrangely now ſurpriz'd to feel
More places mortal than his heel;
But heroes well ſuch ſlights may bear
When Gods themſelves no better fare!
Hermes, accuſtom'd to the ſkies,
Aloft in fiery rockets flies,
Swifter than when from Jove he flew
To bear ſome amorous billet-doux;
And warn the unexpecting dame
To dreſs before his highneſs came.
Phoebus, with all his luſtre bright,
Is trim'd to deck a Chriſtmas light
[](All other lights exceeding, far
As he himſelf out-ſhines a ſtar)
Till the bright God, that all things burns,
Flaming himſelf, to aſhes turns.
The mighty Mars, for all he looks
Fierce both in battles and in books,
Stript of his armour, on the floor
All peaceful lies, and ſtruts no more!
With Juno's wondrous witty ſpeech,
Ocella fairly wip'd her breech;
Her birth and godhead nought avail,
Preferr'd to jakes from madam's tail.
Gallus*, whoſe numbers oft have charm'd
The coyeſt nymph, and coldeſt warm'd
(Doubly oblig'd to ſee and hear
The verſe ſo ſweet, and he ſo fair),
Is doom'd by too ſevere a fate
To ſing within an inch of Tate!
While both beneath the ſelf-ſame leather,
Like fair and foul in April weather,
Kindly concord, and rhyme together.
Thus have I often at a play,
Survey'd a nymph, profuſely gay,
With all the charms of nature grac'd,
Cloſe by ſome wrinkled beldam plac'd;
Oblig'd to hear the dowdy thing,
Her triumphs boaſt, and conqueſt ſing,
Whoſe breath the want of charms ſupplies,
And kills more certain than her eyes.
[]
Oh! quickly, beauteous Queen of Love,
Thy ſuffering favourite hence remove;
With thy own hand thy darling bring
Where Addiſon and Congreve ſing
(By whoſe harmonious art and care
Thy matchleſs beauties ſhine more fair);
To Prior join his rival bays,
Or, liſtening to ſoft Cowley's lays,
Let him, intent on Waller's lyre,
To reach his daring flights aſpire;
To Heaven the wondrous Muſe purſue
With equal ſtrength and ſoftneſs too.
Hark, how thy Iſis' weeping ſhore
Pegins thy abſence to deplore!
And all her penſive nymphs in vain
Recal thee to her banks again;
No more their drooping heads they rear
Above their waves, thy ſong to hear,
While in their breaſt a double fire
Thy muſic and thy charms inſpire;
Then gently fall beneath the tide,
Their bluſhes and thy power to hide.
See how her ſwans their pride forego,
In murmuring ſighs confeſs their woe!
Stretch'd on their watery beds they lie,
And all their ooſy paſture fly;
No more with ſilver wings divide,
And downy breaſts, the parting tide,
As when with eager haſte they flew
Thy diſtant muſic to purſue,
[41]And, by thy voice inſtructed, try
To charm more ſoftly, as they die!
But, while great Beaufort's acts inſpire,
Demand his voice, and claim his lyre!
Bright to record the patriot's name,
In verſe, as laſting as his fame;
Thy ſmiling Thames forgets his woe,
Reſigns the Muſe, and bids her go,
Nobly to ſing, in deathleſs lays,
Her own, beneath the hero's praiſe.
Immortal Camden* there complains,
Curſing a critick's uſeleſs pains;
In modern charms expos'd to view,
He ſcarce his own Britannia knew;
Adorn'd with wonders which his eye,
A lover's though, could never ſpy.
Here he beholds huge foreſts riſe
From Daniſh blood, and meet the ſkies;
While each complaining tree records
The fate of their unhappy lords:
There Elder weeps, from bleeding vein,
Great Sueno's fall, and Canute ſlain;
While winter-flowers, each rolling year,
Gay on their verdant ſtalks appear;
Bloom from the celebrated Thorn†,
Mince-pies and windows to adorn,
Which ſome imagin'd, though untruly,
Not in December born, but July.
[42]See, drawn by his enchanting hand,
Britannia ſeems a Fairy Land;
Druids and Bards frequent each grove,
And nymphs in every thicket move:
To ſtreams and cooling ſhades retire,
Kindly to bleſs ſome gentle ſquire,
Unwilling yet too far to ſtray,
For fear of Satyrs in the way.
Spenſer, who ſent his chiefs ſo far
To purchaſe fame in feats of war,
Might here, not forc'd abroad to roam,
Have met with giants nearer home,
His heroes trembling to defy
Fierce Tudor or victorious Guy.
'Twas pity * Sidney's fam'd deſign
So long, great ſage, preceded thine;
Philoclea elſe the crown had worn,
And Muſidorus here been born;
Cloſe by her vanquiſh'd lover's ſide
The fair Parthenia too had dy'd.
Thy every page preſents our ſight
With chiefs as brave, and dames as bright,
As in her fam'd Arcadian plain
Romantic Greece could ever feign;
And for the time to come ſhall ſtore us
With warriors great as Muſidorus,
And every grove oblige our ſight
With virgins as Pamela bright;
That, furniſh'd with fair rural dames,
Protecting ſquires, and lovers flames,
[43]We ne'er ſhall want a chief for fight,
While thou and great Cervantes write.
One day the Doctor, quite o'ercome
With luſcious tales of Greece and Rome,
Inſtead of taking tea or air,
Does to the female world repair;
To pleaſe himſelf among the fair
(Where if no ſenſe was to be found;
He's ſure to be oblig'd with ſound).
Sappho had ſoftneſs, but her ſong
Was jargon all in ſuch a tongue,
Requiring too much pains to ſeek,
And labour for her wit in Greek,
Which would have edify'd as much
Recorded in Chineſe or Dutch.
Dacier, though penn'd with ſo much eaſe,
Too much a critick, ſeem'd to pleaſe,
But, being courtly and well-bred,
And pleas'd with that he never read;
Smiling on every page ſhe writ,
Takes her on truſt to be a wit.
Italian dames his ears ſurprize
With harmony of O's and I's,
So ſoft the tender vowels chime,
No haſher ſenſe e'er marr'd the rhyme,
Of ſtrength depriv'd more gently flow,
And warble muſically low;
But, when his ſearching judgement found,
Neglecting ſenſe, they ſtudy'd ſound,
To Britiſh dames he next apply'd
For that which Greece and Rome deny'd,
[44]And ſought amidſt our tuneful fair
A ſong more grateful to his ear;
Where harmony with ſtrength conſpir'd
To make the verſe, and nymphs admir'd.
Wh—n* the coldeſt breaſt might move,
But that ſhe talk'd too much of love!
Of burning flames and hot deſire,
That every line was red with fire.
Singer†, by name and nature made
For muſic and the rhyming trade,
For her weak genius ſoar'd too high,
And loſt her Muſe above the ſky;
A flaming ſun, a radiant light,
In every verſe, diſtract our ſight,
Diffuſe their dazzling beams from far,
And not one line without a ſtar!
Through ſtreams of light we ſeem to rove,
And tread on ſhining orbs above.
Orinda‡ next demands his view,
For titles fam'd, and rhyming too;
And had been read, but that her ſong,
To be admir'd, was quite too long.
[45]Their miſtreſs' want of pride to ſhew,
Her numbers glide but wondrous low,
Inſtead of rapture give us ſleep,
And, ſtriving to be humble, creep.
Philipps in verſe her paſſion told,
Intreats the youth to be leſs cold;
Begs him, while nature charms denies,
To mind her wit, and not her eyes;
Inſtructs the novice how to wooe,
And ſhews what little art will do,
A virgin's yielding heart to move,
And melt a breaſt inclin'd to love!
Softneſs her want of ſenſe ſupplies,
She faints in every line, and dies;
Again reſumes her tender ſtrain,
And only lives to dye again.
Unhappy maid, correct thy Muſe,
Some nearer way to wedlock chuſe:
She warbles with ſo ill a grace,
Thy airs are coarſer than thy face;
And will be found (believe me) ſtill
To frighten ten, for one they kill.
Dear Phyllis, then, leave-off in time,
Lovers are ne'er trepann'd by rhyme;
Thy bobbins or thy needle take,
Each will as deep impreſſions make;
And, to enjoy the youth's embrace,
Caſhier thy Muſe, and ſtick to lace.
A croud of other females paſt,
Whoſe fame for verſe ſhall ever laſt,
[46]While artleſs ſounds our ſoul diſarm,
And muſic, void of ſenſe, can charm.
Immortal Behn * at laſt he ſpy'd,
" Hail, beauteous nymph! the lover cry'd,
See at your feet I proſtrate bow,
Neglecting every fair, for you;
Their worthleſs labours tumbling o'er
In haſte, your beauties to adore,
With your bright features, or your quill,
Arm'd with a double power to kill!"
But, as no mortal thing below
Can long ſurvive without a foe,
Here he beholds in triumph ſit
The bane † of beauty, ſenſe, and wit;
Demoliſh'd diſtichs round his head,
Half lines and ſhatter'd ſtanza's ſpread,
While the inſulting conqueror climbs
O'er mighty heaps of ruin'd rhymes,
And, proudly mounted, views from high,
Beneath th' harmonious fragments lie;
Boaſting himſelf from foes ſecur'd,
In ſtanza's lodg'd, in verſe immur'd.
Furious the lover ſilence broke
And thus, red hot with vengeance, ſpoke:
" And could thy ſqueamiſh ſtomach chuſe
To feaſt on nothing but a Muſe;
Nought elſe thy courtly palate hit,
But virgin ſenſe and female wit;
[47]M [...] favourite nymph to nib and waſte,
To pleaſure thy luxurious taſte;
Seldom content to ſup or dine
Without a diſtich or a line;
Making thoſe rhymes, thy hunger fed,
Each day thy food, each night thy bed;
Proudly aſpiring thus to lie,
In ſheets of downy poetry?
On twenty more, deſign'd to be
Fit nouriſhment for ſuch as thee,
Thou might'ſt have fed, or made a ſeat in,
Publiſh'd alone but to be eaten,
Volumes fit only for a neſt,
Where vermin ſuch as thou ſhould reſt.
Had'ſt thou choſe rather to be pent in,
The Councils Lateran or Tridentine
(As many an honeſt inſect feeds
On Canons and outlandiſh Creeds),
Meanly to no one diſh confin'd,
Thou might'ſt have, great as Caeſar, din'd:
Cloy'd with inſipid verſe, have choſe
To diet on more ſavoury proſe;
In mighty folio's lodg'd, been able
Greatly each day to ſhift thy table:
And found materials to aſſuage
Thy hunger in each fruitful page:
Or, if Decrees and Councils ſhew'd
For courtly taſtes too mean a food,
On Wars and Battles, ſeldom read,
Thou might'ſt without offence have fed;
[48]Thy rage the warriors ſhould out-do,
Eating up fights and heroes too;
In ſpight of all their guns and ſteel,
Devour a champion at each meal;
Philippi but one feaſt would yield,
And ſcarce ſo much Pharſalia's field;
Great Ammon's ſon muſt here ſubmit,
To be demoliſh'd at a bit,
All others conquering, doom'd to be
Subdued at laſt by puny Thee!
But ſay, while fifty more, as good,
If not for ſenſe, at leaſt for food,
Crowded on every ſhelf appear,
Why, envious vermin, only here?
See, from their fair apartment drove,
Here ſprawls a Cupid, there a Love;
Unarm'd, the young immortals ſhew,
This wants a ſhaft, and that a bow,
And tears in mighty ſtreams diſtil,
Robb'd of their tools to wound and kill.
Fair Venus, in a penſive mood,
Sadly laments her mumbled hood;
That nought beſide a veil of lawn
Was o'er her radiant ſhoulders drawn,
While two meals more, without my care,
Had ſtripp'd the bluſhing Goddeſs bare.
Nor does fair Beauty's wounded Queen
Confeſs alone thy little ſpleen;
The Muſe, whom brighter charms adorn,
Laments herſelf in pieces torn.
[49]See, ſcatter'd round thy dark abode,
Here lies a Satire, there an Ode,
Ceaſing, through thy malignant ſpite,
Or this to praiſe, or that to bite:
And Elegy, but now too late,
Laments her own untimely fate;
Thoſe tears, deſign'd for lovers' moan,
Sadly applying to her own.
A limping line there wants a foot,
The rhyme nibb'd off, and ſenſe to boot,
And mangled now, without a cloſe,
Degenerates into rumbling proſe;
A ſolitary verſe alone,
His partner quite devour'd and gone,
There weeps, he can no longer chime
And warble with his fellow-rhyme;
With the ſad diſmal loſs perplex'd,
He ſtrives to gingle with the next,
His ſtrength the ſame, and ſoftneſs too,
But, wanting ſound, it muſt not do.
Say then, before this murdering thumb
Relentleſs ſeals thy certain doom,
What art or cunning can repair
The ruins of the injur'd fair?
Patch up her muſic, and reſtore
The nymph harmonious as before?"
But ſee, too proud to make amends
(As ſilence ſtill on guilt attends),
Speechleſs the vermin turns away,
With not one ſingle word to ſay,
[50]Confeſſing thus the bloody crime
Of wounding wit, and murdering rhyme.
Take then a life, propitious maid,
Sent to atone thy wandering ſhade;
Though vile the gift, 'tis yet the moſt
I now can give thy injur'd ghoſt.
But let one foe, thus nobly ſlain,
Thy reeking altar ſerve to ſtain,
Till thouſands more, before thy eye,
To pleaſe thy glutted vengeance, die;
Thy ſoul thus giving, by their doom,
Through endleſs ſcenes of bliſs to roam.
Diverted from the doleful ſong
He ſtill ſeem'd eager to prolong,
Horace, in ſad and mournful ſtrains,
To liſtening Phoebus thus complains;
" Patron of verſe, and God of days,
Inſpirer of our voice and lays;
Permit me, in ſome diſmal cell,
With Goths or Leyden bards, to dwell,
Or to conſume my wretched time,
'Twixt Dublin verſe and Glaſgow rhyme;
Nay, to augment my laſt deſpair,
(A fam'd dull pair, that purely wrote
To raiſe our ſpleen, and die forgot):
If, ſuffering thus, my works may be
From criticks and tranſlators free;
[51]Or, in one wiſh, to ſum up all
The plagues that can a wretch befall;
May it be doom'd my harder fate
To read whatever they tranſlate;
And hear, for great Auguſtus' name,
In dull heroicks Arthur's fame,
His ſire in modern ſtory paſs
For what my lov'd Maecenas was:
Let theirs exceed my hero's praiſe,
To ſave my Muſe from Creech and Bayes!"
A Proteus * Wit almoſt eſcapes,
That writes and fools in fifty ſhapes;
To pleaſe in every art prepar'd,
An Atheiſt now, and now a Bard,
Phyſician ſtrait, another time
Projecting tools to work in rhyme;
Or forging odd receipts to make
Verſe, duller than his Worſhip's, take.
Horace, moſt courtly grown and kind,
Exactly ſpeaks the Poet's mind,
Stands ſponſor, by his worth and fame,
To guard his infant Muſe from ſhame:
Whilſt he in mighty ſecrets deals,
And beauties long obſcur'd reveals,
Does from his own preſcriptions fall,
Gives fifty rules, and breaks them all;
[52]Though he that fartheſt from them ſtrays
Bids faireſt much to win the bays.
From verſe he haſtens to diſpute
Himſelf into a nobler brute,
Greatly reſolv'd his murdering quill
Should, certain as his phyſick kill:
He [...]eeds would have mankind control
The univerſe without a ſoul;
That matter, nicely wrought and ſpun,
Might all thoſe mighty fears have done,
Which antient dotards were inclin'd
To attribute to Thought and Mind;
Thus, as the threads are drawn, it hits,
The coarſe are fools, the fine ones wits;
While others, of a middle ſize,
Prove harmleſs things, not dull nor wiſe;
And hence it plainly comes to paſs,
That Coward's now what Sternhold was,
Becauſe, in Nature's fo [...]ming liſt,
His threads were of a clumſy twiſt;
And Chance had ſo contriv'd his doom,
To draw him from a hobbling loom.
A proof within himſelf he feels,
That all mankind is mov'd by wheels:
That chains, and pendulums, and ſprings,
With twenty other curious things,
Were firſt by artful Nature made,
Ere clocks and watches form'd a trade.
Exchange, great ſir, a word or two,
And your fam'd theſis ſtill may do;
[53]" Thou art thyſelf compleat and whole,
" Thy verſes only want a ſoul,
" While both a different fate ſhall try,
" Thou half, and they entirely die,
" Condemn'd by thee, not partial Fate,
" E'er to behold a future ſtate!"
Behold a modeſt * Bard refuſe,
The laurels waiting on his Muſe!
[54]Pity firſt taught her how to ſing,
To try her voice, and prune her wing;
Touch'd with a tender Chriſtian woe,
In Wallia's realms to meet a foe,
That, lawleſs long and unreſtrain'd,
Had in her milky dainties reign'd:
And every year triumphant won
A dowry for a yeoman's ſon.
Virgil, that taught thy Muſe to ſing,
A nobler verſe could hardly bring,
Or on a theme ſo mean and low,
More thought and majeſty beſtow;
Henceforth his ſmiling ghoſt ſhall move
More joyous through her laureat grove;
To hear thy tuneful voice above.
Take then a gift I trembling bring,
Inſtructed near thy Muſe to ſing;
Which prun'd her pinions in that ſhade,
Whence mine her earlieſt flights eſſay'd;
Both ſipping, to inſpire our themes,
*Oxe-eyes, for clear Caſtalian ſtreams.
Oh! may thy fame for ever run,
A glorious rival to the ſun;
" Till mice in pantries ceaſe to dwell,
" Or brimſtone at Glamorgan ſell;
[55]" Till mites no more in Chedder breed,
" Nor goats on craggy Pen-maur feed;
" Till leeks and onions ſmell amiſs,
" Till ſcrubbing ſeems no more a bliſs;
" Till great Plinlimmon leaves the ſkies,
" Till thy immortal labour dies*!"
While Dennis aids the Muſe to ſing.
Or gives her plumes, or clips her wing,
Directs her cautious how to fly
Unbeaten tracts along the ſky;
With ſafety we ſublimely ſtray,
And ſoaring gain the realms of day,
Till, trembling from thoſe heights above,
And dazzling orbs o'er which we move:
We gently ſink in humbler ſtrains,
To vales beneath, and rural plains.
Great Toland, with his name below,
Bought purely to make-out the ſhow;
Adorns at once and fills a row
(Though ſome aver it ſtrongly ſtill
That emptineſs could never fill).
Hadſt thou been wiſe or dull by rule,
Thy ſilence might have ſkreen'd the fool;
But thus to cant, and own it too,
No mortal ſure but thee would do;
The twilight owl and ſerious aſs
Would needs for modern criticks paſs,
Till both their want of ſenſe betray'd,
One hooting, while the other bray'd.
[56]
Near Blackall* his fam'd rival lay,
But, frowning, lean'd another way;
His forehead into wrinkles drawn,
To ſit within the ſmell of lawn:
But cloſe, as to his elm the vine,
Round pious Baxter ſeems to twine;
Adores the ſaint on bended knees,
That taught him firſt to cant and pleaſe;
And to the wondering world reveal
Good Chriſtian methods to rebel.
While Milton's ſoaring fancy flies,
And ſings of feuds above the ſkies,
Dreadfully fills the heavenly plain,
With vanquiſh'd powers, and cherubs ſlain,
Surpriz'd and trembling from afar,
We ſcarce behold th' immortal war;
Their fauchions formidably bright,
Their ſwords compos'd of beaten light;
And beamy arms with dreadful blaze
From each contending van amaze;
With dread we view th' apoſtate foe,
Plung'd in the deep abyſs below.
See Rag† on Phillips ſtill attends;
In life, in death, harmonious friends;
Pleas'd his lov'd Iſis to forego,
To meet the darling ſhade below.
Who in th' Elyſian fragrant bowers
Beguile each day the ſmiling hours,
[57]With more delight than wine or love
E [...]e gave the Bards in realms above;
Each here tranſported to behold
Rich branches bloom with radiant gold
(Strangely ſurpriz'd to view an ore
They ne'er on earth once touch'd before).
No more refulgent to their eyes
The Splendid Shilling's* charms ſurprize;
Once the ſole bliſs of Heaven implor'd,
For that alone, by each ador'd;
That ale or oyſters could command,
The nobleſt boons of ſea or land,
And bid them, to enjoy a friend,
From lonely garret oft deſcend:
No longer to their cells reſtrain'd,
Where Want and diſmal Darkneſs reign'd;
With harmleſs pun†, and clinches gay,
They now repeat each ſmiling day;
Nor dreadful reckoning trembling fear,
As if kind Herbert too was there,
For vile mundung and fumy ale,
Incenſe and odours, now exhale,
And, ſipping nectar from each ſtream,
No more of Tiff and Viner's‡ dream;
[58]Convinc'd their Iſis could beſtow
No cups ſo ſoft as thoſe below.
No longer now the modiſh gown
In ropy ſhreds hangs quivering down,
Tuck'd cloſe, but gently, round the ſide,
Some diſmal breach beneath to hide;
Or elſe protecting from the air
Some parts, as nature form'd them, bare.
See next the * Muſe that fill'd the ſkies
With ſleepy lolling deities,
Careleſs and unconcern'd to know,
What mortals acted here below;
Gives us receipts of wondrous fame,
New worlds to raiſe, and beings frame;
Which Burnet † by experience knew
In every tittle to be true:
After a long eternal round,
No ſtage to eaſe their labour found,
The wearied atoms all combine,
In different forms themſelves to join:
Theſe ſink beneath, thoſe upwards fly,
To deck and to adorn the ſky;
In radiant planets ſhine from far,
Or loſe their brightneſs in a ſtar.
Millions, for heavenly forms unfit,
To meaner fates below ſubmit;
While long the little ſportive train
A thouſand tricks attempt in vain,
Before they can fit natures chuſe,
And their light empty beings loſe!
[59]The briſk, the nimble, and the light,
To frame the female world unite;
And, while the beauteous kind they fill,
Seem to preſerve their nature ſtill:
The giddy into order range,
But ſcarcely undergo a change,
Still act as in their antient ſphere,
Whirling in mad projectors here,
Or elſe their roving powers reſtrain,
Beneath ſome madder poet's brain:
Thoſe of a rough and knotty make,
Their ſtations all in criticks take;
Which makes it harder much to gain
Their ſenſe, than his they would explain,
And much more ſkill requir'd to find
The critick's, than the author's, mind:
Thoſe of a tall and ſlender ſize
In monuments and ſteeples riſe;
For ſtructures, like our elm and yew,
At nature's birth, ſpontaneous grew,
Inſtructed upwards how to climb
Without the help of brick or lime:
The dull, the empty, and the gay,
Conſent to take a different way
Theſe mingling form coquettes, and thoſe
Unite in aſſes, and in beaux!
Deſcending from a finiſh'd ſtar,
Some leave the ſkies, to grace the fair;
While thoſe to Heaven their light confine,
And theſe in Lumley's beauties ſhine,
[60]In Beaufort's air they all unite
Their ſofteſt beams, their faireſt light;
In March's lovely form ſurprize,
Or ſmile confeſs'd in Biſhop's eyes;
While, honeſt Tindal, thou and I,
Were form'd of lumps that downwards fly,
And daily give ſome wretched proof
Of our deſcending weighty ſtuff;
Which makes whate'er we write or ſay
Thus ſavour of our kindred clay,
And every fair and juſt deſign
With ſuch a native force decline,
That, while we ſtrive ſublime to ſoar,
We ſink and founder ſo much lower.
Hence 'tis, our labours come to nought,
Each beauteous product, which we thought
Of ſprightly wit and reaſon full,
Is ſtrangely leaven'd with the dull;
But let us learn true wiſdom hence,
Not whine like fools for want of ſenſe;
Rather accuſe our partial fate,
Aſſigning each ſo dull a pate:
Pu [...]y by nature form'd in ſpite,
To plague mankind in print, and write.
Bentley immortal honour gets,
By changing Que's for nobler Et's:
[61]From Cam to Iſis ſee him roam,
To fetch ſtray'd Interjections home;
While the glad ſhores with joy rebound,
For Periods and loſt Comma's found:
Poor Adverbs, that had long deplor'd
Their injur'd rights, by him reſtor'd!
Smil'd to ſurvey a rival's doom,
While they poſſeſs'd the envied room;
And, hiſſing from their reſcued throne
Th' uſurper's fate, applaud their own.
The Roman nymphs, for want of notes
More tender, ſtrain'd their little throats,
Till Bentley, to relieve their woes,
Gave them a ſett of Ah's and Oh's:
More muſically to complain,
And warble forth their gentle pain.
The ſuffering fair no more repine,
For vowels now to ſob and whine;
In ſofteſt air their paſſion try,
And, without ſpoiling metre, die:
With Interjections of his own,
He helps them now to weep and groan;
That, reading him, no lover fears
Soft vehicles for ſighs and tears.
Inſtructed by his learned code,
What makes a Jig, or forms an Ode,
We view what various beauties meet,
To leave each fragrant line ſo ſweet;
How Horace' lines our paſſions keep
Awake, and Bentley's lull aſleep.
[62]No verſe can moan a limping foot,
But he applies his plaſter to't:
With pious care binds up the ſore,
And kindly bids it hop no more!
While, with his helping comments nigh,
Inſtead of crutches to apply
To crazy verſe (which envious Time
Had weaken'd both in ſenſe and rhyme);
For a lame Muſe's ſurgeon meet,
Inſtead of legs, ſets broken feet.
Though no one ſingle charm can fly
The ſearch of his ſagacious eye
(That * Horace but in vain pretends,
To own a line which Bentley mends).
The reverend critick hardly knows
If David wrote in verſe or proſe;
While every ſtring and ſounding wire,
That erſt compos'd the Roman lyre,
Were to the ſage as fully known,
As if the harp had been his own!
Could'ſt thou, great bard, without a qualm,
But hear rehears'd one pious Pſalm;
To ſlighted David lend an ear,
Not ſwooning what he ſung to hear;
We then might view thy learn'd abodes,
With Hymns adorn'd, inſtead of Odes;
[63]And thou thyſelf perhaps content
To con him o'er, at leaſt in Lent;
To mortify, the Jewiſh chuſe,
Regaling on the Latian Muſe.
Cloſe by, where wits, in purple pride
And all their glory dreſt, preſide;
Beneath a dark and gloomy cell,
A lazy Goddeſs choſe to dwell,
Well-pleas'd to ſlumber out her time,
'Twixt ſleepy proſe and drowſy rhyme:
Dating from books her empire's fame,
OBLIVION was her dreaded name;
On verſe and laudanum ſhe feeds,
Now takes a doſe, now poems reads;
Each of experienc'd power to cloſe
Her ſinking eyes in ſoft repoſe:
While Bentley, of more ſovereign uſe
Than rhyme itſelf or poppy-juice,
The Goddeſs trembles to explore,
For fear of never waking more;
Each weeping wall bedew'd appears
With Cloe's ſighs, and Strephon's tears;
Sad Dirges, breathing Lovers' pain,
And ſoft complaints of Virgins ſlain:
While Females' Sonnets, Poets' Themes,
Beaux' Stratagems, Projector's Dreams,
Around the lonely ſtructure fly,
Slumber a while, and gently die.
A thouſand wretched things, above
The joys of wine, the ſweets of love;
[64]That kindly promis'd deathleſs fame
And glories to their author's name,
Here in one month for reſt retire,
Deſcend, and decently expire.
Scatter'd, delightful to her eye,
Rheams of Reviews and Medleys lie;
Wide to extend her empire's ſway,
Keeping their ſires above in pay;
Soft tranſport gliding through her breaſt,
Of Tutchin's works entire poſſeſt:
Who, to augment the Goddeſs' power,
Was ſeldom known to ſlip an hour,
That did not gratefully produce
Whole pages for his ſovereign's uſe,
While now and then a mitred friend
Is graciouſly inclin'd to ſend,
His tributes, and a gift beſtows
Among her Bunyans and De Foes.
O'ercome with rapture, to ſurvey
Melodious nonſenſe round her lay
(While here each fruitful labouring preſs
Groan'd with ſeraphic emptineſs;
Which every hour ſpontaneous came,
Kind to enrol its author's name);
While the great patriots of her reign,
That with her pens her fame ſuſtain,
Wits, Criticks, Politicians, Beaux,
In meaſure nod, and ſleep in rows,
Soft tranſport does her thoughts employ,
While thus ſhe ſpeaks her riſing joy:
[65]
" Hail, mighty names! to whom I owe
My empire's * ſpreading fame below;
By whoſe kind labours I out-do
The Vatican and Bodley too;
Who ſlighted fame above diſdain,
With me in ſilent night to reign.
What rival power did e'er ſurvey
A nobler hoſt adorn his ſway!
You, bleſt aſſociates, beſt can tell
What numbers at my altars fell,
When you approach'd, and only ſtay
Above, to own my ſovereign ſway.
'Twas I inſpir'd great Whiſton's† theme,
And nobly taught him to blaſpheme:
By me inſtructed he withdrew,
To head a young apoſtate crew;
Who, proud of ſuch a leader grown,
With his ſtale non ſenſe mix their own;
Liſping, their trade they firſt begin,
By ſlow degrees advance in ſin,
Till, ripen'd by improving time,
To thy grey hoary fame they climb,
[66]And claim thoſe laurels, as their due,
Juſtice before aſſign'd to you.
The Grecian* ſages too decree
The fame of all they write to me;
Beneath my influence kindly bred,
Proud to blaſpheme before they read;
In the dull trade improve ſo well,
Firſt ſwear, and after learn to ſpell;
And oft a deathleſs name compleat,
Ere perfect in their alphabet.
Oh! would they oft in print appear,
What rheams of ſtuff each fruitful year
Would downward ſink, to ſwell my fame,
Dully confeſſing whence they came;
The hateful realms of light forego,
To hang in empty ſhoals below;
Whoſe labours, like a glimmering fire,
Kindly as ſoon as born expire,
Scarce th' age of one ſhort day ſurvive
Stone dead, ere breathing well alive!
'Twas I alone that hither drew
From Tyber's bank † the warbling crew,
That charm our wondering theatres
With witty Lions‡, Bulls, and Bears,
Deſign'd (if fame ſays true) this ſpring
To learn their gamut too, and ſing;
[67]Whoſe gay harmonious nonſenſe, drown'd
Beneath ſoft airs and helping ſound,
Paſſes with critics of the pit
For ſterling ſenſe, and Engliſh wit.
Each valet now muſt blow his fire
In notes as ſoft as Alamire;
Nor dare perfume his maſter's hair,
Or rub his boots, without an air;
Hear him in ſofteſt muſic tell,
" His lordſhip's running nag is well;"
Oblig'd a bolder note to uſe,
" Informing when he loſt his ſhoes;"
Still riſing to a nobler ſtrain,
" To paint him ſcouring o'er the plain."
The rival waiting-maid, to find
Her ſpark to muſic thus inclin'd,
Tells madam, ſinging, "that ſhe ſpoils
" Her tea, to drink it ere it boils;"
While notes more penſive far relate
Her lap-dog's unexpected fate.
The hero, burning to engage,
" Moſt ſweetly murmurs out his rage;"
Defers to ſhew his wrath too ſoon,
Or kill his foe to ſpoil his tune;
Though both are warm'd with equal fire,
They can't without one ſong expire;
In doleful dirges, but too late,
Hear how they ſigh each other's fate;
For notes through all the gamut try
To fall more tunefully and die.
[68]
See how my crowded region fills
With colonies entire from Will's*;
Slumbering in rival ranks they ſnore,
And meditate ſharp clinch no more;
Their merit by their dulneſs prove,
Out-dreaming thoſe they left above!
'Twas I, my empire to enlarge,
Gave Hoadly firſt my royal charge,
To preach rebellion, and in ſpite
Of duty, oaths, and ſenſe, to write.
'Tis I that by my influence ſtill
Direct great Toland's† ſacred quill;
And lately by my ſoothing power
Seduc'd myſterious ‡ Dodwell o'er,
Who, to his bright immortal fame,
Was never known ſix weeks the ſame!
While Fate thus makes a ſmall amends
For what I loſt in kinder friends
(As, when it forc'd me to bewail
Great Hobbes's death, ſtill left me ‖ Bayle);
[69]Filling that ſpace that was deſign'd,
For Sarum's* labours ſtill behind.
See how that wall is ſadly hung,
With doleful verſe, by ladies ſung,
And penſive airs by lovers try'd,
Juſt as they kindly kiſs'd and dy'd.
With dreams and ſighs the next is blur'd,
With Dolben's eloquence a third;
While to the wicked, Baxter's Call
Quite covers and obſcures them all.
Swiſs lumber ſinks to our abodes,
Not poorly by the quire, but loads;
While Leyden rhymes ſubmiſſive come,
And croaking ſupplicate for room.
Scotch † creeds, and articles explain'd,
Cloſe by in ſilence ſlumbering reign'd,
With myſtic comments ſo perplex'd,
The notes are darker than the text.
Fam'd Theoriſts ‡ by dozens rot,
Juſt as the worlds they fram'd, forgot,
And in thoſe very atoms fall
They vainly forg'd, to raiſe this ball;
Which prov'd their theſis partly true,
Fate ne'er could build, but might undo,
[70]And that dull books might ſooner dance,
Than planets, into form by chance;
Would ſmiling Fate but once inſpire
Hibernian bards, to touch the lyre,
Gently in Dublin airs to ſing,
And their fam'd harps*, long ſilent, ſtring;
Now, wanting room, I muſt implore
Kind Heaven with ardent vows for more:
Where ſhall I place my future friends
If Collins† monthly tributes ſends'
Without remorſe or pity write?
Ye envious niggard powers, whoe'er
Allot each God his empire's ſhare,
To all ſuch ſpacious realms aſſign'd,
Why am I only thus confin'd?
From theirs how different is my doom!
They grieve for ſubjects, I for room.
Extend my realms below, great Jove,
Or ſtop great Boyer's‖ pen above!
Gods! in what ſable liquid ſhowers
And inky deluges he pours,
Each year his ſickly nonſenſe down!
Ten ſuch would half my empire drown,
And force me, to preſerve my breath,
To quit my ſtifling cell beneath.
Whatever theme his Muſe has got
She ſtill maintains her favourite trot;
[71]Still one dull pace demurely jogs,
O'er rivers, meadows, lawns, and bogs;
While, dreſt with equal charms, are ſeen
A milk-maid here, and there a queen;
And ſtrains as mournful fill the ſky
When porters, as when monarchs, die!"
Still to proceed the Goddeſs try'd,
Till Steele's immortal works eſpy'd;
Trembling her dreaded foe to view,
She ſunk and ſilently withdrew,
While Sarum's labours, round her ſpread,
Suſtain and prop her drowſey head.
Hail, mighty name! of all thy pen
Has dropt, to charm both gods and men,
Time nor oblivion e'er ſhall boaſt
One line or ſingle period loſt!
Improving youth, and hoary age,
Are better'd by thy matchleſs page;
And, what no mortal could deviſe,
Women, by reading thee, grow wiſe;
Divines had taught, and huſbands rav'd,
Now threat'ned, then as poorly crav'd,
But, ſpite of all, the ſtubborn dame
Remain'd our curſe, and ſtill the ſame;
Modiſh and flippant as before,
The ſmoothing paint and patch are wore;
Two hours each morning ſpent to dreſs,
And not one ounce of tea the leſs:
While the provoking ideot vows
Her lover fairer much than ſpouſe.
[72]
Great Socrates but vainly try'd,
To ſooth the paſſions of his bride;
Her female empire ſtill ſhe holds,
And as he preaches peace, ſhe ſcolds:
In vain he talks, in vain he writes;
One kiſſing, while the other bites;
Precepts with her, and moral rules,
Are only ginns to hamper fools;
And, preach and dictate what he will,
Madam perſiſts Xantippe ſtill.
But wedlock by thy art is got
To be a ſoft and eaſy knot;
Which ſmiling ſpouſe and kinder bride
Now ſeldom wiſh ſhould be unty'd;
Think parting now the greateſt ſin,
And ſtrive more cloſe to draw the ginn:
Taught by thoſe rules thy pen inſtills,
Nobly to conquer human ills;
The female ſufferer now ſuſtains
Each mournful loſs, with leſſened pains;
A week is now enough to pine,
When puking lap-dog cannot dine;
While grief as real ſwells her eyes
When ſpouſe, as when her parrot, dies.
The fop no longer ſhall believe
Senſe ty'd to every modiſh ſleeve,
Nor, conſcious of his wants, preſume
To meaſure merit by perfume;
That courage in Pulvilio dwells,
The boldeſt he, who ſtrongeſt ſmells;
[73]To prove his ſenſe, no longer bring
The doughty proofs of box and ring;
Strongly profeſſing ne'er to know
An aſs conceal'd beneath a beau;
Each taught by thee, ſhall hence confeſs
Virtue has no regard for dreſs;
That the bright nymph as often dwells
In homely bays as rural cells;
And in a ruff as fairly ſhin'd,
As now to modern peak confin'd;
Bluſhing, thus half expos'd to view,
Both herſelf and miſtreſs too.
The widow, pining for her dear,
Shall curſe no more the tedious year;
In ſighs conſume each penſive day,
Nor think it long from June to May.
See how the penſive relict lies,
Oppreſs'd with ſpouſe's fate, and dies;
That Betty with her drops in vain,
Recalls her flying ſoul again;
No colour now ſo fair appears,
As is the fable veſt ſhe wears,
To be her only garment vow'd,
Till death exchange it for a ſhroud,
And her cold aſhes kindly place
Once more within her lord's embrace.
The ladies, pleas'd with thee to dwell,
Aſpire to write correct, and ſpell:
We ſcarce behold, though writ in haſte,
Five letters in a ſcore miſplac'd;
[74]Marſhal'd in rank they all appear,
With no front vowels in the rear,
Nor any, out of ſhame or dread,
Skulking behind, that ſhould have led;
In every line they now demur,
'Tis now no longer Wurthee Surr;
With half our uſual ſweat and pain,
We both unravel and explain,
Nor call-in foreign aid to find,
In myſtic terms, the fair-one's mind.
Maintain, grea [...] ſage, thy deathleſs name,
Thou canſt no wider ſtretch thy fame,
Till, gliding from her native ſkies,
Virtue once more delighted flies;
By each adoring patriot own'd,
And boaſts herſelf by thee enthron'd*,
EPISTLE TO MR. GODDARD†;
TO Windſor Canon, his well-choſen Friend,
The juſt Review does kindeſt greeting ſend.
I've found the man by nature's gift deſign'd
To pleaſe my ear and captivate my mind,
[75]By ſympathy the eager paſſions move,
And ſtrike my ſoul with wonder and with love!
Happy that place, where much leſs care is had
To ſave the virtuous, than protect the bad;
Where Paſtors muſt their ſtubborn Flock obey,
Or that be thought a ſcandal which they ſay:
For, ſhould a ſin, by ſome grand ſoul belov'd,
Chance with an aukward zeal to be reprov'd,
And tender conſcience meet the fatal curſe,
Of hardening by reproof, and growing worſe:
When things to ſuch extremities are brought,
'Tis not the Sinner's, but the Teacher's, fault.
[76]With Great Mens' wickedneſs, then, reſt content,
And give them their own leiſure to repent;
Whilſt their own head-ſtrong will alone muſt curb them,
And nothing vex, or venture to diſturb them,
Leſt they ſhould loſe their favour in the court,
And no one but themſelves be ſorry for't.
Were I in panegyrick vers'd like you,
I'd bring whole offerings to your merit due.
You've gain'd the conqueſt; and I freely own,
Diſſenters may by Churchmen be out-done.
Though once we ſeem'd to be at ſuch a Diſtance,
Yet both concenter in Divine reſiſtance:
Both teach what Kings muſt do when ſubjects fight,
And both diſclaim Hereditary Right.
By Jove's command, two Eagles took their flight,
One from the Eaſt, the ſource of infant light,
The other from the Weſt, that bed of night.
The birds of thunder both at Delphi meet,
The centre of the world, and Wiſdom's ſeat.
So, by a Power not decent here to name,
To one fixt point our various notions came.
Your thoughts from Oxford and from Windſor flew,
Whilſt Shop and Meeting-houſe brought forth Review*.
Your brains fierce Eloquence and Logick tried,
My humbler ſtrain choice Socks and Stockings cried;
Yet in our common principles we meet,
You ſinking from the Head, I riſing from the Feet.
[77]
Pardon a haſty Muſe, ambitious grown,
T' extol a merit far beyond his own.
For, though a moderate Painter can't command
The ſtroke of Titian's or of Raphael's hand:
Yet their tranſcendent works his fancy raiſe;
And there's ſome ſkill in knowing what to praiſe.
RECEIPT TO MAKE AN OATMEAL PUDDING.
OF oats decorticated take two pound,
And of new milk enough the ſame to drown;
Of raiſins of the Sun, ſton'd, ounces eight;
Of currants, cleanly pick'd, an equal weight;
Of ſuet, finely ſlic'd, an ounce at leaſt;
And ſix eggs, newly taken from the neſt:
Seaſon this mixture well with ſalt and ſpice;
'Twill make a pudding far exceeding rice;
And you may ſafely feed on it like farmers,
For the receipt is learned Dr. Harmer's.
RECEIPT TO MAKE A SACK-POSSET.
FROM far Barbadoes, on the Weſtern main,
Fetch ſugar, half a pound; fetch ſack, from Spain,
A pint; then fetch, from India's fertile coaſt,
Nutmeg, the glory of the Britiſh toaſt,
UPON A GIANT'S ANGLING.
[78]HIS angle-rod made of a ſturdy oak,
His line a cable, which in ſtorms ne'er broke,
His hook he baited with a dragon's tail,
And ſate upon a Rock and bobb'd for whale.
APPLE-PYE*.
OF all the delicates which Britons try,
To pleaſe the palate, or delight the eye;
Of all the ſeveral kinds of ſumptuous fare;
There 's none that can with Apple-pye compare,
For coſtly flavour, or ſubſtantial paſte,
For outward beauty, or for inward taſte.
When firſt this infant-diſh in faſhion came,
Th' ingredients were but coarſe, and rude the frame;
As yet unpoliſh'd in the modern arts,
Our fathers eat Brown-bread inſtead of Tarts;
Pyes were but indigaſted lumps of dough,
Till time and juſt expence improv'd them ſo.
King Cole (as ancient Britiſh annals† tell)
Renown'd for fiddling and for eating well,
[79]Pippins in homely cakes with honey ſtew'd,
" Juſt as he bak'd," the proverb ſays, "he brew'd!"
Their greater art ſucceeding princes ſhow'd,
And model'd paſte into a neater mode;
Invention now grew lively, palate nice,
And Sugar pointed out the way to Spice.
But here for ages unimprov'd we ſtood,
And Apple-pye was ſtill but homely food;
When god-like Edgar, of the Saxon Line,
Po [...]ite of taſte, and ſtudious to refine,
In the Deſert perfuming Quinces caſt,
And perfected with Cream the rich repaſt.
Hence we proceed the outward parts to trim,
With Crinkumcranks adorn the poliſh'd brim;
And each freſh Pye the pleas'd ſpectator greets
With virgin-fancies, and with new conceits.
Dear Nelly, learn with care the paſtry art,
And mind the eaſy precepts I impart:
Draw out your Dough elaborately thin,
And ceaſe not to fatigue your Rolling-pin:
Of Eggs and Butter ſee you mix enough:
For then the Paſte will ſwell into a Puff,
Which will, in crumpling ſounds, your praiſe report,
And eat, as houſewives ſpeak, "exceeding ſhort."
Rang'd in thick order let your Quinces lie;
They give a charming reliſh to the Pye.
If you are wiſe, you 'll not Brown Sugar ſlight,
The browner (if I form my judgement right)
A deep Vermillion tincture will diſpenſe,
And make your Pippin redder than the Quince.
[80]
When this is done, there will be wanting ſtill
The juſt reſerve of Cloves and Candied Peel;
Nor can I blame you, if a drop you take
Of Orange-water, for perfuming-ſake.
But here the nicety of art is ſuch,
There muſt not be too little, nor too much:
If with diſcretion you theſe coſts employ,
They quicken appetite; if not, they cloy.
Next, in your mind this maxim firmly root,
" Never o'ercharge your Pye with coſtly fruit:"
Oft let your Bodkin through the lid be ſent,
To give the kind impriſon'd treaſure vent;
Leſt the fermenting liquor, cloſely preſt,
Inſenſibly, by conſtant fretting, waſte,
And o'er-inform your tenement of paſte.
To chuſe your Baker, think, and think again
(You 'll ſcarce one honeſt Baker find in ten):
Aduſt and bruis'd, I've often ſeen a Pye,
In rich diſguiſe and coſtly ruin lie,
While penſive cruſt beheld its form o'erthrown,
Exhauſted Apples griev'd, their moiſture flown,
And Syrup from the ſides ran trickling down.
O be not, be not tempted, lovely Nell,
While the hot-piping odours ſtrongly ſmell,
While the delicious fume creates a guſt,
To lick the o'erflowing juice, or bite the cruſt.
You 'll rather ſtay (if my advice may rule)
Until the hot's corrected by the cool;
Till you 've infus'd the luſcious ſtore of Cream,
And chang'd the purple for a ſilver ſtream;
[81]Till that ſmooth viand its mild force produce,
And give a ſoftneſs to the tarter juice.
Then ſhalt thou, pleas'd, the noble fabrick view,
And, have a ſlice into the bargain too;
Honour and fame alike we will partake,
So well I'll eat what you ſo richly make.
THE CHARMS OF LIBERTY: IN ALLUSION TO THE ARCHBISHOP OF CAMBRAY'S TELEMACHUS.
CAMBRAY, whilſt of Seraphic Love you write,
The nobleſt themes you ſet in cleareſt light;
A love by no ſelf-intereſt debas'd,
But on th' Almighty's high perfection plac'd;
[82]A love in which true piety conſiſts,
That ſoars to Heaven without the help of prieſts!
Let partial Rome the great attempt oppoſe,
Support the cheat from whence her income flows;
Her cenſures may condemn, but not confute.
If beſt your elevated notions ſuit,
With what to reaſon ſeems th' Almighty's due,
They have at leaſt an air of being true.
And what can animated clay produce,
Beyond a gueſs, in matters ſo abſtruſe?
But when, deſcending from the imperial height;
You ſtoop of ſublunary things to write,
Minerva ſeems the moral to diſpenſe;
How great the ſubject, how ſublime the ſenſe!
[83]Not the Alconian Bard with ſuch a flame
E'er ſung of ruling arts, your lofty theme.
In your Telemachus, his hero's ſon,
We ſee the great Original out-done.
There is in Virtue, ſure, a hidden charm,
To force Eſteem, and Envy to diſarm;
Elſe in a flattering court you ne'er had been deſign'd
T' inſtruct the future troublers of mankind.
Happy your native ſoil, at leaſt by nature ſo,
In none her treaſures more profuſely flow:
The hills adorn'd with vines, with flowers the plain,
Without the ſun's too near approach, ſerene:
But Heaven in vain does on the vineyards ſmile,
The monarch's glory mocks the labourer's toil.
What though elaborate braſs with nature ſtrive,
And proud equeſtrian figures ſeem alive;
With various terrors on their baſis wrought,
With yielding citadels, ſurpriz'd or bought;
And here, the ruins of a taken town,
There a bombarded ſteeple tumbling down:
Such prodigies of art and coſtly pains
Serve but to gild th' unthinking rabble's chains.
Oh! abject ſtate of ſuch as tamely groan
Under a blind dependency on one!
How far inferior to the herds that range,
With native freedom, o'er the woods and plains!
With them no fallacy of ſchools prevail,
[...]or of a right divine the nauſeous tale
Can give to one amongſt themſelves a power,
Without control, his fellows to devour.
[84]To reaſoning human-kind alone belong
The arts to hurt themſelves by reaſoning wrong,
Howe'er the fooliſh notion firſt began,
Of truſting abſolute to lawleſs man;
Howe'er a tyrant may by force ſubſiſt;
For who would be a ſlave that can reſiſt?
Thoſe ſet the caſuiſt ſafeſt on the throne,
Who make the people's int'reſt their own;
And, chuſing rather to be lov'd than fear'd,
Are kings of men, not of a ſervile herd.
Oh Liberty! too late deſir'd, when loſt!
Like health, when wanted, thou art valued moſt.
In regions where no property is known,
Through which the Garone runs and rapid Rhone,
Where peaſants toil for harveſts not their own!
How gladly would they quit their native ſoil,
And change for liberty their wine and oil!
As wretches chain'd and labouring at the oar,
In ſight of Italy's delightful ſhoar,
Reflect on their unhappy fate the more.
Thy laws have ſtill their force; above the reſt
Of Gothic kingdoms, happy Albion, bleſt!
Long ſince their ancient freedom they have loſt,
And ſervilely of their ſubjection boaſt:
Thy better fate the vain attempts reſiſts
Of faithleſs monarchs and deſigning prieſts;
Unſhaken yet the government ſubſiſts.
While ſtreams of blood the continent o'erflow,
Reddening the Maeſe, the Danube, and the Po;
Thy Thames, auſpicious iſle, her thunder ſends,
To cruſh thy foes, and to relieve her friends.
[85]Say, Muſe, ſince no ſurprize, or foreign ſtroke,
Can hurt her, guarded by her walls of oak;
Since wholeſome laws her liberty transfer
To future ages, what can Albion fear?
Can ſhe the dear-bought treaſure throw away?
Have Univerſities ſo great a ſway?
The Muſe is ſilent, cautious to reflect
On manſions where the Muſes keep their ſeat.
Barren of thought, and niggardly of rhyme,
My creeping numbers are forbid to climb;
Venturing too far, my weary genius fails,
And o'er my drooping ſenſes ſleep prevails.
An antique pile near Thames's ſilver ſtream
Was the firſt object of my airy dream;
In ancient times a conſecrated fane,
But ſince apply'd to uſes more prophane:
Fill'd with a popular debating throng,
Oft in the right, and oftener in the wrong:
Of good and bad the variable teſt,
Where the religion that is voted beſt
Is ſtill inclin'd to perſecute the reſt.
On the high fabrick ſtood a monſter fell,
Of hideous form, ſecond to none in Hell:
The Fury, to be more abhorr'd and fear'd,
Her teeth and jaws with clods of gore beſmear'd,
Her party-colour'd robe obſcenely ſtain'd
With pious murthers, freemen rack'd and chain'd,
With the implacable and brutiſh rage
Of fierce dragoons, ſparing nor ſex nor age.
With all the horrid inſtruments of death,
Of torturing innocents t' improve their faith,
Clouding the roof with their infectious breath.
[86]Thus ſhe began: "Are then my labours vain,
That to the powers of France have added Spain?
Vain my attempts to make that empire great!
And ſhall a woman my deſigns defeat?
Baffle th' infernal projects I've begun,
And break the meaſures of my favourite ſon?
Though far unlike the heroes of her race,
That made their humours of their laws take place,
And, ſlighting coronation-oaths, diſdain'd
Their high prerogative ſhould be reſtrain'd:
Though her own iſle is bleſt with liberty,
Has ſhe a right to ſet all Europe free?
Under this roof, with management, I may
The progreſs of her arms at leaſt delay,
From a contagious vapour I ſhall blow;
Within thoſe walls breaches may wider grow.
* Here let imaginary fears be ſhown
Of danger to the church, when there is none.
From trivial bills let warm debates ariſe,
Foment ſedition, and retard ſupplies.
If once my treacherous arts, and watchful care,
Break the Confederacy, and end the war,
Ador'd, in Hell I may in triumph fit,
And Europe to one potentate ſubmit."
Waking at ſo deteſtable a ſound,
Which would all order and all peace confound,
I cry'd, "Infernal hag! be ever dumb;
Thee, with her arms, let Anna overcome,
[87]Who here reigns queen, by Heaven on us beſtow'd,
To right the injur'd, and ſubdue the proud.
As Rome of old gave liberty to Greece,
Anna th' invaded ſinking Empire frees.
Th' Allies her faith, her power the French proclaim,
Her piety th' oppreſs'd, the world her fame."
At Anna's name, dejected, pale, and ſcar'd,
The execrable phantom diſappear'd.
TO THE RETURNING SUN.
WElcome, thou glorious ſpring of light and heat,
Where haſt thou made thy long retreat?
What lands thy warmer beams poſſeſt,
What happy Indian worlds thy fruitful preſence bleſt?
Where deep in the dark boſom of the ground,
Thy wondrous operation's found!
Even there thy beams the earth refine,
And mix and ſtamp thy luſtre through the dazling mine.
Since thy retreat ſo far from our cold iſle,
She never wore a lovely ſmile,
No joy her wither'd brow adorn'd,
In dark unlovely days and in long nights ſhe mourn'd.
The poor dejected beaſts hung down their heads,
And trembled on their naked beds;
No footſteps of green life remain,
But dying fields and woods, and a bare bleaky plain.
[88]The drooping birds were ſilent in the groves,
They quite forgot their ſongs and loves,
Their feeble mates ſate ſullen by,
We thought the feather'd world reſolv'd their kind ſhould die
But ſee the land revives at thy approach,
She blooms and quickens at thy touch,
Her kindled atoms life receive,
The meadows, and the groves, begin to ſtir and live.
Mixt with thy beams the ſouthern breezes blow,
And help the ſprouting births below;
The infant flowers in haſte appear,
And gratefully return perfumes to the kind air.
The trees and fields again look freſh and gay,
The birds begin their ſofter play,
Thou haſt their life, nay more, their love reſtor'd,
Their late and early hymns praiſe thee, their welcome Lord.
The ſpreading fire glides through the plains and woods,
It even pierces the cold floods:
The duller brutes feel the ſoft flame,
The fiſhes leap for joy, and wanton in their ſtream.
ON THE DUTCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH*.
HAD ſhe but liv'd in Cleopatra's age,
When beauty did the earth's great lords engage,
Britain, nor Egypt, had been glorious made;
Auguſtus then, like Julius, had obey'd:
A nobler theme had been the Poet's boaſt,
That all the world for Love had well been loſt.
THE DREAM, BY MR. J. TALBOT*. OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LADY SEYMOUR†.
[89]IF righteous ſouls in their bleſt manſions know
Or what we do or ſuffer here below,
And any leiſure from their joys can find,
To viſit thoſe whom they have left behind,
To view our endleſs griefs, our groundleſs fears,
Our hopeleſs ſorrows, and our fruitleſs tears;
With pity, ſure, they ſee the kind miſtake,
Which weeping friends at their departure make:
They wonder why at their releaſe we grieve,
And mourn their death, who then begin to live.
Tir'd with the care and ſorrow of the day,
In ſilent night the ſad Maecenas lay,
His mind ſtill labouring with the deadly weight
Of his dear parent's much-lamented fate:
Till weary Nature, with its load oppreſt,
Compos'd the tempeſt of his troubled breaſt,
And borrow'd from his grief ſome time for reſt:
[90]When ſleep * (death's image) to his fancy brought
The hourly object of his waking thought;
And lo! his mother's awful ſhade appears,
Not pale and ghaſtly, as the ſullen fears
Of brain-ſick minds their diſmal phantoms paint,
But bright and joyful as a new-made ſaint.
A crown of glories ſhone around her head;
She ſmil'd, and thus the happy ſpirit ſaid:
" Hail, noble ſon, whom powerful Fates deſign
To fill the glories of thy mighty line,
In whom the good is mingled with the great,
As generous light unites with active heat!
For thee I thought life pleaſant, and for thee
I after death endur'd this world to ſee,
And leave a while the dwellings of the bleſt,
Where heavenly minds enjoy eternal reſt;
Where having reach'd the univerſal ſhore,
I fear the winds and billows now no more;
No more in anguiſh draw a painful breath,
Nor wreſtle with that mighty tyrant Death,
Who cannot boaſt he gave the fatal blow;
I conquer'd ſin, from whence his power did flow:
The proud inſulter threaten'd me in vain,
For Heaven increas'd my patience with my pain,
Till my unfetter'd ſoul at laſt took wing,
The grave its conqueſt loſt, and death its ſting.
No longer then theſe pious ſorrows ſhed,
Nor vainly think thy happy parent dead;
[91]Whoſe deathleſs mind, from its weak priſon free,
Enjoys in Heaven its native liberty:
I ſoon diſtinguiſh'd in that bliſsful place
Thy god-like anceſtors, a numerous race;
There, plac'd among the ſtars, in them I ſee
A glorious deſtiny reſerv'd for thee.
Then weep no more: ev'n here I ſtill ſurvive;
In thee and in thy virtuous fair I live;
I ſaw her happy mother* ſhine on high,
A brighter ſpirit ne'er adorn'd the ſky;
With joy ſhe met me at the cryſtal gate,
And much inquir'd her beauteous daughter's ſtate,
She wiſh'd her there: but Heaven ordains it late,
And long defers her joys, that ſhe may be
A mighty bleſſing to this world and thee.
Long ſhall ſhe live, and ages yet to come
Shall bleſs the happy burden of her womb:
Still ſhall her off-ſpring with her years increaſe;
With both, her virtues and thy happineſs.
In all thy race the wondering world ſhall find
The noble image of each parent's mind.
Thus bleſs'd in her and hers, thou ſhalt receive
The richeſt bounties Heaven and Earth can give.
Nor ſhall my care be wanting to your aid,
My faithful ſpirit ſhall hover o'er thy head,
And round thy lovely fair a large protection ſpread:
Till, crown'd with years and honours here below,
And every gift kind Nature can beſtow,
[92]You both retire to everlaſting reſt,
And late increaſe the joys and number of the bleſt."
She ſpake, her fellow-angels all around
With joyful ſmiles the happy omen own'd;
All bleſs'd the noble pair, and took their flight
To the bright regions of unfading light.
ELEGY: BY MR. TALBOT. OCCASIONED BY READING AND TRANSCRIBING MR. WALLER'S "POEM OF DIVINE LOVE" AFTER HIS DEATH.
SUCH were the laſt, the ſweeteſt, notes that hung
Upon our dying ſwan's melodious tongue;
Notes, whoſe ſtrong charms the dulleſt ear might move,
And melt the hardeſt heart in flames of love;
Notes, whoſe ſeraphic raptures ſpeak a mind
From human thoughts and earthly droſs refin'd;
So juſt their harmony, ſo high their flight,
With joy I read them, and with wonder write.
Sure, happy Saint, this noble ſong was given
To fit thee for th' approaching joys of Heaven:
Love, wondrous love, whoſe conqueſt was thy theme,
Has taught thy ſoul the airy way to climb:
Love ſnatch'd thee, like Elijah, to the ſky,
In flames that not conſume, but purify:
There, with thy fellow-angels mix'd, and free
From the dull load of dim mortality,
Thou feel'ſt new joys, and feed'ſt thy raviſh'd ſight,
With unexhauſted beams of love and light:
And ſure, bleſs'd ſpirit, to compleat thy bliſs,
In Heaven thou ſing'ſt this ſong, or one like this.
AGAINST SLOTH: WHEN THE KING WAS AT OXFORD.
[93]" Hoc agite, ô Juvenes; circumſpicit, & ſtimulat vos,
" Materiámque ſibi Ducis indulgentia quaerit."
HEnce, vain attempter of the good and great;
Be gone from our ſecure retreat,
With all thy dull unwieldy train
That clog and curb the active brain,
Which elſe would, like a mettled ſteed, run o'er,
Vaſt Nature's yet unnumber'd ſtore;
O'er flowery meads and painted fields,
And all the pleaſant ſcenes that beauteous Learning yields.
We're doubly arm'd againſt thy cheats and thee
(Thy cheats which only find a place
Among the ignorant and baſe)
By Knowledge, and by Majeſty.
Thou conſtant gueſt of every popiſh cell,
Which do'ſt with Monks and Hermits dwell,
Muſt leave, with them, this ſacred ground;
Baniſh'd from King and court, at leaſt for ten miles round.
She's gone; and now, methinks, an active fire
Does all my willing veins inſpire:
My drowſy ſenſes all anew
Are waken'd by his powerful view.
The glorious ruler of the morning, ſo,
But looks on flowers, and ſtraight they grow;
And, when his beams their light unfold,
Ripens the dulleſt earth, and warms it into gold.
ODE SUNG BEFORE KING CHARLES II ON NEW-YEAR'S-DAY.
[94]ARISE, great Monarch; ſee the joyful day,
Dreſt in the glories of the Eaſt,
Preſumes to interrupt your ſacred reſt.
Never did night more willingly give way,
Or morn more chearfully appear,
Big with the mighty tidings of a New-born Year.
Bleſt be that Sun, who in time's fruitful womb
Was to this noble embaſſy deſign'd,
To head the golden troops of days to come,
Nor lagg'd ingloriouſly behind,
[95]Ignobly in the laſt year's throng to riſe and ſet.
In this 'tis happier far than May,
Since to add years is greater than to give a day.
CHORUS.
Oh may the happy days increaſe,
With ſpoils of war, and wealth of peace,
Till Time and Age ſhall ſwallow'd be,
Loſt in vaſt Eternity!
May Charles ne'er quit his ſacred throne,
Himſelf ſucceed himſelf alone!
And, to lengthen out his time,
Take, God, from us, and give to him;
That ſo each world a Charles may know,
Father above, and ſon below.
Hark, the jocund ſpheres renew
Their chearful and melodious ſong,
While the glad Gods are pleas'd to view
The rich and painted throng
Of happy days in their fair order march along.
Move on, ye proſperous hours, move on;
Finiſh your courſe ſo well begun;
Let no ill omen dare prophane
Your beauteous and harmonious train,
Or jealouſies or fooliſh fears diſturb you as you run.
See, mighty Charles, how all the minutes preſs,
Each longing which ſhall firſt appear;
Since, in this renowned year,
Not one but feels a ſecret happinneſs,
As big with new events and ſome unheard ſucceſs:
[96]See how our troubles vaniſh, ſee
How the tumultuous tribes agree.
Propitious winds bear all our griefs away,
And peace clears up the troubled day.
Not a wrinkle, not a ſcar
Of faction or diſhoneſt war,
But pomps and triumphs deck the noble kalendar.
WHAT ART THOU, LOVE?
WHat art thou, Love! whence are thoſe charms!
That thus thou bear'ſt an univerſal rule!
For thee the ſoldier quits his arms,
The king turns ſlave, the wiſe man fool.
In vain we chace thee from the field,
And with cool thoughts reſiſt thy yoke:
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield,
And all thoſe high reſolves are broke.
Can we e'er hope thou ſhould'ſt be true,
Whom we have found ſo often baſe?
Cozen'd and cheated, ſtill we view,
And fawn upon the treacherous face.
In vain our nature we accuſe;
And doat becauſe ſhe ſays we muſt:
This for a brute were an excuſe,
Whoſe very ſoul and life is luſt.
To get our likeneſs! what is that?
Our likeneſs is but miſery;
Why ſhould I toil to propagate
Another thing as vile as I?
[97]
From hands divine our ſpirit came,
And Gods, that made us, did inſpire
Something more noble in our Frame,
Above the dregs of earthly fire.
VERSES AND PASTORALS*, SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT OXFORD,
LORD SAVILE TO THE DUKE OF YORK.
GREAT SIR,
WHen laſt your Royal brother bleſt this place,
And all about did his kind beams diſpenſe,
A joy divine was ſeen in every face,
Till Faction drove our tutelar angel hence.
Heaven knew how far our mortal frame could bear;
Mingling our rapture with ſome fit allay;
And, that for future bliſs we might repair,
Wiſely reſerv'd the bleſſing of this day.
MR. CHOLMONDELEY TO THE DUKE.
[98]We miſs'd a Royal brother by his ſide;
LORD SAVILE TO THE DUTCHESS.
We long'd to ſee thoſe charms which him o'ercame.
MR. CHOLMONDELEY TO THE LADY ANNE.
You, Madam, was our only joy and pride,
Who repreſented half the Stuart's name.
LORD SAVILE TO THE DUKE.
Would you then know how much you're welcome here
Think what a joy in Royal breaſts did flow,
When fatal Glo'ſter all our hopes did bear,
Which the Gods loſt to ſhew their care of you.
When fears and jealouſies ran high and loud,
And Zeal miſtaken blinded wilful eyes,
Heaven ſhook the rod to the rebellious crowd,
Threatening to ſnatch the gem they could not prize.
MR. CHOLMONDELEY TO THE DUTCHESS.
Oxford, we hope, will not diſpleaſe your view,
Where York firſt learn'd the rudiments of war;
Thoſe early virtues here in bloſſom grew,
Which now in growth and full perfection are.
[99]
Though here new towers and buildings daily riſe,
And, arms thrown off, we wear the peaceful gown;
Our breaſts admit no change, know no diſguiſe,
Prepar'd with pens and ſwords t' aſſert the Crown.
LORD SAVILE.
This is the place to which the ſacred names
Of Kings and Heroes annually reſound;
The triumphs, wars, and peace of Charles and James,
From age to age are with freſh laurels crown'd.
MR. CHOLMONDELEY.
As when a prince's long expected birth,
Glads every heart, and each Muſe tunes her voice;
TO THE LADY ANNE.
Or when the captive monarchs of the earth
Beg to be ſlaves, and in your chains rejoice—
LORD SAVILE
But why in lazy numbers do we bind
Our thoughts; which ſhould in active raptures fly,
As the coeleſtial circles unconfin'd,
And tun'd to their eternal harmony?
Muſick's the dialect of happy ſouls,
When ſever'd from the earth's unwieldy load;
The univerſal language, by both poles
Of the vaſt diſtant nations underſtood.
Let inſtruments and voices both combine,
To celebrate the glories of this day:
Let art and ecſtacy their forces join,
And in melodious paths of error ſtray.
[100]Here they ſat down, and muſic played; which being ended, they ſtood up again, and ſpoke by way of Paſ⯑toral*.
DAMON.
Thyrſis, whom the Gods inſpire,
Glory of our tuneful quire,
What auſpicious powers diſpenſe
This day's happy influence?
See'ſt thou how the nymphs and ſwains
Trip it o'er the flowery plains,
Deck'd in liveries far more gay
Than could e'er be given by May?
Craggy hills their tops advance,
Fauns and Satyrs on them dance;
To the whiſtling of the wind,
With the birds ſweet muſic join'd;
Trees, with their unwonted pleaſure,
Wave their ſhady tops in meaſure.
THYRSIS.
Damon, think it nothing ſtrange
You diſcern ſo great a change,
Since our humble dwelling's bleſt
With ſo ſtrange, ſo great a gueſt.
Life and mirth the Gods beſtow,
And beauty, whereſoe'er they go;
And, if Jove vouchſafe to come
To Philemon's country home,
His preſence gives it grace divine,
And turns the cottage to a ſhrine.
DAMON.
[101]Such fine ſtories poets ſing,
How their Gods, and Jove their king,
Envy ſhepherds' happy days,
Pleas'd to hear their well-tun'd lays;
Quit the bliſsful ſeats above,
Chuſing here on earth to love.
Pretty fables, proper themes
For poetic airy dreams;
But theſe are joys which men awake
Never muſt expect to take.
THYRSIS.
Ceaſe thy doubts, thou faithleſs ſwain.
View but yonder glorious train,
Tell me if the ſkies can ſhow
Such a conſtellation?
DAMON.
No.
THYRSIS.
Should the Deities combine,
And in one their glories join;
DAMON.
Heaven's whole pride too mean would be
To compare with what we ſee.
But pr'ythee, ſhepherd, canſt declare
What theſe glorious ſtrangers are?
THYRSIS.
Damon, that's a work too high
For ſuch ſwains as you and I.
'Tis enough our ſofter lays
Alcon or Lycoris praiſe:
[102]But the princely Daphnis' name
Fills the loudeſt trump of fame.
DAMON.
Oft was Daphnis the ſublime
Argument of Aegon's* rhyme:
THYRSIS.
Daphnis, and the Nymph that ſhares.
All his pleaſures, all his cares.
DAMON.
While he ſung his victories,
THYRSIS.
And her no leſs conqu'ring eyes,
DAMON.
Glad rocks echoed to his voice,
THYRSIS.
Vales return'd the tuneful noiſe.
DAMON.
Savage inmates of the wood
All compos'd and liſtening ſtood:
THYRSIS.
Diſtant hills their tops did bend,
Leaning as they did attend.
But, ſince Aegon left the plain,
All the under crew in vain
Strive to ſing what may appear
Worthy princely Daphnis' ear.
DAMON.
Fear not, Thyrſis, there does reſt
In great Daphnis' noble breaſt
[103]Too much goodneſs, to refuſe
Tribute from an humble Muſe:
Did the Gods accept alone
Worthy victims, they'd have none.
THYRSIS.
Then, though we cannot entertain
Daphnis in a lofty ſtrain,
Nor his great exploits ſet forth,
Or his peerleſs lady's worth;
Such a homely Muſe as ours
Can bid them welcome to theſe bowers.
Damon begin: to Phyllis I,
Thou to Daphnis ſhalt apply.
DAMON.
Content.
THYRSIS.
But ſtay.
DAMON.
Why ſtay?
THYRSIS.
Mine ear
Heavenly muſic ſeems to hear;
Phoebus will his quire prevent,
And pay the duty which we meant,
DAMON.
Let's attend while Phoebus ſings,
And tune our oat-pipes to his ſtrings.
Muſick again; which ended,
Ah, Thyrſis! how ſhall humble ſwains,
As thou and I, perform ſuch ſtrains?
[104]Can we a fitting preſent make,
For us to give, or theſe to take?
THYRSIS.
The garland Chloris made, I'll bring;
When I flung Strephon from the ring.
Though Caeſar's birth-day it ſhould crown,
Freſh roſes will for that be blown.
DAMON.
I have a lamb as white as ſnow:
Though half engag'd to Pan by vow,
I'll ſacrifice it here; for he
Pan or ſome greater. God muſt be.
THYRSIS.
Why doſt thou talk of ſacrifice
Theſe ſeem not angry Deities.
Would cruel Sylvia were here!
She'd learn to think herſelf leſs fair,
And in a noble mixture find
Humility with beauty join'd.
DAMON.
Then may it pleaſe the royal Three;
T' accept an hearty wiſh from me;
By all true ſwains be Daphnis fear'd,
And no Whig wolves come near his herd!
THYRSIS.
May each bright nymph look gay and young;
Doubling the ſtook from whence they ſprung!
BOTH.
Then yearly hecatombs we'll pay,
If every Spring brings ſuch a May.
TO A PERSON OF HONOUR*, ON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM.
[105]WITH envy, criticks, you'll this poem read,
Whoſe author's wit does more than man exceed;
Where all's ſo good alike, no man can ſay
This may be added, or that par'd away:
Where all's ſo new, no ſearch can ever trace
The perſons mention'd; in their time, or place.
Great ſoul of nature! which doſt books defy,
And their weak aid in this thy hiſtory:
Thou art no ſlave to rule, or precedent;
Where others imitate, thou doſt invent.
It is, we grant; all thy invention;
The language too, intirely is thy own;
Thou leav'ſt as traſh, below thy great pretence,
Grammar to pedants; and to plain men, ſenſe:
But, as in this thy matchleſs poetry
Thou follow'ſt none, ſo none can follow thee.
ON THE SAME,
[106]WOnder not, ſir, that praiſes yet ne'er due
To any other are yet heap'd on you:
'Twas envy robb'd you of your praiſe before;
Men ſee their faults, and envy now no more.
'Tis but your merit; nor can juſtly ſuch,
Which gave too little once, now give too much.
Your "Princes" do all Poetry ſurpaſs
As much as Pen-main-maur exceeds Parnaſs.
It is ſo great a prodigy of Wit,
That Art and Nature both fall ſhort of it:
For, leaving Art, and left of Nature too,
Your Poem has no other Muſe than you.
ON THE SAME.
AS when a bully draws his ſword,
Though no man gives him a croſs word,
And all perſuaſions are in vain,
To make him put it up again:
Each man draws too, and falls upon him:
Ev'n ſo, dear Ned, thy deſperate pen
No leſs diſturbs all witty men,
[107]And makes them wonder what a devil;
Provokes thee to be ſo uncivil.
When thou and all thy friends muſt know 'em,
Thou yet wilt dare to print thy poem.
That poor cur's fate, and thine, are one
Who has his tail pegg'd in a [...]bone;
About he runs, nobody 'll own him,
Men, boys, and dogs, are all upon him:
And firſt the greater wits were at thee,
Now every little fool will pat thee;
Fellows that ne'er were heard or read of.
If thou writ'ſt on, will write thy head off.
Thus maſtiffs only have a knack
To caſt the bear upon his back;
But, when th' unwieldy beaſt is thrown,
Mungrils will ſerve to keep him down.
PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE DUKE'S NEW PLAY-HOUSE IN DORSET-GARDEN.
'TIS not in this as in the former age,
When Wit alone ſuffic'd t' adorn the ſtage;
When things well-ſaid an audience could invite,
Without the hope of ſuch a gaudy ſight:
What with your fathers took would take with you,
If Wit had ſtill the charm of being new:
Had not enjoyment dull'd your appetite,
She in her homely dreſs would yet delight;
Such ſtately theatres we need not raiſe,
Our Old Houſe would put off our dulleſt plays.
[108]You, Gallants, know a freſh wench of ſixteen
May drive the trade in honeſt bombazine;
And never want good cuſtom, ſhould ſhe lie
In a back room, two or three ſtories high:
But ſuch a beauty as has long been known,
Though not decay'd, but to perfection grown,
Muſt, if ſhe think to thrive in this lewd town,
Wear points, lac'd petticoats, and a rich gown:
Her lodgings too muſt with her dreſs agree,
Be hung with damaſk, or with tapeſtry;
Have china, cabinets, and a great glaſs,
To ſtrike reſpect into an amorous aſs.
Without the help of ſtratagems and arts,
An old acquaintance cannot touch your hearts,
Methinks 'tis hard our authors ſhould ſubmit
So tamely to their predeceſſors' wit;
Since, I am ſure, among you there are few
Would grant your grand-fathers had more than you.
But hold! I in this buſineſs may proceed too far,
And raiſe a ſtorm againſt our theatre;
And then what would the wiſe adventurers ſay,
Who are in a much greater fright to-day
Than ever poet was about his play?
Our apprehenſions none can juſtly blame,
Money is dearer much to us than fame:
This thought on, let our poets juſtify
The reputation of their poetry;
We are reſolv'd we will not have to do
With what's between thoſe gentlemen and you.
Be kind, and let our houſe have but your praiſe,
You're welcome every day to damn their plays.
SONG.
[109]AS he lay in the plain, his arm under his head,
And his flocks feeding by, the fond Celadon ſaid,
If Love's a ſweet paſſion, why does it torment?
If a bitter (ſaid he), whence are Lovers content?
Since I ſuffer with pleaſure, why ſhould I complain?
Or grieve at my fate, when I know 'tis in vain?
Yet ſo pleaſing the pain is, ſo ſoft is the dart,
That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my heart:
To myſelf I ſigh often without knowing why;
And, when abſent from Phyllis, methinks I could die.
But oh! what a pleaſure ſtill follows my pain;
When kind Fortune does help me to ſee her again!
In her eyes, the bright ſtars that foretell what's to come,
By ſoft ſtealth now and then I examine my doom.
I preſs her hand gently, look languiſhing down,
And by paſſionate ſilence I make my love known.
But oh! how I'm bleſt when ſo kind ſhe does prove,
By ſome willing miſtake to diſcover her love;
When, in ſtriving to hide, ſhe reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.
THE PRISONER IN THE TOWER.
TO THE LADY M. C.
WHILST Europe is alarm'd with wars,
And Rome foments the Chriſtian jars;
Whilſt guilty Britain fears her fate,
And would repent her crime too late;
[110]Here, ſafe in my confin'd retreat,
I ſee the waves about me beat,
And envy none that dare be great.
A quiet conſcience, and a friend,
Help me my happy hours to ſpend;
Let Celia to my cell reſort,
She turns my priſon to a court;
Inſtead of guards by day and night,
Let Celia ſtill be in my ſight.
And then they need not fear my flight.
Could ſenſe of ſervile fear prevail,
Or could my native honour fail,
Her ſight would all my doubts control,
And give her back my peaceful ſoul:
Such charming truths her words contain;
Or, if her angel voice refrain,
Her eyes can never plead in vain.
LOVE BUT ONE.
SEE theſe two little brooks that ſlowly creep,
In ſnaky writhings through the plains,
I knew them once one river ſwift and deep,
Bleſſing and bleſt by poets ſtrains.
Then touch'd with awe, we thought ſome God did pour
Thoſe floods out of his ſacred jarr;
Transforming every weed into a flower,
And every flower into a ſtar.
But ſince it broke itſelf, and double glides,
The naked banks no dreſs have worn;
And you dry barren mountain now derides
Theſe vallies, which loſt glories mourn.
[111]
Such, Chloris, is thy love: which, while it ran
Confin'd within a ſingle ſtream,
Fir'd every tuneful ſon of mighty Pan:
And thou wert mine, and all men's theme.
But, when imparted to one Lover more,
It in two ſtreams did faintly creep;
The ſhepherd's common Muſe grew low and poor,
And mine as lean as theſe my ſheep.
Alas! that honour, Chloris, thou haſt loſt,
Which we to thy full flood did pay!
While now that ſwain, that ſwears he loves thee moſt,
Slakes but his thirſt, and goes away!
SONG ON A LADY INDISPOSED.
FLAVIA'S eyes, like fires ſuppreſs'd,
More fiercely flame again;
Nor can her beauty be decreas'd,
Nor alter'd by her pain.
[112]
Thoſe various charms which round her play,
And do her face adorn,
Still as they ripen, fall away,
Freſh beauties ſtill are born.
So doth it with the lovers fare,
Who do the dame adore,
One fit of love kill'd by deſpair,
Another rages more.
TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, DRAWING LADY HYDE'S PICTURE.
[113]THE Cyprian Queen, drawn by Apelles' hand,
Of perfect beauty did the pattern ſtand.
But then bright nymphs from every part of Greece
Did all contribute to adorn the piece;
From each a ſeveral charm the painter took
(For no one mortal ſo divine could look).
But, happier Kneller, Fate preſents to you
In one that finiſh'd beauty which he drew.
But oh, take heed, for vaſt is the deſign,
And madneſs 'twere for any hand but thine.
For mocking thunder bold Salmoneus dies;
And 'tis as raſh to imitate her eyes.
TO A LADY, WHO, RAFFLING FOR THE KING OF FRANCE'S PICTURE, FLUNG THE HIGHEST CHANCES ON THE DICE.
FORTUNE exerts her utmoſt power for you,
Nor could ſhe more for her own Louis do;
She thought ſome mighty kingdom was the ſtake,
And did his throw for the great monarch make.
But as all princes at far diſtance wooe,
Firſt ſend their image where their heart is due;
So now, thrice happy nymph, would you reſort,
Where Fate invites you, to the Gallic court,
That lucky genius which the picture gave
Would make the great original your ſlave:
He, like the piece, can only be your prize,
Who never yields but to the brighteſt eyes.
ON LADY SANDWICH'S* BEING STAYED IN TOWN BY THE IMMODERATE RAIN.
[114]THE charming Sandwich would from cities fly,
While at her feet adoring princes lie;
And all her nobler conqueſts would forego,
Leſs glorious ſlaves and peaſants to ſubdue.
Thus conquering monarchs, who have kingdoms won,
And all their neighbouring ſtates with arms o'er-run,
For want of work their armies to employ,
Remote and ſavage provinces deſtroy:
But Heaven in pity weeps, while we complain,
Or elſe our tears exhal'd drop down in rain;
The darken'd ſun does ſcarce through clouds appear,
And tempeſts rage to keep our wiſhes here;
The floods free paſſage to her ſcorn deny,
And Nature diſobeys her cruelty.
But, could the waves riſe equal to our flame,
We'd drown the world, to ſtop the flying dame.
TO MR. POPE.
THY wit in vain the feeble critick gnaws;
While the hard metal breaks the ſerpent's jaws.
Grieve not, my friend, that ſpite and brutal rage
At once thy perſon and thy Muſe engage:
Our virtues only from ourſelves can flow,
Health, ſtrength, and beauty, to blind chance we owe.
But Heaven, indulgent to thy nobler part,
In thy fair mind expreſs'd the niceſt art:
Nature, too buſy to regard the whole,
Forgets the body, to adorn the ſoul.
OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE MUSES.
INSCRIBED TO MR. DRYDEN.
[115]THY well-known malice, fretful Envy, ceaſe,
Nor tax the Muſe and me—
With a weak genius, and inglorious eaſe;
What!—I ſhould then, whilſt youth does vigour yield,
Purſue the duſty glories of the field;
Our fathers' praiſe! or bend my utmoſt care
To the dull noiſe of the litigious bar.
No! theſe muſt die;—but the moſt noble prize,
That which alone can man immortalize,
Muſt from the Muſes' harmony ariſe:
Homer ſhall live, whilſt Tenedos ſhall ſtand,
Or Ida's top ſurvey the neighbouring ſtrand,
Whilſt Simois' ſtreams along the valleys glide,
And in the ſea diſcharge their rapid tide:—
Heſiod ſhall live, till corn is not in uſe,
Till the plump grape denies its wealthy juice:—
The world Callimachus ſhall ever prize;
For what his fancy wants, his art ſupplies:—
The tragedies of mighty Sophocles
Shall in no age their juſt applauſes miſs:—
[116]So well Aratus of the planets wrote,
That ſun and moon muſt fail when he's forgot:—
When crafty Davus a hard father cheats
To ſerve the ſon; when eaſy cully treats
The jilting whore and bawd; the figures ſhew,
The Comick from Menander's model drew;—
Ennius, whoſe Muſe by Nature was deſign'd
Compleat, had Art with bounteous Nature join'd;—
And tragic Accius, of ſtyle ſublime
And weighty words, ſhall ſtand the ſhock of Time:—
Whilſt Jaſon's golden fleece ſhall have a name,
Who ſhall a ſtranger be to Varro's fame!—
Lucretius Nature's cauſes did rehearſe
In ſuch a lofty and commanding verſe,
As ſhall remain till that one fatal day,
Which muſt the world itſelf in ruins lay:—
Virgil, thy Works Divine ſhall patterns ſtand
For each ſucceeding age's copying hand,
Whilſt Rome ſhall all its conquer'd world com⯑mand:—
Whilſt Cupid ſhall be arm'd with bow and dart,
And flaming ſhafts ſhall pierce the lover's heart;
Shall we, O ſweet Tibullus, love each line
That comes from that ſoft moving pen of thine:—
Both Eaſt and Weſt reſound with Gallus' fame,
Gallus and his Lycoris are their theme:—
Statues and tombs with age conſume and die;
'Tis verſe alone has immortality:
To verſe muſt yield the greateſt acts of kings;
Riches and empire are but empty things,
Without the laſting fame a poet brings.
[117]Let vulgar ſpirits trivial bleſſings chooſe;
May thy Caſtalian ſpring inſpire my Muſe,
O God of wit, and myrtles wreath my hair!
Then the too fearful lover may repair
To what I write, to free his breaſt from care.
As living worth detraction ſtill attends,
Which after death a juſter fame defends;
So I ſhall my laſt funeral flame ſurvive,
And in my better part for ever live.
ODE TO SYLVIA.
IN IMITATION OF PRIOR.
IN flowery flelds, in cool retreats,
With wounded heart and weeping eyes,
I've ſought the happy Muſes' ſeats,
Since firſt your beauty did ſurprize.
But, oh! too late my doom's declar'd:
Theſe charming ſcenes create deſire;
For every ſight inflames the bard,
And every breath foments the fire.
I, who Love's golden darts defy'd,
His pointed ſhafts, his piercing bow,
An all-commanding force have try'd;
Yet ſink beneath the mighty woe.
Ceaſe, dear diſturber of my reſt,
Let ſome choice remedy be found;
Oh! may the ſpear that ſtruck my breaſt
Aſſuage the grief, and heal the wound!
[118]
Your charms inthrall, your wit confines,
Each ſprightly ſwain that views the field:
Where your prevailing luſtre ſhines,
The faireſt nymphs are forc'd to yield.
So, when the ſplendid lamp of day
Shoots forth his wide-extending fires;
Each ſtar contracts his ſickly ray,
And with a fading pomp retires.
THE APPARITION, BY ABEL EVANS*, D.D. OCCASIONED BY THE PUBLICATION OF TINDAL'S RIGHTS OF THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH.
" Dii, quibus imperium eſt animarum; Umbraeque ſilentes;
" Et Chaos, & Phlegethon, loca nocte ſilentia late,
" Sit mihi fas audita loqui."
VIRG. Aen. VI. 264.
BEGIN, my Muſe; the dire adventure tell,
How the ſupremeſt gloomy Power of Hell
Convers'd familiar with a mortal Man;
Where, when, and how, the conference began;
[119]Bring each particular in open ſight,
And do the Devil and the Doctor right.
As round the world that reſtleſs ſpirit flew,
This ſpacious Earth and all her ſons to view;
To ſee how Treaſon, Luſt, and Murder ſtrove
To fill his realms, and empty thoſe above;
While Truth was trampled on by Lies and Spite,
And Wrong victorious triumph'd over Right;
Vice domineer'd, and haughty ſwore aloud,
Surrounded with a numerous flattering crowd;
Virtue, with bluſhes cover'd o'er, retir'd,
By all forſaken; though by all admir'd;
Silent ſhe griev'd, with pity, at the ſight,
Then wing'd tow'rds Heaven her ſolitary flight.
Not ſo the Fiend, with other paſſions fraught,
Exulting, on his mighty conqueſts thought:
Wide to his view the lovely proſpect lay,
But ſtill with joy malign he ey'd the prey:
[120]For ſome eſcaping made his madneſs riſe,
Louring he ſcowl'd, and darken'd all the ſkies:
Unmindful of the many, Satan ſtood,
Revenge againſt thoſe flying few he vow'd:
Then toſs'd the vipers round his horrid head,
And thus indignant to himſelf he ſaid:
" Theſe kingdoms of the Earth of old were given,
If I miſtake not, in exchange for Heaven:
Their power, their wealth, and glory, all are mine;
I hold them from above by grant divine.
Uxorious Adam, by my cunning croſt,
Forfeit to treaſon, all their tenures loſt:
Then, if I hold by titles ſuch as theſe,
Who ſhall my tenures dare diſpute or ſeize?
Yet—for all this—ſpite of my ſovereign will,
Some nations do decline their homage ſtill.
The three great quarters of the world are mine;
See how their altars ſmoak, and temples ſhine!—
In Europe too, nor am I leſs rever'd
Where grateful Rome her images has rear'd:
Or where Fanatic Sectaries abound,
I ſcower with pleaſure my devouring round:
But Albion, curſed iſle! by Prieſts miſled,
Falſe to my hopes, is in rebellion bred.
Not that my emiſſaries there I want:
Atheiſts to curſe, and Hypocrites to cant.
Burgeſs* aloft harangues the gaping crowd,
While witty Garth† below blaſphemes aloud;
And to each other, though ſo oppoſite,
Yet in my cauſe both lovingly unite:
[121]The Toleration to my wiſh proceeds,
Neglected gardens muſt be choak'd with weeds.
Oh, could I ſink the Sacramental Teſt!
Down falls at once the Altar and the Prieſt:
For ſtill th' Eſtabliſh'd Church is all my bane;
And, while that ſtands, I ne'er muſt hope to reign.
But then that Oxford, damn'd pedantic town!
Thus to be fool'd by a ſquare-cap and gown!
How old and ſilly, Satan, art thou grown!
—But 'tis reſolv'd, new meaſures I will try,
Quick to All-Souls, to Tindal I will fly:
Tindal, alike with me by GOD accurs'd;
In vice and error from his cradle nurs'd:
He ſtudies hard, and takes extreme delight,
In whores or hereſies to ſpend the night:
My vaſſal ſworn! he loves Confuſion's cauſe,
And hates, like me, all government and laws:
All ties of duty, gratitude, are vain;
No bonds his furious malice can reſtrain:
All intereſts, civil, ſacred, ſtill unite
With idle toil, to check his ardent ſpite."
Thus having ſaid, quick down to earth he fell;
Full in the middle of the Quadrangle:
With ſudden glance he travers'd all the rooms,
And then forthwith a human ſhape aſſumes.
Like an old College-bedmaker he bent;
His cloven-foot he wriggled as he went;
A frowzy high-crown'd hat his face did hide,
A hooked ſtaff his tottering ſteps did guide,
A bunch of various keys hung jangling by his ſide.
[122]
Quick to the Doctor's chamber he repair'd,
Three ſolemn raps upon the door were heard;
The Doctor, liſtening, trembled, ſwore, and ſtar'd.
And in an inſtant tow'rds the door he goes,
The door, ſelf-opening, took him thwart the noſe.
Aſtoniſh'd, back he ſtarted with a bound;
And thought, at leaſt, he trod enchanted ground.
But, as the ſpectre nearer to him drew,
Reſolv'd at laſt, he cries, "Zounds! what are you?"
The Spright, obſerving ſtreight his great confuſion,
Thus calmly ſilence broke (as he who knows one):
" Dear Doctor! pr'ythee do not tremble ſo:
Pray be compos'd! what?—not Crippelia know!
The Devil is not come to fetch you now.
Once I was young, nor wanted female charms,
When I lay panting in your curling arms:
Lock'd in the folds of Love, we both defy'd
The Statutes, and the Laws of GOD beſide.
Then, my Civilian! as intranc'd you lay,
How did you ſigh and kiſs the hours away!
Not Alexander, with Statira bleſt,
His paſſion with more tenderneſs expreſs'd.
What though with age and weakneſs now I bend,
With wrinkles ſhrivel'd—for one tumbler ſend:
If not a miſtreſs, uſe me like a friend.
For favours paſt, ſome ſmall regards are due;
I would not at theſe years have flouted you!
Turn then, Barbarian, turn thy lovely eyes;
Survey me well:—and mark my thin diſguiſe.—
[123]No muſty college-matron here thou ſee'ſt;
Them and their maſters I alike deteſt,
Abhor, as thou doſt any Chriſtian prieſt.
Before thee ſtands Hell's mighty ſovereign king:
My ſubjects thanks for thy laſt works I bring.
All my grim ſons, with emulation fir'd,
Reſtleſs, thy Rights, thy Chriſtian Rights requir'd,
Thy Chriſtian Church's Rights: immortal page,
Worthy thy malice, impudence, and rage!
Envious they aſk, in ſullen ſurly mood,
What Incubus did o'er thy fancy brood?
All Hell reſounds thy name with loud applauſe,
And love the leader, as they like the cauſe:
But above all, the hot-brain'd Athieſt crew,
That ever Greece, or Rome, or Britain, knew,
Wave all their laurels, and their palms to you.
Spinoza ſmiles, and cries—The work is done;
Tindal ſhall finiſh (Satan's darling ſon!)
Tindal ſhall finiſh what Spinoza firſt begun.
Hobbes, Milton, Blount, Vanini, with him join;
All equally admire the vaſt deſign.
Then—to the trumpet's and the clarion's ſound;
The giddy goblets whirl in eddies round,
To Tindal's health:—on earth may Tindal dwell!
Late may we have his preſence here in Hell!
Till he the glorious work has done, they cry,
Till Chriſtian churches all in ruins lie!
(Sonorous ſhoutings rend the livid ſky.)
No ſingle fiend, through all the numerous hoſt,
Declines the glaſs, when Tindal is the toaſt.
[124]
Old Epicurus to Lucretius bow'd,
Young, witty, learn'd, vain, impudent, and proud:
Diagoras next Apollonius ſate;
The ſolemn ſages on thy works debate:
The traitor Judas, liſtening, grimning, ſtood;
Sometimes he mus'd, and then he laugh'd aloud:
'Twixt rage, and hate, and ſcorn, at laſt he cries,
Curſe on thee, for thy ſilly random kiſs,
To take the Founder, and the Church to miſs!
Apoſtate Julian roſe, and loudly ſwore,
The Galilean's empire was no more;
His royal prieſthood ſhould for ever ceaſe,
And Satan ſhall regain the realms of bliſs."
By this time Tindal quite recover'd ſtood;
His viſage redden'd with returning blood;
And thus he anſwer'd (when he thrice had bow'd):
Dr. "Great are the honours, which the Prince of Hell
Beſtows upon a mortal Infidel:
Nor with leſs pleaſure I the praiſes hear
Your ſubjects to my trifling labours ſpare;
Neither to you nor them, I muſt confeſs,
My duty, as I ought, I can expreſs:
Fain would I merit more! would they but praiſe me leſs.
But give me leave (as I'm in duty bound)
To pay thee, Satan! reverence moſt profound
(Here with his head nine times he touch'd the ground).
Civility ſurprizing, I acknowledge;
To viſit a poor Fellow of a College!
[125]For Hell's dread emperor to condeſcend,
Himſelf, to ſee a vile terreſtrial friend!
Tell me, ye Gods of Erebus and Night!
How have ye heard of ſuch a worthleſs wight!
What thanks are then, Supreme Apoſtate! due
From me (the meaneſt of God's foes) to you?"
S. "Egregious youth! thou laſt beſt hopes of Hell!
All Satan's ſons have hitherto done well;
But thou all Satan's ſons do'ſt far excel.
—However, let us not, my worthy friend,
Our time in ceremonies only ſpend:
Nine times three minutes I can only ſtay,
And cannot bear the leaſt approach of day:
Then to the buſineſs quickly let us come;
'Tis what you ſtudy here, and I at home.
The Church of England is the curſed thing,
That you and I muſt to deſtruction bring."
D. "Thanks, great Deſtroyer! if ſo mean a man
As I but work ſuch mighty miſchief can;
No time nor coſt I'll ſpare; no ſtrength or pains
(The Church of England's loſſes are my gains).
Some Deanry then to my lay-fee ſhall fall;
The Biſhopricks—my betters muſt have—All."
S. "I tell thee, Tindal, and obſerve it well:
Merit like thine does all reward excel.
For gold, or fame, let little ſouls contend;
Diſintereſted miſchief be thy end:
Only with patience in thy work perſiſt;
To Hell's infernal Caeſar leave the reſt."
D. "Oh, Emperor! what merit can I claim,
The youngeſt hero in thy liſts of fame?
[126]Had I of old (as Scripture-annals ſing)
Wag'd war with thee 'gainſt Heaven's perpetual King;
Had I (but only on the conquer'd ſide)
Diſplay'd with thee my vanity and pride;
Some laurel then I could with pleaſure wear,
And without bluſhing now my praiſes hear."
S. "Extremes on all ſides we with juſtice blame;
A little then thy headſtrong rage reclaim;
And try thy luſt of anarchy to tame.
Miſchief enough remains on earth undone;
Then check thy flight tow'rds Heaven, my towering ſon,
The greateſt worth ſtill bounds and limits knows;
Be ſatisfy'd—and gall thy preſent foes.
The Chriſtian Church is ſtill in ſafety found;
Let that be firſt quite level'd to the ground.
When thou haſt finiſh'd this (no ſmall deſign),
Thou may'ſt with reaſon for freſh miſchief pine:
And, before all the Chriſtian Churches, ſtill
Let Albion's Church employ thy utmoſt ſkill;
Quick againſt that thy ſecond battery raiſe,
And equal to thy miſchief be thy praiſe.
Her Clergy firſt with fouleſt lyes defame;
Her Clergy, of whatever age or name:
Rome's Pontiff and the ruling Elders ſpare;
To blacken Albion's Biſhops, be thy care:
Tell how that realm is by the Biſhops curs'd;
All diſcord, error, by their canons nurs'd:
New ſchemes of government unheard-of raiſe;
And all (but that which you live under) praiſe:
For mad Republics ſtill thy ſtrains purſue;
For mad Republics, whether old or new,
[127]All curſed Monarchies alike decry,
Mix'd, abſolute, their various rights deny:
Monarchs as Tyrants in thy books diſplay;
Biſhops as feller Tyrants far than they:
Falſe are our hopes, and profitleſs our pains,
While Biſhops mitres wear, and Anna reigns."
D. "It ſhall be done: great Enemy of light!
I bear them all with thee an equal ſpite:
An equal ſpite, though not a power, I bring
With thee, 'gainſt Heaven's all-ruling tyrant King.
I hate his Son, as much as you, or more."
S. "Why wilt thou thus aloft unbounded ſoar?
Stoop, ſtoop thy wings; on earth again deſcend."
D. "At thy monition, downwards thus I bend;
And only wiſh—His Church on earth may end!
Oh, were my will but once Britannia's Law!
Rome ſhould again the ſervile nation awe;
The Druids elſe regain their loſt abodes,
And Thor and Woden be Britannia's Gods:
Idols in every temple ſhould be found,
The poor in chains of Superſtition bound;
The rich in Luxury and Atheiſm drown'd:
All Decency and Order ſhould be damn'd;
And wild Enthuſiaſm run bellowing through the land.
All, in their turns, be Prophets, Prieſts, and Kings;
Diſtinctions are but meer fantaſtic things:
All Government does from the people flow;
Whom they make Prieſts or Kings, are truly ſo.
Theſe are the doctrines in the Rights I teach,
No matter what the Prophets or Apoſtles preach."
[128]
S. "Moſes indeed (a wonder-working Jew)
Tells you, how Empire firſt in Eden grew;
That Adam was the firſt undoubted King,
And from his loins all future Monarchs ſpring:
All [...]egal power on earth with him began,
And through his veins to his firſt-born it ran:
God made the Monarch when he made the Man.
The Patriarchs hence their right imperial claim'd;
And the firſt ſon the ſucceſſor was nam'd:
The People never gave Dominion birth;
As well might crowns like muſhrooms ſpring from earth:
Notions, I own, that have been reckon'd good,
But wondrous old—I think—before the flood.
Dry; hard to ſwallow: ſome of narrower throats
Doubt, or deny, and think this Rabbi doats;
So comment all the text away with notes.
Next, He of Nazareth, the Prophet, came
(To me and thee * an ever hateful name):
The ſcheme Moſaic he in pieces broke;
But gall'd the nations with an equal yoke:
Of Monarchs and their crowns he little ſaid;
(Only, To Caeſar, Caeſar's things be paid).
The laws of earthly realms he let alone;
But, in exchange, beneath his prieſts ye groan:
And if from Heaven (as they pretend) he came;
Their Prieſthood then from Heaven they juſtly claim:
But that a little ſhocks my faith." D. "Much mine:"
S. "The Chriſtian Prieſthood then is not divine.
[129]If Jeſus then was not the Son of God,
Then an impoſtor;" D. "Which I think:" S. Allow'd!"
D. "And juſtly on the croſs th' impoſtor bow'd.
Ye coming ages, for th' impoſtor's ſake,
Of all his tribe the like examples make;
With equal pain and ſhame his followers vex,
With endleſs plagues that progeny perplex;
Let them from earth with utmoſt fury fly,
To ſeek their weights of glory in the ſky*!"
S. "He firſt, then they, thoſe ſlaviſh doctrines taught,
That no revenge muſt on your foes be wrought;
That crowns celeſtial were to cowards given;
And only ſlaves on earth were lords in heaven:
Doctrines, too low for thy erected race!
Reject them then, ſublimer far embrace;
Submiſſion does thy manly tribe diſgrace.
Do thou thy native fierceneſs bravely ſhow;
Rather than pardon, give the foremoſt blow:
Forgiveneſs is the coward's want of ſkill,
Or ſtrength to execute his angry will;
Or elſe revenge delayed, till time mature
Succeed the vengeance, make reſentment ſure.
Thou on thy foes with ſpeed and vigour fly;
And every bold offender, let him die:
Stay not till he thy pardon may implore;
Or, if he does, let that incenſe thee more;
[130]It ſhews a coward; and a coward's blow
Deſerves the utmoſt that thy rage can do:
Thy humour be thy law, thy luſt thy guide;
Nor ſubject be to any thing beſide,
But obſtinacy, vanity, and pride.
In truths like theſe the hardy Britons train;
Thus ſubjects wiſe their liberties maintain;
And thus Rebellion will ſecurely reign.
Subjects like theſe their trembling rulers awe;
Thus Kings receive, the People give, the law.
If any ſaucy Monarch dare oppoſe,
Or pedant Biſhop, let them feel their foes;
To death or exile quick the traitors drive;
No Rebels to the People ought to live.
Fierce Cromwell, with the many on his ſide,
Thus check'd the Prelate's and the Monarch's pride."
D. "And thus it is, True Oracle of Lyes!
That, in the Rights, the Britons I adviſe:
But they remain reluctant to my will;
Their beer and beef confirm them blockheads ſtill.
Would they but publicly my doctrines own,
The Monarchy had long ere this been down:
Epiſcopacy of that name bereft;
And that is almoſt all it now has left.
If common fortune does my toils attend,
My Second Rights that order quite ſhall end.
Inſtruct me, mighty Leader! to oppoſe
Prieſts, Biſhops, Kings, Britannia's only foes.
[131]
S. "Tindal!—Your Rights I like in general well;
Yet, in ſome parts, you've broke the laws of Hell.
You ſpeak too plain, and lay your cloak aſide:
Forbear; be cover'd—I chaſtiſe ſuch pride.
Wiſe fowlers do not thus themſelves proclaim,
But wind with caution round the watchful game:
Had I, like you, the Hypocrite diſown'd,
Adam had ne'er beneath my ſceptre groan'd.
Bravoes in other countries never cry
The men in public they intend ſhall die.
Would'ſt thou? Civilian! depths Satanic know;
Then to theſe rules with deep attention bow.
Let Moderation all your counſels guide;
Nothing does Vice ſo well as Virtue hide:
True ſterling and infernal Treaſon's—this;
Formal begin, 'All hail!—and then the kiſs:
With caution moſt deliberate proceed;
The ſwifteſt is not ſtill the ſureſt ſpeed:
To brutal raſhneſs few great deeds we owe;
Heroes in miſchief civil are, and ſlow:
A gentle anſwer all objection ſolves;
Sheeps cloathing is the proper garb for wolves.
In vain againſt Religion war you wage,
Without the Serpent's cunning, with his rage."
D. "Accept my thanks, Hades, all-ſapient Sire!
Who can enough thy politicks admire?
Proſtrate I kneel, and for thy pardon ſue;
For Moderation all my vows renew:
Then bow thine ear, and liſten to my cries;
And make me, like thyſelf, both brave and wiſe!"
[132]
S. "Thus your Stage-poets too are all to blame,
Thoſe puppies ever over-run theie game;
Over all bounds, all precipices leap;
Nor mind the laſhings of the Hunter's whip:
Bawdy, Prophaneneſs, Blaſphemy, they join;
Think only Wit with Wickedneſs divine;
Turn every thing that's ſacred to a jeſt;
In Chriſtian countries, never ſpare a Prieſt.
For faults like theſe, fierce Jerry Collier* roſe;
Briſkly he charg'd and routed all his foes:
E'en the train-band reformers could engage
Such ſots, with glory equal to their rage.
For faults like theſe, from France the dancers come,
And eunuch ſinging-choiriſters from Rome:
At vaſt expence thoſe epicures are fed;
The Poets, Players, juſtly want their bread.
'Tis for theſe reaſons Theatres decay,
Prophaneneſs ſinks, and Blaſphemy gives way:
Bawdy no more with pleaſure can be heard;
The modeſt civil ſinners all are ſcar'd.
For this, one houſe a timber-yard is turn'd;
Oh! had you heard—how wanton D—t† mourn'd!
The pillars too of all the others bend;
I ſee their pageant Deities deſcend;
And all in real flames their painted glories end.
The mightieſt Emperors, moſt gracious Queens,
Dwindle to pimps and whores behind the ſcenes.
With prudence then divert th' impending blow,
Some moderation in your madneſs ſhow:
[133]For lewdneſs, for diſcreeter lewdneſs, call;
For modeſt vice;—or elſe the ſtage will fall.
Your naſty nakedneſs to rage provokes;
On quickly with your vizards—all, and cloaks.
Plays are like poiſons; if they're temper'd right,
They ne'er offend the taſte, the ſmell, or ſight:
Bawdy bare-fac'd muſt never be allow'd;
Ev'n whores are maſk'd, and modeſt in a croud.
No Blaſphemies be bellow'd from the ſtage,
Nor any public wars with Virtue wage:
In private be as wicked as ye will;
Do not abroad my myſteries reveal!—
Rakes I abhor: all ſots ſo loudly lewd;
Hell bluſhes at the giddy ſenſeleſs brood:
Whate'er you think (and pray ſuch coxcombs tell).
We have ſome modeſty at leaſt—in Hell:
Not ſuch as is in ſilly virgins ſeen;
Grave, ſolid, ſober, ſerious Vice, I mean.
Be then theſe rules obſerv'd alike by all;
And Vice again ſhall riſe, and Virtue fall:
The realms of Darkneſs every day increaſe;
Lewdneſs grow great, as Modeſty grows leſs:
Atheiſts, with Poets, Players, (wretches vile
By the Saints call'd) ſhall govern Albion's iſle;
And Satan on you all propitious ſmile."
D. "If Satan ſmiles, what mortal ſhall withſtand
Th' unerring thunder of my vengeful hand?
Liſten, ye Britons, then, to Tindal's lore;
I'll ſoon relieve you from tyrannie power:
[134]Nor Prieſts nor Monarchs ſhall in fetters bind
Much longer any free-born Briton's mind:
I'll teach you, every bullet-headed wight,
To drink all day, and fornicate all night."
S. "Well ſtarted, Caſuiſt!—'tis a Briton's right.
Whoring's a very little venial ſin,
If Phyllis be but wholeſome, cheap, and clean;
And drunkenneſs is phyſically good,
To cure the ſpleen, and circulate the blood.
Pray, when you take a new Satanic text,
Inſtruct your honeſt blockhead Britons next
How by the Goſpel they're all plagued and vext:
Show them, that 'tis beneath a Briton's care,
To ſpend his time in ſacraments and prayer."
D. "It ſhall be done, moſt Anti-chriſtian Spright!
And the Three Creeds, my Liege, can ne'er be right:
Three Creeds? but One my faith does puzzle quite.
Suppoſe that NOT were by the Commons freed
Out of the Decalogue, and plac'd i' th' Creed:
That little trifling particle—that NOT!
(Or if expung'd—'twould be no mighty blot.)"
S. "Compendious thought! well worthy to ſuc⯑ceed."
D. "Thus Faith and Practice both at once would bleed:"
S. "That would be Liberty and Property indeed!"
D. "Oh, would but time that happy ſcene dicloſe,
In which no Senator ſhould dare oppoſe
That vote; but all unanimouſly join,
Me and themſelves to free from laws divine!
[135]Then uncontrol'd I'd humour every luſt,
And only be to wine and women juſt."
S. "Nothing ſhould bind a Britiſh Parliament,
Without each individual's conſent.
The Horeb contract never yet was laid
Before the Houſes; nor has once been read,
Or paſs'd in either.—Wherefore then obey'd?"
D. "Was Horeb's rigid contract made for me?
Did I the thunders hear, or lightnings ſee?"
S. "Then, not conſenting, you are plainly free.
All contracts, where one party 's over-aw'd,
The Civil Law, I think, deems null and void.
No freedom with thoſe Ten Commandments laſts,
That Horeb contract all your freedom blaſts:
Diſſolve that contract, try your utmoſt ſtrength,
You may, perhaps, find friends enough at length:
Do thou, my Canoniſt! prepare a bill;
The houſe can any Covenants repeal:
And who ſhall dare oppoſe a Senate's will?
But, I'm afraid, their boggling at the Teſt
Gives us but ſlender ground to hope the beſt.
Had they that Bill but generouſly paſs'd,
With better grace you might have urg'd this laſt."
D. "Your Majeſty makes merry with your ſlave."
S. "Doſt thou then reckon thine own projects grave,
Thy projects in the Rights? thou partial knave!
Well, to be ſerious—nay, nay, why that look?—
There's very wretched reaſoning in thy book:
But, if you pleaſe the nation with ſuch ſtuff;
And make the Clergy odious—'tis enough.
[136]Thy knowledge of the Scripture too is ſmall,
But that, and logic in a Lawyer, ſhall
Not be by me inſiſted on at all.
Could you no better than you reaſon rail;
Tindal, 'twixt friends, the Parſons would prevail."
D. "I 've done my beſt: what mortal can do more?
I'm ſure there's malice in my book, good ſtore."
S. "Yes, pretty well—Doctor of Civil Law!
At laſt—I heed not logic of a ſtraw:
Though leſs than in thy Rights, I own, I never ſaw.
—No matter—Malice, Slander, does as well:
Theſe are our conſtant arguments in Hell.
Be ſure, then, in your Second Rights, take care,
That curs'd Eſtabliſh'd Clergy not to ſpare:
Load them with Malice, Slander, every where.
Stab them, my Ruffian! ſtab them through with lyes:
Till at thy feet that order, gaſping, dies.
Then I myſelf will lead thee down to Hell,
There, in ſupremeſt pomp, with me to dwell.
The Furies patient ſhall thy coming wait,
In magic circles, to attend thy State:
Ten thouſand Infidels before thee fly,
To clear thy paſſage through the crouded ſky.
At thy approach, Rebellion ſtern will riſe,
All ſmear'd with blood and gaſh'd: ('To arms! ſhe cries,
Hurling a ſpear tow'rds Heaven) ſince Tindal's ours,
Let's re-attack, ye Fiends, th' aetherial towers.'
Democracy, (a noiſy patriot fool.
The rabble's idol, and the ſtateſman's tool,)
After her ſaucy and familiar way,
' Doctor, I'm yours; yours heartily! ſhe 'll ſay.
[137]How fares on earth the Jus Divinum? dead!
Do the Patricii the Plebes dread?
Almoſt—then fling this Mirre at that Monarch's head.'
Sedition loud, to Tumult mad, ſhall bawl;
And welcome thee to Satan's gloomy hall:
Slander with all her ſnakes ſhall hiſs thy praiſe;
Treaſon leave all her plots, on thee to gaze:
Lewdneſs with Deiſm ſhall record thy name,
And Envy ſhall not envy thee thy fame.
That wither'd, crooked witch, old Hereſy,
Will wanton, frantic grow, at ſight of thee;
Catch thee with luſt exſtatic in her arms,
Smiling with youth renew'd, and virgin charms;
Then eager preſs her burning lips to thine,
And round thy neck, like a fond miſtreſs, twine.
Vain-glory (mighty Builder!) laſt ſhall raiſe,
At my expence, this fabrick to thy praiſe:
Three hundred cubits from the ſolid ground,
(And all emboſs'd with ſwelling ſculpture round)
The column riſes juſt; with ſtrength and beauty crown'd.
High on its flaming top ſhall Tindal ſtand;
The Chriſtian Rights wide open in thy hand:
There thou ſhalt teach the damn'd to curſe, revile
God's Prieſthood and his Sons: the damn'd, the while,
Forgetting all their pains, ſhall liſtening ſmile.
Sullen Enthuſiaſm, tearing of his hair,
Diſtorted, foaming, trembling, in deſpair,
Low at the pillar's baſe half-rais'd ſhall lie,
Then, ſtaring upwards, with a ſhriek ſhall cry,
' Are Atheiſts lifted up in Hell ſo high!'
[138]On thy right-hand proud Blaſphemy, ſhall ſit,
And on thy left, Prophaneneſs: ſcurrile Wit,
Impudence, Sophiſtry, (Hell's rabble rout)
With Error, Folly, Vanity, and Doubt,
' Huzza—the Rights—the Chriſtian Rights!' ſhall ſhout.
The Scriptures, all to ſhivers torn, ſhall fly
Like driving ſnows along a ſtormy ſky;
The ſpoils of Chriſtian Churches ſhall beſtrow
With ſweet confuſion all the plain below.
Rage unreclaim'd ſhall round the ruins ride,
With ſtupid Irreligion by his ſide:
(On earth by Flattery both for Patriots prais'd,
In Hell by me to ſeats infernal rais'd:)
Theſe ſhall the ſceptre, robes, and diadem, bring,
While I anoint thee—Miſchief's Monkey King.
Such are the honours I prepare for thoſe,
Who are, like thee, to Prieſts immortal foes.
Was ever land by ſilly Prieſts miſled?
Did ever ancient heroes Parſons dread?
Ye drowzy Senators, from ſleep ariſe!
Ye public Patriots, when will ye be wiſe?
Would ye a true dependent Prieſthood have,
Reſume the Tithes your dull Forefathers gave.
Let them at altars for ſubſcriptions wait,
Or arbitrary penſions of the State:
Then, if they dare but what you'd have them teach,
Let them, like Paul, at their own charges preach:
While they their Biſhopricks and Deanries keep,
Theſe Wolves will never tremble at you Sheep."
D. "That little text, my Liege! theſe notions nicks;
' Jefurun, till he fattens, never kicks'."
[139]
S. "The Convocation, do whate'er I can,
Still thwarts the meaſures of my dark Divan."
D. "Might Slaves with Emperors in counſel ſhare,
That Senate in ten thouſand pieces tear.
In that Britannia's Church collected ſtands
A giant with two heads, three hundred hands.
Bodies united terrible appear;
Which ſeparate no ſingle man would fear:
Each coward ſingly I myſelf could beat;
But dare not all of them together meet.
So wary hawks do fearful pigeons fly,
As they in ſquadrons wing the liquid ſky:
When join'd in troops, the foe they wiſely ſhun;
And yet they'll kill a thouſand, one by one."
S. "Now I commend thee, Matthew! wiſely ſaid;
And wiſely with ſuch enemies proceed:
Do thou inſtruct the Commons, and the Law,
With praemunires ſtill thoſe Prieſts to awe;
Then they'll ſubmit: thus Henry gain'd his cauſe:
All ſhepherds tremble at a lion's paws:
For though to others they of ſuffering talk,
In their own caſe they ſtill that doctrine baulk.
And, after all, if thoſe Two Houſes meet—"
—D. "The Devil"—S. "And the Doctor"—D. "Both are bit:
But for their gracious Empreſs—there's the taſk—"
S. "Which will my utmoſt care and caution aſk.
I own, ſhe's arm'd with piety and prayers;
Such goodneſs frequently eludes my ſnares.
Firm and unſhaken, hitherto ſhe 'as ſtood:
Nor heeds the noiſe and workings of the flood.
[140]But Hope, you mortals ſay, with life does laſt;
Though beaten ſtill, ſtill I can riſe as faſt.
You cannot but remember gentle Eve;
To me—the wheedling of the ladies leave.
Old Clarendon does well my friends diſgrace:
What then? my friends at court have met with place.
Patient I'll wait—obſerve the rolling ſky;
Then—catch the lucky minutes as they fly.
Once, with ſucceſs, I hunted mighty game;
That day ſhall ſtand conſign'd to deathleſs fame,
Earth trembled as my Beagles roaring onward came.
Remorſeleſs round the Royal Hart they ſtood,
And plung'd their dewlaps in his ſacred blood.
The powers infernal, jealous, wonder'd why,
'Twas given to mortal men to ſin ſo high.
Thus fell old pious Charles, in ſufferings brave;
The Rebels rul'd, their Monarch was their ſlave:
His clemency did firſt his ſtate enthrall;
And by his goodneſs 'twas I wrought his fall.
I fill'd his Senates with my ſaucy brood,
Erect with ſin and impudence they ſtood;
The Subject hector'd, and the Monarch bow'd.
For that, perhaps, above he is renown'd;
But, ſince on earth a traitor's death he found,
I'm ſatisfy'd." D. "So may all kings be crown'd!"
S. "Oh, Anna! when will thy devotion ceaſe?
When will thy ſtreams of charity decreaſe,
That better hopes may to our proſpect riſe?
But thou 'rt confirm'd the Darling of the Skies.
Why art thou thus too generouſly great,
To ſink thy own, to raiſe the Clergy's ſtate;
[141]What bleſſings ſtill attend thy glorious reign!
Oh, Anna! moſt perverſely pious Queen!
Heaven ſmiles to ſee thee rule thy realms below;
And ſovereign power with ſovereign goodneſs ſhow:
The royal Grandſire's worth, with better fate,
Shall make thee through all ages truly great."
D. "All mighty ills by Fates adverſe are croſs'd;
Thus we not works, but wiſhes only boaſt:
Brave Ravillac* ſhould elſe but ſecond ſtand
To me, in Hell's aſſaſſinating band
Were it not otherwiſe decreed above;
The Guardian Angels ſtill the ſtrongeſt prove.
But, Sir,—thoſe fooliſh Univerſities!
Are they too guarded by Supreme Decrees?
Oh, would ſome other Henry but ariſe!
Diſſolve their colleges, their buildings burn.
And all their books to flames and aſhes turn;
Sell all their lands, to make the nobles drunk,
That every commoner, as olim nunc,
Might at the Church's charges keep—a punk.
Then thou, Bridgewater†! ſhould'ſt in Europe claim
Oxford's immortal venerable name:
Cambridge to Taunton† all her towers reſign;"
S. "And both in mighty Tindal's praiſes join."
D. "Thus Piety and Learning ſhould decay,
And Ignorance and Atheiſm bear the ſway."
S. "Exquiſite fiend! Satan's undoubted ſeed!
How does thy likeneſs juſtify thy breed!
[142]What pity 'tis, it ever ſhould be ſaid,
That thou didſt eat a paltry prelate's bread!
For ſhame! for ſhame! thy Fellowſhip reſign!
Nor longer with thoſe Chriſtian coxcombs dine;
Forſake thy pedant cell, to courts repair,
Triumphant Atheiſm thou wilt meet with there:
Thy moſt degenerate friends the courtiers tell,
We have not ſuch ingratitude in Hell:
To let a youth like thee regardleſs paſs,
Nor mind the glories of thy glittering face.
Merit like thine to meet with no reward!
Ye guardian powers of Vice, 'tis wondrous hard!
King David's admonition here is juſt;
' Not princes, nor in any courtiers truſt!'
But hold—my time is almoſt quite expir'd;
Beſides, below my preſence is requir'd.
—Rot theſe Republicans! I am betray'd;
That Tutchin has an inſurrection made
With his depoſing doctrines; but, ere day,
I'll teach that dog Hell's Monarch to obey.
Do thou, then, quickly theſe few orders take,
And I thy room, at preſent, will forſake:
" To all thy real and admiring friends,
" Satan, by thee, his hearty love commends.
" To Toland, Collins, Stephens, Aſgill, tell,
" Sir Robert Howard greets them kindly well;
" And hopes to ſee them ſhortly all—in Hell.
" From me the Phoenix Editors ſalute;
" And I've a letter here for Squire Shute*.
[143]" John Dunton, with his brethren of the bays,
" His love to Garth, blaſpheming Garth, conveys:
" And thanks him for his Pagan funeral praiſe.
" Hopes Wycherley, whoſe Chriſtian name is Will,
" Continues very witty, wicked ſtill:
" The like of Congreve, Vanbrook*, and the reſt,
" Who ſwear, that all Religion is a Jeſt.
" Tell Doctor Burnet†, Theory I mean,
" His Eve and Serpent have our Tatler been:
" Lucian the maſter for that dialogue thanks;
" The Snake and Lady, faith, play—pretty pranks.
" Hugh Peters ſomething ſaid, a canting ſot,
" His 'Meaſures of Submiſſion' were obey'd
" Exactly by Wat Tyler and Jack Cade.
" George Fox to Lacy had ſome warnings groan'd,
" But his ſtiff ſcribe was no where to be found:
" The fool himſelf can neither write nor read;
" The motions of his chops I did not heed.
" Old Arius cry'd, O Lucifer! I charge ye,
" Thank Whiſton for his Moneo to the clergy.
" Oliver's porter ſtopp'd me at Hell's door,
" And in my ears this prophecy did roar:
" A certain circumflex enthuſiaſt Knight,
" Of Britain-Great, a very little wight,
[144]" Sir Richard Bulkeley* call'd; bid him but wait,
" When Emes† does riſe, his worſhip will be ſtreight.
" Have ye not here on earth, pray, Hell-whelps too?"
D. "Your Highneſs means, if I conjecture true,
Our Blockhead Obſervator and Review."
S. "The ſame—They're lazy curs, I'll have them hang'd;
Or elſe, 'till all their bones are broken, bang'd.
In half this time Pryn ruin'd Church and State."
D. "All Scoundrels cannot grow, by ſcribbling, great."
S. "If they can nothing more to purpoſe ſay,
I'll burn their papers, and withdraw their pay.
Pr'ythee reach hither, Matt! the Bibliotheque
Choiſy, where th' author of your works does ſpeak:
Becauſe Socinus has a wager laid,
There's ſomething greatly to your honour ſaid:
And that our ſcribbling Swiſs, Le Clerc, will ſay
As much—of any Devil in Hell—for pay.
In winter, when at Conſtantine's you meet,
Pray tell that club, I kiſs their cloven feet.
And at the Calve's-head-feaſt when next you dine,
Accept theſe flaſks of Acherontic wine:
The toaſt be—honeſt Noll's good health and mine.
I'll have a brace of Dukes within this ſe'n night,
Spite of the doctrine of that Doctor Kennet.
From me, as from a friend, his Reverence tell,
We 've Men of Senſe and Quality in Hell.
'Tis well remember'd—Take one parting kiſs;
Thine elder brother Judas ſent thee this."
Thus having ſaid, he in a miſt withdrew,
And in a moment up the chimney flew.
VERTUMNUS, AN EPISTLE;
TO MR. JACOB BOBART*, 1713.
[145]THANK heaven! at laſt our wars are o'er;
We're very wiſe, and very poor:
All our campaigns at once are done:
We 've ended where we juſt begun,
In perfect peace: long may it laſt,
And pay for all the taxes paſt!
Refill th' Exchequer, chace our fears,
And dry up all the ladies' tears,
[146]For huſbands, ſons, and lovers loſt;
In duels ſome, in battles moſt.
Riſe, riſe, ye Britons, thankful riſe!
Extol your Empreſs to the ſkies;
Crown her with laurels ever green,
With olives fair inwove between:
Her courage drew the conquering ſword;
Her wiſdom baniſh'd peace reſtor'd.
Long, wondrous Anna! may'ſt thou live,
T' enjoy thoſe bleſſings which you give:
To guard thy friends, confound thy foes,
And fix the Church and State's repoſe:
And late, for peace to Britain given,
Be crown'd with endleſs peace in Heaven!
Farewell, ye camps and ſieges dire,
With all your cannons, ſmoke, and fire!
Ye victories and trophies vain,
A certain loſs, uncertain gain!
Ye ſquadrons and battalions brave,
Who firſt your foes, then friends enſlave!
Ye gallant leaders, who delight,
For glory leſs, than gold, to fight!
Ye public patriots, plac'd on high,
To ſell thoſe votes, which firſt ye buy!
And bards, whoſe mercenary lays
Such heroes and ſuch ſtateſmen praiſe!
An honeſt Muſe alike diſclaims
Such authors, and their impious themes;
And, with a more becoming grace,
Her ſong impartial does addreſs,
[147]Bobart, to thee, the Muſes' friend:
Bobart, the promis'd ſong attend.
And where no difference appears
Betwixt the ſubject, and the verſe;
But he who praiſes, and is prais'd,
On equal eminence are rais'd:
No flatteries thence are to be fear'd,
Nor hopes encourag'd of reward.
Such is our caſe:—I honour thee
For ſomething, thou for ſomething me;
Sincerely both: our thoughts the ſame,
Of courtiers, fortune, and of fame;
Alike (in pity to mankind)
To peace, to heavenly peace, inclin'd.
To peace, my friend! that thou and I,
No colours fluttering in the ſky;
With frightful faces, glittering arms
(Bellona's military charms);
May undiſturb'd and ſtudious rove,
O'er every lawn, through every grove.
See various Nature, in each field,
Her flowers and fruits luxuriant yield;
While the bright God of day preſides
Aloft, and all the ſeaſons guides;
Jocund to run his annual courſe,
With never-tiring ſpeed and force.
With golden hair the God of day
Wings from the Eaſt his fervid way;
The ſtars, applauding as he flies,
To ſee him ſtretch along the ſkies;
[148]To ſee him roll his fiery race
Athwart the vaſt aethereal ſpace;
Unbind the froſts, diſſolve the ſnows,
As round the radiant Belt he goes.
Mild Zephyrus the Graces leads,
To revel o'er the fragant meads;
The mountains ſhout, the foreſts ring,
While Flora decks the purple Spring:
The Hours (attendant all the while)
On Zephyrus and Flora ſmile:
The valleys laugh, the rivers play,
In honour of the God of day.
The birds, that fan the liquid air,
To tune their little throats prepare;
The joyous birds of every ſhade,
For loitering, love, and muſic made,
Their voices raiſe on every ſpray,
To welcome-in the God of day.
The vegetable Earth beneath
Bids all her plants his praiſes breathe:
Clouds of freſh fragrance upwards riſe,
To chear his progreſs through the ſkies;
And Heaven, and Earth, and Air unite,
To celebrate his heat and light:
That light and heat which on our world
From his gay chariot-wheels is hurl'd;
And every morn does roſy riſe,
To glad our dampy, darkſome ſkies:
Which once deſerted by his light
Would languiſh in eternal night.
[149]
But Gardening were of all a toil,
That on our hopes the leaſt would ſmile;
Should the kind God of day forbear
T' exhale the rains, foment the air:
Or, in an angry mood, decline
With his prolific beams to ſhine.
Ev'n thou! (though that's thy meaneſt praiſe)
Nor fruits nor flowers could'ſt hope to raiſe;
(Howe'er thou may'ſt in order place,
Of both, the latter, earlier race;
In glaſſes or in ſheds confin'd,
To ſhield them from the wintery wind;
Or, in the Spring, with ſkilful care,
Place them his influence beſt to ſhare):
Did not the ſun, their genial ſire,
The vegetative ſoul inſpire:
Inſtruct the ſenſeleſs aukward root,
And teach the fibres how to ſhoot:
Command the taper ſtalk to rear
His flowering head, to grace the year;
To ſhed ambroſial odours round,
And paint, with choiceſt dyes, the ground.
Thou, next to him, art truly great:
On earth his mighty delegate:
The Vegetable world to guide,
And o'er all Botany preſide:
To ſee that every dewy morn
Succeſſive plants the earth adorn:
That flowers through every month be found,
Conſtant to keep their gaudy round:
[150]That flowers, in ſpite of froſt and ſnow,
Throughout our year, perpetual blow:
That trees, in ſpite of winds, are ſeen
Array'd in everlaſting green.
Nor with a care beneath thy ſkill
Doſt thou that vaſt employment fill.
Hail, Horticulture's ſapient King!
Receive the homage that we bring:
While at thy feet, with reverence low,
All Botaniſts and Floriſts bow;
Their knowledge, practice, all reſign,
Short, infinitely ſhort, of thine.
For thou 'rt not ſatisfied to know
The plants that in three nations blow
(Their names, their ſeaſons, native place,
Their culture, qualities, and race);
Or Europe's more extended plains;
Sylva [...]us, Flora's wide domains:
Whate'er in Africk, Aſia, ſhoots
From ſeeds, from layers, grafts, or roots;
At both the Indies, both the Poles,
Whate er the ſea or ocean rolls;
Of the botanic, herbal kind,
Lies open to thy ſearching mind.
Nobleſt ambition of thy ſoul!
Which limits but in vain control.
Let others, meanly ſatisfy'd
With partial knowledge, ſooth their pride:
While thou, with thy prodigious ſtore,
But ſhew'ſt thy modeſty the more.
[151]
Thou venerable Patriarch wiſe,
Inſtruct us in thy myſteries:
From thee the Gods no knowledge hide,
No knowledge have to thee deny'd:
The rural Gods of hills or plains,
Where Faunus, or Favonia reigns.
Then tell us, as thou beſt doſt know,
Where perfect happineſs does grow.
What herbs or bodies will ſuſtain
Secure from ſickneſs, and from pain:
What plants protect us from the rage
Of blighting Time, or blaſting Age;
Which ſhrubs, of all the flowery field,
Moſt aromatic odours yield.
Shew us the trees by Nature ſpread,
To form the cooleſt noon-tide ſhade;
When our firſt anceſtors were ſeen,
Out-ſtretch'd upon the graſſy green:
Nor any food or covering ſought,
But what from trees and woods they got:
Who, after various ages ſpent
In eaſe, abundance, and content,
Knew not what wars, or ſickneſs meant;
But, chearful, when the Fates requir'd,
Quick to th' Elyſian fields retir'd.
Recount the precepts they obſerv'd;
How from their rules they never ſwerv'd:
Such as Alcinous of old
To his beloved Phaeaceans told;
Or thoſe Apollo firſt did teach
His ſon, the Epidaurian * leech.
[152]
Long ere the Romans us'd to dine
Beneath their planes manur'd with wine;
On Tyrian couches, thoughtleſs lay,
And drank, and laugh'd, and kiſs'd away
Each fultry, circling, Summer's day:
On poliſh'd ivory beds reclin'd,
Flung care and ſorrow to the wind:
And, ſcorning Nature's temperate rules,
Like madmen liv'd, and dy'd like fools:
Teach us, thou learn'd judicious ſage,
The manners of a wiſer age!
To thee was given by Jove to keep
Thoſe grottoes where the Muſes ſleep:
To plant their foreſts where they ſing,
Faſt by the cool Caſtalian ſpring:
With myrtles their pavilions raiſe;
Soft, intermix'd with Delian bays:
And when, they wake at earlieſt day,
To ſtrew with ſweeteſt flowers their way.
Tranſcendent honour! here below,
The Muſes and their haunts to know!
Anna! look down on Iſis' towers;
Be gracious to the Muſes' bowers:
And, now thy toils of war are done;
Anna! protect Apollo's throne:
'Twas he the dart unerring threw;
Python the ſnaky monſter ſtew.
The Muſes' bowers, by all admir'd,
But thoſe Fanatic rage has fir'd,
Or Atheiſt fools, who freedom boaſt,
Themſelves to ſlavery fetter'd moſt.
[153]Stern Mars may thunder, Momus rail;
But Wiſdom's goodneſs will prevail.
On Iſis' banks, retirement ſweet!
Tritonian Pallas holds her ſeat.
Minerva's gardens are thy care;
Bobart! the Virgin-power revere:
Thy hoary head with vervain bound,
The myſtic grove thrice compaſs round;
The waters of luſtration pour,
And thrice the winding walks explore:
Leſt ſome preſumptuous wretch intrude,
With impious ſteel to wound the wood;
Or, with raſh arm, prophanely dare
To ſhake the trees, the leaves to bare,
And violate their ſacred hair;
Or, by worſe ſacrilege betray'd,
The bloſſoms, fruits, or flowers, invade.
Ye ſtrangers! guard your heedleſs feet,
Leſt from the herbs their dews ye beat;
Coſmetic dews (by virgins fair,
Exhal'd in May, with early care)
Will to their eyes freſh luſtre give,
And make their charms for ever live.
Minerva's gardens are thy care;
Jacob, the Goddeſs-maid revere.
All plants which Europe's fields contain,
For health, for pleaſure, or for pain
(From the tall cedar that does riſe
With conic pride, and mates the ſkies;
Down to the humbleſt ſhrub that crawls
On earth, or juſt aſcends our walls),
[154]Her ſquares of Horticulture yield:
By Danby * planted, Bobart till'd.
Delightful ſcientific ſhade,
For knowledge, as for pleaſure, made!
'Twas generous Danby firſt inclos'd
The waſte, and in parterres diſpos'd;
Transform'd the faſhion of the ground,
And fenc'd it with a rocky mound;
The figure diſproportion'd chang'd,
Trees, ſhrubs, and plants, in order rang'd;
Stock'd it with ſuch exceſſive ſtore,
Only the ſpacious earth had more:
[155]At his command the plat was choſe,
And Eden from the chaos roſe:
Confuſion in a moment fled,
And roſes bluſh'd where thiſtles bred.
The Portico, next, high he rear'd,
By builders now ſo much rever'd,
(Which like ſome ruſtic beauty ſhews,
Who all her charms to Nature owes;
Yet fires the heart, and warms the head,
No leſs than thoſe in cities bred;
Our wonder equally does raiſe
With them, as well deſerves our praiſe).
The work of Jones's maſter-hand:
Jones, the Vitruvius of our land;
He drew the plan, the fabrick fix'd,
With equal ſtrength and beauty mix'd:
With perfect ſymmetry deſign'd;
Conſummate, like the donor's mind.
Illuſtrious Danby! ſplendid peer!
Look downward from thy radiant ſphere,
The Muſes' thanks propitious hear.
When, Albion will thy Nobles now,
Such bounty to Minerva ſhew?
With true Patrician renown,
In honour of the Church and Crown
Grace with ſuch gifts the Muſes' town?
There, where old Cherwell gently leads
His humid train along the meads;
And courts fair Iſis, but in vain,
Who laughs at all his amorous pain;
[156]Away the ſcornful Naid turns,
For younger Tamus Iſis burns.
Cloſe to thoſe towers, ſo much renown'd
For ſlavery loſt and freedom found:
Where thy brave ſons, in hapleſs days,
Wainfleet*, to thy immortal praiſe,
Their rights municipal maintain'd
Submiſs, nor their allegiance ſtain'd†:
To loyalty and conſcience true;
Gave Caeſar and Themſelves their due;
Cloſe to thoſe towers, by Jove's command,
The gardens of Minerva ſtand.
There 'tis we ſee thee, Bobart, tend
Thy favourite greens; from harms defend
Exotic plants, which, finely bred
In ſofter ſoils, thy ſuccour need;
[157]Whoſe birth far-diſtant countries claim,
Sent here in honour to thy name.
To thee the ſtrangers trembling fly,
For ſhelter from our barbarous ſky,
And murdering winds, that frequent blow,
With cruel drifts of rain or ſnow;
And dreadful ills, both Fall and Spring,
On alien vegetables bring.
Nor art thou leſs inclin'd to ſave,
Than they thy generous aid to crave:
But, with like pleaſure and reſpect,
Thy darling tribe thou doſt protect:
Leſſen their fears, their hopes dilate,
And ſave their fragrant ſouls from fate:
While they, ſecure in health and peace,
Their covert and their guardian bleſs.
This makes thee rouze at prime of day,
Thy doubtful nurſery to ſurvey:
At noon to count thy flock with care,
And in their joys and ſorrows ſhare
(By each extreme unhappy made,
Of too much ſun, or too much ſhade);
Be ready to attend their cry,
And all their little wants ſupply;
By day ſevereſt ſentry keep,
By night ſit by them as they ſleep;
With endleſs pain, and endleſs pleaſure,
As miſers guard their hoarded treaſure.
Till ſoft Favonius fans the flowers,
Breathes balmy dews, drops fruitful ſhowers;
[158]Favonius ſoft, that ſweetly blows,
The Tulip paints, perfumes the Roſe;
And, with the gentle Twins at play,
Brings in th' Elyſian month of May.
Then boldly from their lodge you bring
Your gueſts, to deck our gloomy Spring.
Thrice happy Foreigners! to find
From Iſlanders ſuch treatment kind:
Not only undiſturb'd to live,
But, by thy goodneſs, Bobart, thrive:
Grow ſtrong, increaſe, their verdure hold,
As dwelling in their native mold.
The reſt, who will no culture know,
But ceaſeleſs curſe our rains and ſnow:
A ſickly, ſullen, fretful race;
The gardener's and his art's diſgrace:
Whom Bobart's ſelf in vain does ſtrive,
With all his ſkill to keep alive:
Which from beneath th' Aequator come,
In India's ſultry foreſts bloom.
Of theſe, at leaſt, ſince nature more
Denies t' encreaſe thy living ſtore,
Their barks, or roots, their flowers, or leaves,
Thy Hortus Siccus* ſtill receives:
In tomes twice ten, that work immenſe!
By thee compil'd at vaſt expence;
With utmoſt diligence amaſs'd,
And ſhall as many ages laſt.
[159]
And now, methinks, my Genius ſees
My friend, amidſt his plants and trees;
Full in the center, there he ſtands,
Encircled with his verdant bands;
Who all around obſequious wait,
To know his pleaſure, and their fate:
His royal orders to receive,
To grow, decay, to die, or live:
That not the proudeſt kings can boaſt
A greater, or more duteous, hoſt.
Thou all that power doſt truly know,
Which they but dream-of here below;
Thy abſolute deſpotic reign
Inviolably doſt maintain,
Nor with ill-govern'd wrath affright
Thy people, or inſult their right:
(But, as thy might in greatneſs grows,
Thy mercy in proportion flows):
Nor they undutiful deny
What 's due to lawful majeſty;
Safe in thy court from all the cares,
Domeſtic treaſons, foreign wars,
Which monarchs and their crowns perplex,
Whom factions ſtill, or favourites vex.
But thou, on thy botanic throne,
Sit'ſt fearleſs, uncontrol'd, alone:
Thy realms in tumults ne'er involv'd,
Or, riſing, are as ſoon diſſolv'd:
Free from the miſchiefs and the ſtrife
Of a falſe friend, or fury wife:
[160]And if a rebel ſlave, or ſon,
Audacious by indulgence grown,
Preſumes above his mates to riſe,
And their dull loyalty deſpiſe;
Thou, awful Sultan! with a look,
Canſt all his arrogance rebuke;
And, darting one imperial frown,
Hurl the bold traitor headlong down:
His brethren, trembling at his fate,
Thy dread commands with reverence wait:
Thy wondrous power and juſtice own,
And learn t' aſſert a tottering throne.
Thus Kings, that were in empire wiſe,
Rebellions early ſhould chaſtiſe;
And give their clemency no time,
Betwixt th' offender and the crime,
With fatal eloquence to plead,
Which does more rebels only breed.
Bobart, to Kings thy rules commend,
For thou to Monarchs art a friend.
Thus, Sovereign Planter! I have paid
The debt, the promis'd preſent made:
Do thou, what 's written for thy ſake
With freedom, with like freedom take:
Take the juſt praiſe thy friend does give,
And in my verſe for ever live!
"—Tibi candida Naïs
" Pallentes violas & ſumma papavera carpens,
" Narciſſum & florem jungit bene olentis anethi."
Virg. Ecl. ii. 46.
ON BLENHEIM HOUSE*.
[161]" Atria longè patent; ſed nec coenantibus uſquam,
" Nec ſomno locus eſt: quàm bene non habites!"
MART.
SEE, Sir, here 's the grand approach,
This way is for his Grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and here 's the clock:
Obſerve the lion and the cock,
The ſpacious court, the colonade,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are ſo well deſign'd,
They never ſmoke in any wind.
This gallery 's contriv'd for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the reſt are rooms of ſtate.
Thanks, Sir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine,
But where d' ye ſleep, or where d' ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a houſe, but not a dwelling.
ON SIR J. VANBRUGH; AN EPIGRAMMATICAL EPITAPH,
UNDER this ſtone, Reader, ſurvey
Dead Sir John Vanbrugh's houſe of clay.
Lie heavy on him, Earth! for he
Laid many heavy loads on thee!
ON A LEARNED DEVICE ON BLENHEIM GREAT GATE: 'A HUGE LION TEARING A COCK IN PIECES.'
[162]OTHERS their wit on paper oft have ſhown:
Vanbrugh hews jeſts and humour out of ſtone;
In emblems deeply ſkill'd, to Britain ſhows
How Gallia bled, and Churchill beat his foes:
See! the fell lion does with vengeance glow,
To fix his talons in the proſtrate foe,
Arm'd with dire wrath, the coward cock to maul;
Where is the builder's joke? go, aſk the Gaul.
Thy genius, Van, was form'd no taſte to hit,
Thy caſtle full as lumpiſh as thy wit.
ON THE SAME.
HAD Marlborough's troops in Gaul no better fought,
Than Van, to grace his fame, in marble wrought,
No more in arms, than he in emblems, ſkill'd,
The Cock had drove the Lion from the field.
ON DR. TADLOW*.
TEN thouſand taylors, with their length of line,
Strove, though in vain, his compaſs to confine;
At length, bewailing their exhauſted ſtore,
Their packthread ceas'd, and parchment was no more.
DR. CONYERS * TO DR. EVANS BURSAR, ON CUTTING DOWN SOME FINE COLLEGE TREES.
[163]INdulgent Nature to each kind beſtows
A ſecret inſtinct to diſcern its foes.
The timorous gooſe avoids the ravenous fox,
Lambs ſly from wolves, and pilots ſhun the rocks;
The rogue a gibbet, as his fate, foreſees,
And bears the like antipathy to trees.
ON THE MONUMENT AT LONDON.
MY maſters and friends, and good people draw near,
For here's a new ſight which you muſt not eſ⯑cape,
A ſtately young fabric that coſt very dear,
Renown'd for ſtreight body and Barbary ſhape;
A Pyramid much higher
Than ſteeple or ſpire,
By which you may gueſs there has been a ſire.
Ah, London, thou 'adſt better have built new burdellos,
T' encourage ſhe-traders and luſty young fellows.
[164]No ſooner the City had loſt their old houſes,
But they ſet-up this Monument wonderful tall;
Though when Chriſtians were burnt, as Fox plainly ſhews us,
There was nothing ſet-up but his book in the hall.
And yet theſe men can't
In their conſcience but grant,
That a Houſe is unworthy compar'd to a Saint.
Ah, London, &c.
The children of men, in erecting old Babel,
To be ſaved from Water did only deſire:
So the City preſumes that this young one is able,
When occaſion ſhall ſerve, to ſecure them from Fire.
Blowing-up when all 's done
Preſerves beſt the Town,
But this Hieroglyphick will ſoon be blown-down.
Ah, London, &c.
[165]Some ſay, it reſembles a glaſs fit for mum,
And think themſelves witty by giving nick-names:
An extinguiſher too it is fancied by ſome,
As ſet up on purpoſe to put out the flames.
But, whatever they ſhall
This workmanſhip call,
Had it never been thought on, 't had been a Save-all.
Ah, London, &c.
DRYDEN'S DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT BURLESQUED*.
[166]ALL things were huſh as when the drawers tread
Softly to ſteal the key from maſter's head:
The dying ſnuffs do twinkle in their urns,
As if the ſocker, not the candle, burns:
The little foot-boy ſnoars upon the ſtair,
And greaſy cook-maid ſweats in elbow-chair.
No coach nor link was heard, &c.
TO THE MEMORY OF A FAIR YOUNG LADY,
WHEN black with ſhades this mourning vault appears,
And the relenting marble flows with tears;
Think then what griefs a parent's boſom wound,
Whoſe fatal loſs enrich'd this hallow'd ground.
[167]
Strow lilies here, and myrtle wreaths prepare,
To crown the fading triumphs of the fair:
Here blooming youth and charming beauties lie,
Till Earth reſigns them to their native ſky;
Like china laid for ages to refine,
And make her body, like the ſoul, divine.
Unmingled may the fragrant-duſt remain,
No common earth the ſacred ſweets prophane;
But let her urn preſerve its virgin ſtore,
Chaſte and unſully'd as ſhe liv'd before!
TO MYRA; WRITTEN IN HER CLEOPATRA.
[168]HERE, lovely Myra, you behold
The wonders Beauty wrought of old:
In every mournful page appears
The nymph's diſdain, and lover's tears.
Whilſt theſe feign'd tragic tales you view,
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's ſlighted flame,
Yet praiſe the fair ungrateful dame.
For youths unknown no longer grieve,
But rather heal the wounds you give;
The ſlaves your eyes have ruin'd mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn.
Oh, hadſt thou liv'd in former days,
Thus Fame had ſung lov'd Myra's praiſe:
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchleſs form and cold diſdain:
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's ſong:
Then Myra's conqueſts had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.
ADVICE TO A LOVER.
FOR many unſucceſsful years,
At Cynthia's feet I lay;
Battering them often with my tears;
I ſigh'd, but durſt not pray.
[164]
No proſtrate wretch, before the ſhrine
Of ſome loved Saint above,
Ere thought his goddeſs more divine,
Or paid more awful love.
Still the diſdainful nymph look'd down
With coy inſulting pride;
Receiv'd my paſſion with a frown,
Or turn'd her head aſide.
Then Cupid whiſper'd in my ear,
" Uſe more prevailing charms;
You modeſt whining fool, draw near,
And claſp her in your arms.
With eager kiſſes tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he briſkly muſt invade,
That would poſſeſs the heart."
With that I ſhook off all the ſlave,
My better fortunes tried;
When Cynthia in a moment gave
What ſhe for years denied.
TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ON HIS ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE,
AS when by labouring ſtars new kingdoms riſe
The mighty maſs in rude confuſion lies,
A court unform'd, diſorder at the bar,
And ev'n in peace the rugged mien of war,
[170]Till ſome wiſe ſtateſman into method draws
The parts, and animates the frame with laws;
Such was the caſe when Chaucer's early toil
Founded the Muſes' empire in our ſoil.
Spenſer improved it with his painful hand,
But loſt a noble Muſe in Fairy-land.
Shakſpeare ſaid all that Nature could impart,
And Jonſon added Induſtry and Art.
Cowley and Denham gain'd immortal praiſe;
And ſome, who merit as they wear the bays,
Search'd all the treaſuries of Greece and Rome,
And brought the precious ſpoils in triumph home.
But ſtill our language had ſome ancient ruſt;
Our flights were often high, but ſeldom juſt.
There wanted one, who licenſe could reſtrain,
Make civil laws o'er barbarous uſage reign:
One worthy in Apollo's chair to ſit,
To hold the ſcales, and give the ſtamp of wit;
In whom ripe judgement and young fancy meet,
And force poetic rage to be diſcreet;
Who grows not nauſeous while he ſtrives to pleaſe,
But marks the ſhelves in the poetic ſeas.
Who knows; and teaches what our clime can bear
And makes the barren ground obey the labourer's care.
[171]
Few could conceive, none the great work could do,
'Tis a freſh province, and reſerv'd for you.
Thoſe talents all are yours, of which but one
Were a fair fortune for a Muſe's ſon.
Wit, reading, judgement, converſation, art,
A head well-balanc'd, and a generous heart.
While inſect rhymes cloud the polluted ſky,
Created to moleſt the world, and die.
Your file does poliſh what your fancy caſt;
Works are long forming which muſt always laſt.
Rough iron ſenſe, and ſtubborn to the mold,
Touch'd by your chemic hand, is turn'd to gold,
A ſecret grace faſhions the flowing lines,
And inſpiration through the labour ſhines.
Writers, in ſpight of all their paint and art,
Betray the darling paſſion of their heart.
No fame you wound, give no chaſte ears offence,
Still true to friendſhip, modeſty, and ſenſe.
So Saints, from Heaven for our example ſent,
Live to their rules, have nothing to repent.
Horace, if living, by exchange of fate,
Would give no laws, but only yours tranſlate.
Hoiſt ſail, bold writers, ſearch, diſcover far,
You have a compaſs for a Polar-ſtar.
Tune Orpheus' harp, and with enchanting rhymes
Soften the ſavage humour of the times.
Tell all thoſe untouch'd wonders which appear'd
When Fate itſelf for our great Monarch fear'd:
Securely through the dangerous foreſt led
By guards of Angels when his own were fled.
[172]Heaven kindly exercis'd his youth with cares
To crown with unmix'd joys his riper years.
Make warlike James's peaceful virtues known,
The ſecond hope and genius of the throne.
Heaven in compaſſion brought him on our ſtage,
To tame the fury of a monſtrous age.
But what bleſt voice ſhall your Maria* ſing?
Or a fit offering to her altars bring?
In joys, in grief, in triumphs, in retreat,
Great always, without aiming to be great.
True Roman majeſty adorns her face;
And every geſture 's form'd by every Grace.
Her beauties are too heavenly and refin'd
For the groſs ſenſes of a vulgar mind.
It is your part (you Poets can divine)
To propheſy how ſhe by Heaven's deſign
Shall give an heir to the great Britiſh line,
Who over all the Weſtern iſles ſhall reign,
Both awe the continent, and rule the main.
It is your place to wait upon her name
Through the vaſt regions of eternal fame.
True Poets ſouls to Princes are ally'd,
And the world's Empire with its Kings divide.
Heaven truſts the preſent time to Monarch's care,
Eternity is the good Writer's ſhare†.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY MARY WITH THE PRINCE OF ORANGE.
[173]LET fond geographers now ſeek no more
Their happy ifles near the ſcorch'd Libyan ſhore;
Nor in th' Atlantic fix thoſe bliſsful plains,
Where too much ſun, and Spaniſh avarice reigns:
Theſe are the climates favoured by Fate,
The happy ſoils, the Iſlands Fortunate;
Their ſea from Europe's tumults them divides,
And joins them to 't in every thing beſides.
Peace with her train hath here her palace choſe,
Riches and pleaſure, learning and repoſe:
Here Charles, like Jove on his Olympus, ſtands,
Balancing empires in his mighty hands;
And over kings by peaceful arts does find
The beſt command, the empire of the mind.
Here gallant Orange, tir'd with warlike ſweat,
Lays down his helmet, and ſeeks ſoft retreat;
Rides o'er the peaceful plains, views rural toil,
Sees no ſlain ploughman here manure the ſoil:
For noiſy camps he hears ſoft muſic's charms,
His doubtful ſleep not broke by ſhort alarms:
The hero thus ſecure, love does ſurprize,
Lying in ambuſh in the Princeſs' eyes.
Love! the frail part in ſouls the moſt divine,
Whom cautious nature, when ſhe does deſign
Impregnable on every part beſide,
Like engineers, leaves this unfortify'd:
[174]On his free ſoul it does ſo faſt advance,
That it's more dreadful than the power of France:
Yet to his enemy he ſcorns to yield,
Like Diomede would meet him in the field.
But fight not, Prince, againſt the Powers divine,
Nor at the golden happy ſhafts repine,
For ten days ſiege, a maiden Helen's thine.
For Charles the good, and the illuſtrious James,
Obſerve their ſouls burning with mutual flames;
Souls which a real ſympathy do prove,
Souls uniſon! anſwering each other's love:
Then to him thus they ſpake—
" Brave Prince! whoſe virtues leave thy years behind,
And merits fortune, greater yet deſign'd
By Heaven! whoſe youth ſuch high exploits did grace,
As prov'd thee of triumphant Naſſau's race,
Nor ſham'ſt our royal blood that 's in thy veins;
Reap here the harveſt of your glorious pains:
As your reward, we to you do reſign
Our eldeſt comfort, to be henceforth thine;
And know, that great Elizabeth, when ſhe
From Spaniſh yoke did ſet your country free,
Gave you not half ſo much—"
Now, painful Hollanders, you who extend
Your voyages unto the Ocean's end,
Whoſe inexhauſted treaſuries do hold
The Eaſtern ſpices, and the Weſtern gold:
Speak, if you ever ſuch a cargo brought,
Ever receiv'd a fleet ſo richly fraught,
As this, which brings your Princeſs to your ſhore?
Confeſs your Bank, compar'd with this, is poor.
[175]Ev'n we (ſo rich) ſhould ſo much beauty fear
T' export, but that ſhe leaves her ſiſter here.
Make a continual day with joyous flames,
Join with your fleets your Texel to our Thames;
With more pomp to receive this gift of Fate,
The fair Palladium of your tottering ſtate.
And you, great Princeſs, fear not the rough main;
He knows his duty to his Sovereign,
His Nereids will all be of your train.
So Venus, when ſhe does to Paphos ride
In her ſmooth ſhell, and cuts the gentle tide,
Her nymphs make a long row of goodly pride.
Now Flanders, more belov'd by Mars than Thrace,
Shall at your ſight reſume her ancient face:
The reſtor'd ſhepherds ſhall pipe forth your praiſe,
Call you their Pales in their rural lays;
The fearleſs ploughmen ſhall you loudly ſing,
And, as to Ceres, their fruit-offerings bring.
The peaceful ſeas ſhall break their digues* no more,
With humble reverence, but ſalute the ſhore:
When you (as Halcyons) breed, all ſtorms ſhall ceaſe,
Europe enjoy an univerſal peace.
ON THE FIRST FIT OF THE GOUT.
WElcome, thou friendly earneſt of fourſcore,
Promiſe of wealth, that haſt alone the power
T' attend the rich, unenvy'd by the poor.
Thou that doſt Aeſculapius deride,
And o'er his gally-pots in triumph ride;
[176]Thou that art us'd t' attend the royal throne,
And under-prop the head that bears the crown;
Thou that doſt oft in privy council wait,
And guard from drowzy ſleep the eyes of ſtate;
Thou that upon the bench art mounted high,
And warn'ſt the judges how they tread awry;
Thou that doſt oft from pamper'd prelate's toe
Emphatically urge the pains below;
Thou that art ever half the city's grace,
And add'ſt to ſolemn noddles ſolemn pace;
Thou that art us'd to ſit on ladies knee,
To feed on jellies, and to drink cold tea;
Thou that art ne'er from velvet ſlipper free;
Whence comes this unſought honour unto me?
Whence does this mighty condeſcenſion flow?
To viſit my poor tabernacle, O—!
As Jove vouchſaf'd on Ida's top, 'tis ſaid,
At poor Philemon's cot to take a bed;
Pleas'd with the poor but hoſpitable feaſt,
Jove bid him aſk, and granted his requeſt;
So do thou grant (for thou 'rt of race divine,
Begot on Venus, by the God of Wine)
My humble ſuit!—And either give me ſtore
To entertain thee, or ne'er ſee me more*.
TO DR. CHETWOOD, WHEN HE HAD THE GOUT.
[177]'TIS no hard matter to divine
How I, who love a wench and wine,
And all the ſtudied luxuries
Should have the gout, and penance do
With foot on chair in velvet ſhoe.
But how a man predicamental-
-ly ſober, and near tranſcendental;
That ne'er was known to be a glutton,
Beyond a penny chop of mutton,
[178]And can't tell what ſixth ſenſe, or whore is,
And Goody is his only Chloris:
How ſuch a one ſhould have inteſtine
Saline, and acid ſo infeſting,
Is ſtrange to me, and as obſcure
A riddle almoſt as the cure.
The learned Sydenham does not doubt
But profound thought will bring the gout,
And that with bum on couch we lie,
Becauſe our reaſon 's ſoar'd too high;
As cannons, when they mount vaſt pitches,
Are tumbled back upon their breaches.
Indeed I 'm apt to think in you
Th' hypotheſis is very true:
For your inveſtigating ſkull
So [...] and [...] full,
That, hunting things through common-places,
Y' are loſt in entelechian mazes:
And as when to an houſe we come
To know if any one 's at home,
We knock; ſo one muſt kick your ſhin,
Ere he can find your ſoul 's within.
Your brains (if any) ſure would work well
Upon the quadrature o' th' circle:
But, if you 'll have your foot no more in
Flannel, you muſt leave off your poring.
Be blithe and merry ſtill as a grig,
Mirth is the beſt Antipodágrig;
The gout's enrag'd by care and ſadneſs,
The beſt cure for 't is the oil of gladneſs.
EPISTLE FROM DR. WALDREN TO DR. CHETWOOD, ON HIS REFUSING TO TAKE THE OATHS.
[179]MOST PROFOUND,
SINCE at a tavern I can't meet you,
In paper embaſſy I greet you;
T' adviſe you not to be ſo wary,
Touching King William and Queen Mary;
That, ſpight of fellowſhip and pupils,
You 'll weigh your conſcience out in ſcruples.
If (as ye Queen's-men muſt believe)
Two negs make one affirmative;
Why i'th name o' th' predicaments,
And all your analytic ſenſe,
Will you deny two affirmations
In their turn too to make negations?
This poſtulatum any pate
Will grant that 's unprejudicate;
Nay th' argument, I will aſſure you,
To ſome appears à fortiori.
Hoc dato et conceſſo, thus I
In baralypton blunderbuſs ye:
He that to two kings takes an oath
Is by the laſt abſolv'd from both;
For, each oath being an affirmation,
Both (as was own'd) make a negation.
Thus, ſcientifically, you ſee,
The more you 're bound, the more you 're free;
As jugglers, when they knit one more,
Undo the knot they ty'd before.
[180]
I admire that your Smiglecian under-
-ſtanding ſhould make ſo ſtrange a blunder,
As roundly to aver ſubjection
Were n't couzen-german to protection:
Nay more, they 're relatives (unleſs ye
Miſtake Tom Hobbes) ſecundum eſſe—
But I'm in hope you 've ſlily taken
The oath elſewhere, to ſave your bacon:
As ſpark, by country-clap half undone,
Takes coach, and ſteals a cure at London.
TO CELIA.
FIE, Celia, 'tis ſilly to ſigh thus in vain,
'Tis ſilly to pity a lover you 've ſlain:
If ſtill you continue your ſlaves to deride,
The pity you feign will be taken for pride.
And ſorrow for ſin can never be true,
In one who loves daily to act it anew:
For if, whilſt you 're fair, you reſolve to be coy,
You may hourly repent, and hourly deſtroy.
Yet none will believe you, proteſt what you will,
That you grieve for the dead, if the living you kill.
Where then are our hopes, when we zealouſly woo,
If you vow to abhor what you conſtantly do?
Then, Celia, be kinder, and tell me my fate,
For the worſt I can ſuffer 's to die by your hate:
If this you deſign, ne'er fancy in vain
By your ſighs and your tears to recall me again;
Nor weep at my grave, for I ſwear, if you do,
As you now laugh at me, I'll then laugh at you.
AN ESSAY UPON DEATH,
[181]TELL me, ſome kind ſpirit, tell
How came Death ſo terrible!
Thou who 'rt already fled in triumph, ſay,
Why the embody'd ſoul is ſo in love with clay?
By what ſtrange magnetiſm woo'd,
She ſo adheres to fleſh and blood,
That Fate muſt force her from her dark abode;
Or ſhe would groveling lie
Th' eternal tenant of mortality.
The wretch, whom a malignant fever fires,
Who at each pore in liquid flames expires,
Cold Death's refreſhing hands to ſhun,
Does to th' unkinder Doctor run,
For juleps, bliſters, and phlebotomy;
The fever's vanquiſh'd, and the man is free:
Yet all this torment only gains
The privilege of being rack'd again with theſe,
Or the ſeverer pains
Of ſome more mercileſs diſeaſe.
Had not the patient better ſought a ſilent tomb,
Th' aſſiſtance which diſtempers give, but where they never come?
Old age, which one would gueſs
Should with a kind of luſt
Lie down and ſleep in duſt,
Does yet the grand fatigue of life careſs;
And gapes for its laſt dregs with inextinguiſhable thirſt:
[182]When the gay fire of the dull eye is loſt
Like cooling metals fix'd by winter's froſt,
When the bald head, depopulate and bare,
Looks ſmooth as a white globe of ice,
Depriv'd of its once-flouriſhing ſpring the hair;
All that remains will not ſuffice
The mighty ſum to count,
To which the numerous years that have gone o'er amount.
Yet ev'n this feeble piece
(Now but the monument of what he was)
Does with his cordials and elixirs treat,
To make his weary pulſes beat
With momentary heat:
Still he abhors the diſmal thought of Death,
Still on his guard he ſtands,
Would fain defend his faultering breath,
Againſt the conqueror's ſtroke, with crutches in his hands.
Strange riddle of a myſtical deſire!
That man ſhould wiſh his vital fire
Might veſtal prove, and ne'er expire;
That he ſhould hope that his eclipſed beams,
Like Arethuſa, under ground, might ſtray,
And never diſembogue their ſhining ſtreams
Into the glorious ocean of inexhauſted day!
Is this the cauſe we ſo much boaſt
Our reaſon as a ſure unerring guide
(No leſs our ſafety than our pride)?
And would it have us in a tempeſt ride,
In which we are for ever loſt?
[183]When one kind ſhipwreck would convey us ſafe
Back to our native coaſt;
A coaſt where we may pleaſures taſte,
High with the guſt of perils paſt;
Where a perpetual ſpring of bliſs,
Blooming in all the rich luxuriances
Of never-fading extaſies,
Satiates, but does not cloy,
The raviſh'd mind;
Where no tears fall but thoſe of joy,
Which, Nilus-like, when they o'er-flow, are kind.
But though with all this pomp of words we prate,
And paint our happy future ſtate;
Yet ſure we think them pageantries of a diſtemper'd head,
Which Fancy's pencil did delineate;
The broken viſions of the living, when they dream they 're dead.
That we 're ſo loth to die,
Proceeds from Infidelity:
For whatſoe'er the ſturdy men of ſenſe,
Thoſe ſculls of Axiom and Philoſophy,
By Reaſon's teleſcope pretend t' evince;
Beyond this world there can no other be
Worſe than this life, when it appears
In all its hurricanes of hopes and fears.
So ſome baulk'd gameſter, that has only one poor ſtake,
And knows not when he ſhall get more to keep in play,
Does his laſt chance with trembling take,
And would the fatal throw delay;
The box once caſt, to him for ever 's caſt away.
[184]Or, if we 're truly ſatisfy'd,
The ſoul is to Divinity ally'd;
That its impenetrable hypoſtaſis
Is of a laſting and ſubſtantial make,
Which Death's arreſt can never ſhake;
But ſprinkled aſhes ſhall ariſe,
Kindled with an exalted energy:
If this our firm perſuaſion be,
Doubtleſs 'tis guilt which makes us groan,
When Fate ſends forth the black decree
Of diſſolution:
As a debauch'd gallant,
Who 's juſt embarking for a foreign land,
Amidſt a rout of creditors does trembling ſtand,
Who for quick payment with wild fury rant;
Th' unhappy wretch can't find a bail,
And thus his journey 's finiſh'd in a gaol;
So Conſcience rallies-up
Of crimes, the worſt of debts, ten thouſand bills,
Embitters with new poiſon Death's ungrateful cup,
And the departing ſoul with horror fills.
Thus wretched mortals lie
Under a bad neceſſity
Of ſtrong deſire to live, and ſtronger fear to die.
Which way ſoe'er they turn,
A forcible dilemma's horn
Wounds them in each hypotheſis:
The Atheiſt would for ever live in this,
If there 's no other world; the Theiſt, if there is.
SONG, MADE FOR A WEDDING.
[185]LET Hymen on this happy day,
The brighteſt which e'er grac'd the year,
Tranſport in every face diſplay,
Since Heaven and Marriage come ſo near.
A matchleſs pair before him bows,
To aſk his ſeals which ever bind;
He cannot but approve the vows
Of two ſo beauteous, two ſo kind.
The Godhead ſmiles: then, then we know
What the effects of marriage prove;
That joys in endleſs rounds ſhall flow,
And life be one long ſcene of love.
EPIGRAM ON A PIGMY'S DEATH.
BESTRIDE an ant a pigmy great and tall
Was thrown, alas! and got a deadly fall;
Under th' unruly beaſt's proud feet he lies,
All torn; but yet with generous ardour cries,
" Behold, baſe, envious world, now, now laugh on:
For thus I fall, and thus fell Phaeton."
MARVEL'S GHOST.
[186]FROM the dark Stygian lake I come,
To acquaint poor England with her doom;
Which, by the Infernal Siſters late,
I copied from the book of Fate:
And though the ſenſe may ſeem diſguis'd,
'Tis in theſe following lines compriz'd:
" When England ſhall forſake the Broom,
And take the Thiſtle in the room;
A wanton fiddler ſhall be led
By fate to ſhame his maſter's bed;
From whence a ſpurious race ſhall grow,
Deſign'd for Britain's overthrow.
Theſe, whilſt they do poſſeſs her throne,
Shall ſerve all intereſts but their own;
And ſhall be, both in peace and war,
Scourges unto themſelves and her.
[187]A brace of exil'd youths, whoſe fates
Shall pull down vengeance on thoſe ſtates
That harbour'd them abroad, muſt come
Well ſkill'd in foreign vices home,
And ſhall, their dark deſigns to hide,
With two conteſting Churches ſide,
Till, with croſs perſecuting zeal,
They have deſtroy'd the Commonweal:
Then inceſt, murder, perjury,
Shall faſhionable virtues be;
And villainies infeſt this iſle,
Shall make the ſon of Claudius ſmile:
No oaths or ſacraments hold good,
But what are ſeal'd with luſt and blood:
Luſt, which cold exile could not tame,
Nor plague nor fire at home reclaim:
For this ſhe ſhall in aſhes mourn,
From Europe's envy turn her ſcorn,
And curſe the day that e'er gave birth
To Cecil, or to Monk, on earth."
But, as I onwards ſtrove to look,
The angry Siſter ſhut the book,
And ſaid, "No more; that fickle State
Shall know no further of her fate;
Her future fortunes muſt be hid
Till her known ills be remedied;
And ſhe to thoſe reſentments come,
That drove the Tarquins out of Rome;
Or ſuch as did in fury turn
Th' Aſſyrian's palace to his urn."
ON THE CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT.
[188]HE that firſt ſaid it, knew the worth of wit,
Lov'd well his glaſs, and as he drank he writ;
Vaſt was his ſoul, and ſparkling was the wine,
Which ſtrangely did inſpire each mighty line.
The watery ſprings of Helicon are themes
Fit for dull freſhmen, and dull doctors dreams;
Not flood of Cam, or well of Ariſtotle,
Yield half the pleaſure of the charming bottle;
Poor ſcribblers then, that bread and water uſe,
The ſlender diet of a Bridewell Muſe,
As eaſily may Water Poets make,
As Coffee Politicians does create
The two grand Whigs of Poetry and State.
When booths on Thames were built, and oxen roaſted,
Poets the ſtrength of Waters might have boaſted;
And might have made their frozen verſe to paſs,
As well as he that put-out Ice for Glaſs:
Though our good Proctor otherwiſe does think,
Our Mother Cambridge kindly bids us drink;
She holds the candle and the ſacred cup,
And, as one waſteth, cries, "Drink t' other up."
'Twas drinking got our anceſtors renown,
And claret firſt that dyed the ſcarlet gown.
As well may Dutchmen without brandy fight,
As Engliſh Poets without Claret write.
Not moderate learning, nor immoderate fees,
Are of themſelves ſufficient for degrees:
Wine and the ſupper muſt the act compleat;
And he does beſt diſpute, who beſt does treat:
[189]'Tis Carnival, and we'll the time enjoy,
This day and next, while wine and wit run high.
—And, in the forty days,
Preachers in vain may bid the Court repent,
But Poets ſure did never write in Lent.
Now, in the name of dulneſs and ſmall-beer,
Ye Northern Wits of fam'd St. John's appear,
That ſcarce taſte wine or wit throughout the year.
Had ſhe, who by the powerful charms of wine
Transform'd Ulyſſes men to gruntling ſwine;
Had ſhe, and you th' experiment tried again,
By contrary effects ye had Poets been.
Next, the pert fops by title dignified,
Wiſe to themſelves, and fools to all beſide,
Whom company nor drinking can refine,
Blockiſh and dull beyond the power of wine;
Who, after the firſt bottle ſtill the ſame,
Can never higher riſe than Anagram,
Or at moſt quibble on their Dowdy's name.
When Whig religious, Trimmer loyal turns,
When Cambridge wives and Barnwell whores turn nuns,
When curate 's rich, and the fat doctor's poor;
When ſcholars tick, and townſmen cheat no more;
When amorous fops leave hunting handſome faces,
When craving beadle begs no more for places;
Hopkins and Sternhold, with their paltry rhymes,
Shall pleaſe us now, and take with future times:
And water-drinkers then ſhall famous grow;
Settle, the Poet to my Lord-mayor's ſhow,
Shall Dryden, Cowley, and our Duke, outgo.
WRITTEN IN A LADY'S WALLER.
[190]THE lovely owner of this book
Does here on her own image look:
Each happy page, each finiſh'd line,
Does with her matchleſs graces ſhine;
And is, with common verſe compar'd,
What ſhe is among Beauty's herd.
The Poet boaſts a lofty thought,
In ſofteſt numbers ſmoothly wrought;
Has all that pleaſes the ſevere,
And all that charms a liſtening ear.
And ſuch the nymph is—bleſt with all
That we can ſweet or noble call:
For never ſure was any mind,
Of all that from Heaven's treaſury came,
Of better make and more refin'd,
Or lodg'd within a fairer frame.
Such angels ſeem, when pleas'd to wear
Some lovely dreſs of colour'd air!
Oh, had ſhe liv'd before the old
Bard had ſo many winters told:
Then when his youthful veins ran high,
Enflam'd with Love and Poetry:
He only to this ſhining maid
The tribute of his verſe had paid:
No meaner face, no leſſer name,
Had fix'd his eyes, or fed his flame;
Her beauties had employ'd his tongue,
And Sachariſſa died unſung.
SONG.
[191]YOU ſay, you love! repeat again,
Repeat th' amazing ſound;
Repeat the eaſe of all my pain,
The cure of every wound.
What you to thouſands have deny'd,
To me you freely give;
Whilſt I in humble ſilence dy'd,
Your mercy bid me live.
So on cold Latmos' top each night
Endymion ſighing lay,
Gaz'd on the Moon's tranſcendent light,
Deſpair'd, and durſt not pray.
But divine Cynthia ſaw his grief,
Th' effect of conquering charms;
Unaſk'd, the Goddeſs brings relief,
And falls into his arms.
ANACREON IMITATED.
OFT the reverend dotards cry,
" Why ſo loving, Daphnis, why?
Love 's a thing for age alone:
Love 's a God, and you 're too young.
Let the harveſt crown your brow,
And adorn your head with ſnow;
Love may boldly enter then:
Years will countenance your flame.
[192]Fruits, unripe, diſguſt the taſte;
Falling ripe they pleaſe us beſt.
Colts are ſkittiſh; but the dam
(Once a colt) is ſtill and tame."
Reverend dotards, why ſo wiſe?
Why theſe reverend fooleries!
Who neglects to back the horſe,
Till his years compute him worſe?
Generous brutes, that lateſt die,
Early to enjoyment fly:
Vigorous nature ſcorns a tye.
Gather'd fruits are beſt of all;
We deſpiſe them when they fall.
Thus your follies ſhew to me,
What my reverend age ſhall be.
Bring the glaſs then, bring the fair,
Fill it, 'tis a health to her.
For experimental I
Will a great example be,
To convince ſuch reverend fools
Of their own miſtaken rules.
ANACREON IMITATED.
OH, how pleaſant is 't! how ſweet!
While with beauties exquiſite
Nature paints the fragrant grove,
Thus to walk and talk of love!
Here no envious Eaſtern gale
Sells us pleaſure by retail.
[193]Weſtern breezes here diſpenſe
Joys ſo full, they cloy the ſenſe.
Gods! oh Gods! how ſweet a ſhade
Has that honey-ſuckle made!
Claſping round that ſpreading tree,
Claſping faſt, and apeing me,
Me who, there with Celia laid,
Firſt inform'd the lovely maid
So to claſp and ſo to twine.
Oh! how ſweet a life is mine!
ANACREON IMITATED.
COME fill 't up, and fill it high,
The barren earth is always dry;
But, well ſteep'd in kindly ſhowers,
It laughs in dew, and ſmiles in flowers.
The jovial Gods did, ſure, deſign,
By the immortal gift of wine,
To drown our ſighs, and eaſe our care,
And make 's content to revel here;
To revel, and to reign in love,
And be throughout like thoſe above.
PALLAS.
PALLAS, deſtructive to the Trojan line,
Raz'd their proud walls, though built with hands divine;
But Love's bright Goddeſs, with propitious grace,
Preſerv'd a hero to reſtore the race:
So the fam'd empire, where the Iber flows,
Fell by Eliza, and by Anna roſe.
PART OF VIRGIL'S FIRST GEORGICK,
DEDICATED TO MR. DRYDEN.
[194]FIRST let thy altars ſmoke with ſacred fire,
Thy early labours the juſt Gods require.
Let Ceres' bleſſings uſher-in the year,
To give an omen to thy future care.
[195]With ſacrifice adorn her graſſy ſhrine,
With milk, with honey, and with flowing wine.
[196]Then go, the mighty Goddeſs to adore,
When Spring buds forth, and Winter is no more.
[197]Then well-fed lambs thy plenteous tables load,
And mellow wines give appetite to food.
Whilſt the cool ſhade by ſmall refreſhing ſtreams
Invite ſoft ſleep, and gentle pleaſing dreams,
The ruſtic youth the Goddeſs ſhould implore
To bleſs their fruits, and to increaſe their ſtore.
Thrice let the ſacrifice in triumph led
Crown the new offspring of her fruitful bed.
A joyful choir ſhall ſing her praiſes round,
And with unequal motions beat the ground.
Whilſt oaken branches on their temples twine,
To ſhew the better uſe of corn and wine.
The Goddeſs, thus appeas'd, will bend her ear,
And with a plenteous harveſt will reward your care.
The certain ſeaſons of the year to know
Great Jove has taught us, and from whence they flow,
Droughts, rains, and winds, their certain ſigns forego.
Thoſe meſſengers of Fate provide the way,
To give the ſignal of a gloomy day.
[198]The moon her tokens conſtantly fulfils,
And with her beams points out th' approaching ills.
Her waning orb puts on a various form,
To give the ſign of an impending ſtorm.
When South-winds riſe, the herdſmen juſtly fear,
And ſeek a ſhelter when the tempeſt 's near.
Firſt from a gentle blaſt the winds ariſe,
Whoſe infant voice in whiſpering murmurs flies,
Then with loud clamours fills the troubled ſkies.
By ſmall degrees advanc'd, it ſtronger grows,
Till every point each other does oppoſe.
Then through the jarring zones it frets and roars,
And lifts the ſwelling billows to the ſhores.
Vaſt watery mountains roll upon the ſand,
And angry ſurges beat the trembling land.
A harſh, ſhrill noiſe the echoing caverns fills,
And ſtrikes the ear from the reſounding hills;
Whoſe reverend tops, with aged pine-trees crown'd,
Rock with the wind, and tremble with the ſound.
The threatening ſurges hardly can forbear
The tatter'd veſſel, while the ſeamen fear
Each rolling billow ſhould their laſt appear.
The frighten'd native of the troubled waves
His long-accuſtom'd habitation leaves.
Now born aloft a winged army ſoar,
To ſeck for ſafety on a calmer ſhore.
The moor-hen, conſcious of the tempeſt near,
Plays on the ſand, and ſo prevents her fear.
The hern forſakes his ancient marſhy bed,
And towers to heaven, while clouds bedew his head;
[199]Sometimes he 's met by a deſcending ſtar,
Which warns the tempeſt ruſhing from afar.
The headlong planet glides in fiery ſtreams,
And ſhoots through darkneſs with its radiant beams:
It cuts the ſhadows with a train of light,
And makes a medley of the day and night.
A ſportive whirlwind lifts the moving ſand,
In myſtic circles dancing on the land.
Now wanton feathers whiten all the flood;
And ſapleſs leaves fly o'er the ſhaken wood,
At diſtance blackening in a duſky cloud.
But when a new-fledg'd ſtorm comes bluſtering forth,
And quits the thundering regions of the North:
When Eaſt and Weſt in diſtant poles conſpire,
Uniting rage, to ſwell the deluge higher,
With rapid ſtreams the full-charg'd channels flow,
Collecting forces as they farther go.
Th' unruly tide no ſturdy banks control,
O'er unknown plains the furious torrents roll.
The reapers mourn, to ſee the deluge bear
The long-expected labours of the year.
SONG.
TELL me not I my time miſ-ſpend,
'Tis time loſt to reprove me;
Purſue thou thine, I have my end,
So Chloris only love me.
Tell me not other flocks are full,
Mine poor; let them deſpiſe me
Who more abound with milk and wool,
So Chloris only prize me.
[200]
Tire other eaſier ears with theſe
Unappurtaining ſtories;
He never felt the world's diſeaſe,
Who car'd not for its glories.
For pity, thou that wiſer art,
Whoſe thoughts lie wide of mine;
Let me alone with my own heart,
And I'll ne'er envy thine.
Nor blame him, whoe'er blames my wit,
That ſeeks no higher prize,
Than in unenvy'd ſhades to ſit,
And ſing of Chloris' eyes.
SIR JOHN EATON IMITATED,
TOO late, alas! I muſt confeſs
You need not arts to move me:
Such charms by nature you poſſeſs,
'Twere madneſs not to love ye.
Then ſpare a heart you may ſurprize,
And give my tongue the glory
To boaſt, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a kinder ſtory.
THE PASSING-BELL.
[201]COME, honeſt ſexton, take thy ſpade,
And let my grave be quickly made:
Thou ſtill art ready for the dead,
Like a kind hoſt, to make my bed.
I now am come to be thy gueſt,
Let me in ſome dark lodging reſt,
For I am weary, full of pain,
And of my pilgrimage complain.
On Heaven's decree I waiting lie,
And all my wiſhes are to die.
Hark, I hear my paſſing-bell,
Farewell, my loving friends, farewell!
Make my cold bed, good ſexton, deep,
That my poor bones may ſafely ſleep;
Until that ſad and joyful day,
When from above a voice ſhall ſay,
" Wake, all ye Dead, lift up your eyes,
" The great Creator bids you riſe."
Then do I hope, among the juſt,
To ſhake off this polluted duſt;
And, with new robes of glory dreſt,
To have acceſs among the bleſt.
Hark, I hear my paſſing-bell,
Farewell, my loving friends farewell!
BALLAD ON A NEW OPERA*. 1658.
[202]NOW Heaven preſerve our realm,
And him that ſits at th' helm.
I will tell you of a new ſtory
Of Sir William and his apes,
With full many merry japes,
Much after the rate of John Dorie.
This ſight is to be ſeen
Near the ſtreet that's call'd the Queen,
And the people have call'd it the Opera.
But the devil take my wife,
If all the days in my life
I did ever ſee ſuch a foppery.
Where firſt one begins
With a trip and a cringe,
And a face ſet in ſtarch to accoſt 'em,
I†, and with a ſpeech to boot,
That had neither head nor foot,
Might have ſerv'd for a Charterhouſe roſtrum.
[203]
Oh, he look'd ſo like a Jew,
Would have made a man ſpew,
When he told them here was this, here was that;
Juſt like him that ſhews the tombs,
For when the ſum total comes,
'Tis two hours of I know not what.
Neither muſt I here forget
The muſic, how it was ſet,
Diſe two ayers and a half and a Jove *:
All the reſt was ſuch a gig,
Like the ſqueaking of a pig,
Or cats when they 're making their love.
The next thing was the ſcene,
And that as it was lain,
But no man knows where in Peru,
With a ſtory for the nonce
Of raw head and bloody bones,
But the devil a word that was true.
There might you have ſeen an ape
With his fellow for to gape,
Now dancing and turning o'er and o'er.
What cannot poets do?
They can find out in Peru
Things no man ever ſaw before.
Then preſently the Spaniard
Struts with his winyard,
Now heaven of thy mercy how grim!
Who'd have thought that Chriſtian men
Would have eat up children,
Had he not ſeen them do it limb by limb?
[204]
Oh greater cruelty yet,
Like a pig upon a ſpit,
Here lies one, there another boil'd to a jelly;
Juſt ſo the people ſtare
At an ox in the fair,
Roaſted whole, with a pudding in 's belly.
I durſt have laid my head
That the king there had been dead,
When I ſaw how they baſted and carv'd him;
Had he not come up again
Upon the ſtage, there to complain
How ſcurvily the rogues had ſerv'd him.
A little further in
Hung a third by the chin,
And a fourth cut out all in quarters;
Oh, that Fox had now been living,
They had been ſure of Heaven,
Or at the leaſt been ſome of his Martyrs.
But, which was ſtrange again,
The Indians that they had ſlain
Came dancing all in a troop;
But, oh, give me the laſt,
For, as often as he paſs'd,
He ſtill tumbled like a dog in a hoop.
And now, my Signior Strugge*,
In good faith you may go jogge,
For Sir William will have ſomething to brag on;
Oh, the Engliſh boys are come
With their fife and their drum,
And ſtill the Knight muſt conquer the Dragon.
[205]
And ſo now my ſtory is done,
And I'll end as I begun,
With a word, and I care not who know it;
Heaven keep us, great and ſmall,
And bleſs us ſome and all,
From every ſuch pitiful Poet!
THE HYPOCRITE, BY MR. CARYLL*. ON THE LORD SHAFTESBURY. 1678.
THOU 'rt more inconſtant than the wind or ſea,
Or that ſtill veering ſex out-done by thee:
Reeling from vice to vice, thou haſt run through
Legions of ſins more than the caſuiſts know:
Of whom thy friends were wont to ſay, "Poor devil!
At leaſt he was not conſtant to his evil!"
Dealing ſo long in ſins of pomp and glory,
Who would have thought (to make up Guzman's ſtory)
Hypocriſy at laſt ſhould enter in,
And fix this floating mercury of ſin?
All his old ſins, like miſſes out of date,
Turn penſioners to this new miſs of ſtate:
His actions, look, and garb, take a new frame,
And wear the livery of this ſullen dame:
Plain band, and hair, and cloaths, diſguiſe the man,
All, but his dealing and his heart, is plain.
Not Ovid's ſtories, nor the wife of Lot,
Can boaſt a change beyond our ſtate-bigot:
[206]All on the ſudden, in one fatal morn,
Our courtier did to a ſtark Quaker turn.
Some think
He does, as criminals who would defeat
The courſe of Juſtice, madneſs counterfeit:
No, Godlineſs, that once much-pitied thing,
Of his new fiddle is the only ſtring:
For the poor Church is all his tender care,
And Popery's growth he ſounds in every ear;
At which the dirty rout run grunting in,
As when the old wife's kettle rings the ſwine.
So the court-dame, who in her youthful pride
No pleaſure to her craving ſenſe deny'd,
But, unreſerv'd, with every freſh delight,
Did prodigally feaſt her appetite,
Age drawing on, when through her youth's decay,
Her ſervants with her beauty drop away;
For winter quarters, ſhe Religion takes,
And of neceſſity a virtue makes.
And when the wrinkles of her face no cure
Will longer from the help of art endure,
Covering the worn-out ſinner with the ſaint,
As once her face, ſhe now her ſoul does paint.
Since churches are not, muſt religion be
Of guilty perſons ſtill the ſanctuary?
When great men fall, or popular men would riſe,
Both from religion borrow their diſguiſe.
Then, like Achilles in his fate-proof arms,
They boldly march, guided with holy charms,
And brow-beat Caeſar, and defy his laws;
Who dare reſiſt the champion of God's cauſe?
[207]But, when the place or penſion is your own,
When the oppoſing party is run down,
Religion and God's cauſe aſide are caſt,
Like actor's habit, when the play is paſt.
This dame Hypocriſy, with ſour face,
Does fit ſupply old mother Moſely's place:
She for his body did proviſion find,
This caters for the letchery of his mind,
And for his vaſt ambition, and his pride,
And his inſatiate avarice, does provide;
His body thus and ſoul together vie
In Vice's empire for the ſovereignty.
In ulcers that, this does abound in ſin,
Lazar without, and Lucifer within;
The ſilver-pipe* is no ſufficient drain
For the corruption of this little man;
Who, though he ulcers have in every part,
Is no where ſo corrupt as in his heart.
ON SEEING A BANK OF PRIMROSES, IN JANUARY, COVERED WITH SNOW.
THESE forward roſes ſpread an infant bloom,
Laviſh at once of beauty and perfume;
Their yellow leaves with fragrant pride diſplay,
And ſmile all lovely on the riſing day;
[208]Ambitious ſeem to deck ſome virgin's breaſt,
And there for ever lay their fading ſweets to reſt.
But, cruel chance! keen Eaſtern gales ariſe,
And drive the Winter through the hazy ſkies;
Theſe pretty flowers can now no longer glow,
Pierc'd with the froſt, and buried under ſnow;
If ſtill relentleſs ſtorms perſiſt to beat,
And chilling vapours damp the genial heat;
There 's no relief, theſe gaudy ſweets muſt die,
And all their pregnant charms in long oblivion lie.
But ſhould the ſun, in majeſty ſerene,
Adorn the grove, and paint the burniſh'd green;
Each drooping roſe its mournful head would rear,
Bright as the heavens, and like the morning fair;
While purple honours crown the well-diſtinguiſh'd year.
ON THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN.
THIS houſe and inhabitants both well agree,
And reſemble each other as near as can be;
One half is decay'd, and in want of a prop,
The other new-built, but not finiſh'd at top.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. VINER.
[209]IS Viner dead? and ſhall each Muſe become
Silent as Death, and as his muſic dumb?
Shall he depart without a Poet's praiſe,
Who oft to harmony has tun'd their lays?
Shall he, who knew the elegance of ſound,
Find no one voice to ſing him to the ground?
Muſic and Poetry are ſiſter-arts,
Shew a like genius, and conſenting hearts:
My ſoul with his is ſecretly ally'd,
And I am forc'd to ſpeak, ſince Viner dy'd.
[210]
Oh, that my Muſe, as once his notes, could ſwell!
That I might all his praiſes fully tell;
That I might ſay with how much ſkill he play'd,
How nimbly four extended ſtrings ſurvey'd;
How bow and fingers, with a noble ſtrife,
Did raiſe the vocal fiddle into life;
How various ſounds, in various order rang'd,
By unobſerv'd degrees minutely chang'd,
Through a vaſt ſpace could in diviſions run,
Be all diſtinct, yet all agree in one:
And how the fleeter notes could ſwiftly paſs,
And ſkip alternately from place to place;
The ſtrings could with a ſudden impulſe bound,
Speak every touch, and tremble into ſound.
The liquid harmony, a tuneful tide,
Now ſeem'd to rage, anon would gently glide;
[211]By turns would ebb and flow, would riſe and fall,
Be loudly daring, or be ſoftly ſmall:
While all was blended in one common name,
Wave puſh'd on wave, and all compos'd a ſtream.
The different tones melodiouſly combin'd,
Temper'd with art, in ſweet confuſion join'd;
The ſoft, the ſtrong, the clear, the ſhrill, the deep,
Would ſometimes ſoar aloft, and ſometimes creep;
While every ſoul upon his motions hung,
As though it were in tuneful concert ſtrung.
His touch did ſtrike the fibres of the heart,
And a like trembling ſecretly impart;
Where various paſſions did by turns ſucceed,
He made it chearful, and he made it bleed;
Could wind it up into a glowing fire,
Then ſhift the ſcene, and teach it to expire.
Oft have I ſeen him, on a public ſtage,
Alone the gaping multitude engage;
The eyes and ears of each ſpectator draw,
Command their thoughts, and give their paſſions law;
While other muſic, in oblivion drown'd,
Seem'd a dead pulſe, or a neglected ſound.
Alas! he 's gone, our great Apollo 's dead,
And all that's ſweet and tuneful with him fled;
Hibernia, with one univerſal cry,
Laments the loſs, and ſpeaks his elegy.
Farewell, thou author of refin'd delight,
Too little known, too ſoon remov'd from ſight;
Thoſe fingers, which ſuch pleaſure did convey,
Muſt now become to ſtupid worms a prey:
[212]Thy grateful fiddle will for ever ſtand
A ſilent mourner for its maſter's hand:
Thy art is only to be match'd above,
Where Muſic reigns, and in that Muſic Love:
Where thou wilt in the happy chorus join,
And quickly thy melodious ſoul refine
To the exalted pitch of Harmony Divine.
EPIGRAM.
" Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obſtat
" Res anguſta domi—"
THE greateſt gifts that Nature does beſtow,
Can't unaſſiſted to perfection grow:
A ſcanty fortune clips the wings of Fame,
And checks the progreſs of a riſing name:
Each daſtard virtue drags a captive's chain,
And moves but ſlowly, for it moves with pain:
Domeſtic cares ſit hard upon the mind,
And cramp thoſe thoughts which ſhould be unconfin'd;
The cries of Poverty alarm the ſoul,
Abate its vigour, its deſigns control:
The ſtings of Want inflict the wounds of Death,
And motion always ceaſes with the breath.
The love of friends is found a languid fire,
That glares but faintly, and will ſoon expire;
Weak is its force, nor can its warmth be great,
A feeble light begets a feeble heat.
Wealth is the fuel that muſt feed the flame,
It dies in rags, and ſcarce deſerves a name.
LOVE IN DISGUISE.
[213]TO ſtifle paſſion, is no eaſy thing;
A heart in love is always on the wing;
The bold betrayer flutters ſtill,
And fans the breath prepar'd to tell:
It melts the tongue, and tunes the throat,
And moves the lips to form the note;
And when the ſpeech is loſt,
It then ſends out its ghoſt,
A little ſigh,
To ſay we die.
'Tis ſtrange the air that cools, a flame ſhould prove;
But wonder not, it is the air of love.
Yet, Chloris, I can make my love look well,
And cover bleeding wounds I can't conceal;
My words ſuch artful accents break,
You think I rather act than ſpeak:
My ſighs, enliven'd through a ſmile,
Your unſuſpecting thoughts beguile;
My eyes are vary'd ſo,
You can't their wiſhes know:
And I'm ſo gay,
You think I play.
Happy contrivance! ſuch as can't be priz'd,
To live in love, and yet to live diſguis'd!
CHLORIS APPEARING IN A LOOKING-GLASS.
[214]OFT have I ſeen a piece of art,
Of light and ſhade the mixture fine,
Speak all the paſſions of the heart,
And ſhew true life in every line.
But what is this before my eyes,
With every feature, every grace,
That ſtrikes with love and with ſurprize,
And gives me all the vital face?
It is not Chloris: for, behold,
The ſhifting phantom comes and goes;
And when 'tis here, 'tis pale and cold,
Nor any female ſoftneſs knows.
But 'tis her image, for I feel
The very pains that Chloris gives;
Her charms are there, I know them well,
I ſee what in my boſom lives.
Oh, could I but the picture ſave!
'Tis drawn by her own matchleſs ſkill;
Nature the lively colours gave,
And ſhe need only look to kill.
Ah! fair-one, will it not ſuffice,
That I ſhould once your victim lie;
Unleſs you multiply your eyes,
And ſtrive to make me doubly die?
ON A LADY WITH FOUL BREATH.
[215]ART thou alive? It cannot be,
There 's ſo much rottenneſs in thee,
Corruption only is in death;
And what 's more putrid than thy breath?
Think not you live becauſe you ſpeak,
For graves ſuch hollow ſounds can make;
And reſpiration can't ſuffice,
For vapours do from caverns riſe:
From thee ſuch noiſome ſtenches come,
Thy mouth betrays thy breaſt a tomb.
Thy body is a corpſe that goes,
By magic rais'd from its repoſe:
A peſtilence, that walks by day,
But falls at night to worms and clay.
But I will to my Chloris run,
Who will not let me be undone:
The ſweets her virgin-breath contains
Are fitted to remove my pains;
There will I healing nectar ſip,
And, to be ſav'd, approach her lip,
Though, if I touch the matchleſs dame,
I 'm ſure to burn with inward flame.
Thus, when I would one danger ſhun,
I 'm ſtraight upon another thrown:
I ſeek a cure, one ſore to eaſe,
Yet in that cure 's a new diſeaſe
[216]But Love, though fatal, ſtill can bleſs,
And greater dangers hide the leſs;
I 'll go where paſſion bids me fly,
And chooſe my death, ſince I muſt die;
As Doves, purſued by birds of prey,
Venture with milder man to ſtay.
ON THE NUMBER THREE.
BEAUTY reſts not in one fix'd place,
But ſeems to reign in every face;
'Tis nothing ſure but fancy then,
In various forms, bewitching men;
Or is its ſhape and colour fram'd,
Proportion juſt, and Woman nam'd?
If Fancy only rul'd in Love,
Why ſhould it then ſo ſtrongly move?
Or why ſhould all that look agree,
To own its mighty power in Three?
In Three it ſhews a different face,
Each ſhining with peculiar grace.
Kindred a native likeneſs gives,
Which pleaſes, as in all it lives;
And, where the features diſagree,
We praiſe the dear variety.
Then Beauty ſurely ne'er was yet,
So much unlike itſelf, and ſo complete.
ESSAY ON THE DIFFERENT STYLES OF POETRY*.
TO HENRY LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.
[217]"—Vatibus addere calcar,
" Ut ſtudio majore petant Helicona virentem."
HOR. Ep. II. 1.
I HATE the vulgar with untuneful mind;
Hearts uninſpir'd, and ſenſes unrefin'd.
Hence, ye prophane: I raiſe the ſounding ſtring,
And Bolingbroke defcends to hear me ſing.
[218]
When Greece could truth in Myſtie Fable ſhroud,
And with delight inſtruct the liſtening crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has loſt his name)
Deliver'd ſtrains on Verſe to future fame.
Still, as he ſung, he touch'd the trembling lyre,
And felt the notes a riſing warmth inſpire.
Ye ſweetening Graces, in the Muſic throng,
Aſſiſt my genius, and retrieve the ſong
From dark oblivion. See, my genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem roſe.
[219]
" WIT is the Muſes' horſe, and bears on high
The daring rider to the Muſes' ſky:
Who, while his ſtrength to mount aloft he tries,
By regions varying in their nature flies.
At firſt, he riſeth o'er a land of toil,
A barren, hard, and undeſerving ſoil,
Where only weeds from heavy labour grow,
Which yet the nation prune, and keep for ſhow.
[220]Where couplets jingling on their accent run,
Whoſe Point of Epigram is ſunk to Pun;
Where * wings by fancy never feather'd fly,
Where lines by meaſure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars ſtand, erected Porches gape,
And ſenſe is cramp'd while words are par'd to ſhape;
Where mean Acroſticks, labour'd in a frame
On ſcatter'd letters, raiſe a painful ſcheme;
And, by confinement in their work, control
The great enlargings of the boundleſs ſoul;
Where if a warrior's elevated fire
Would all the brighteſt ſtrokes of verſe require,
Then ſtraight in Anagram a wretched crew
Will pay their undeſerving praiſes too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed name
Muſt tell its maſter's character to Fame.
And (if my fire and fears aright preſage)
The labouring writers of a future age
Shall clear new ground, and grots and caves repair,
To civilize the babbling echoes there.
Then, while a lover treads a lonely walk,
His voice ſhall with its own reflection talk,
The cloſing ſounds of all the vain device
Select by trouble frivolouſly nice,
Reſound through verſe, and with a falſe pretence
Support the dialogue, and paſs for ſenſe.
Can things like theſe to laſting praiſe pretend?
Can any Muſe the worthleſs toil befriend?
[221]Ye ſacred Virgins, in my thoughts ador'd,
Ah, be for ever in my lines deplor'd,
If tricks on words acquire an endleſs name,
And trifles merit in the court of Fame!"
At this the Poet ſtood concern'd a while,
And view'd his objects with a ſcornful ſmile:
Then other images of different kind,
With different workings, enter'd on his mind;
At whoſe approach, he felt the former gone,
And ſhiver'd in conceit, and thus went on:
" By a cold region next the Rider goes,
Where all lies cover'd in eternal ſnows;
Where no bright Genius drives the chariot high,
To glitter on the ground, and gild the ſky.
Bleak level Realm, where Frigid Styles abound,
Where never yet a daring thought was found,
But counted feet is Poetry defin'd;
And ſtarv'd conceits, that chill the reader's mind,
A little ſenſe in many words imply,
And drag in loitering numbers ſlowly by.
Here dry ſententious ſpeeches, half aſleep,
Prolong'd in lines, o'er many pages creep;
Nor ever ſhew the paſſions well expreſs'd,
Nor raiſe like paſſions in another's breaſt.
Here flat narrations fair exploits debaſe,
In meaſures void of every ſhining grace;
Which never arm their hero for the field,
Nor with prophetic ſtory paint the ſhield,
Nor ſix the creſt, nor make the feathers wave,
Nor with their characters reward the brave;
[222]Undeck'd they ſtand, and unadorn'd with praiſe,
And fail to profit while they fail to pleaſe.
Here forc'd Deſcription is ſo ſtrangely wrought,
It never ſtamps its image on the thought;
The lifeleſs trees may ſtand for ever bare,
And rivers ſtop, for aught the readers care;
They ſee no branches trembling in the woods,
Nor hear the murmurs of increaſing floods,
Which near the roots of ruffled waters flow,
And ſhake the ſhadows of the boughs below.
Ah, ſacred Verſe, replete with heavenly flame,
Such cold endeavours would invade thy name!
The writer fondly would in theſe ſurvive,
Which, wanting ſpirit, never ſeem'd alive:
But, if Applauſe or Fame attend his pen,
Let breathleſs ſtatues paſs for breathing men."
Here ſeem'd the Singer touch'd at what he ſung,
And grief a while delay'd his hand and tongue:
But ſoon he check'd his fingers, choſe a ſtrain,
And flouriſh'd ſhrill, and thus aroſe again:
" Paſs the next region which appears to ſhow:
'Tis very open, unimprov'd, and low;
No noble flights of elevated thought,
No nervous ſtrength of ſenſe maturely wrought,
Poſſeſs this Realm; but common turns are there,
Which idly ſportive move with childiſh air.
On callow wings, and like a plague of flies,
The little fancies in a Poem riſe,
The jaded Reader every where to ſtrike,
And move his paſſions every where alike.
[223]There all the graceful nymphs are forc'd to play
Where any water bubbles in the way:
There ſhaggy Satyrs are oblig'd to rove
In all the fields, and over all the grove:
There every ſtar is ſummon'd from its ſphere,
To dreſs one face, and make Clorinda fair:
There Cupids fling their darts in every ſong,
While Nature ſtands neglected all along:
Till the teaz'd hearer, vex'd at laſt to find
One conſtant object ſtill aſſault the mind,
Admires no more at what's no longer new,
And haſtes to ſhun the perſecuting view.
There bright ſurprizes of Poetic rage
(Whoſe ſtrength and beauty, more confirm'd in age
For having laſted, laſt the longer ſtill)
By weak attempts are imitated ill,
Or carried on beyond their proper light,
Or with refinement flouriſh'd out of ſight.
There Metaphors on Metaphors abound,
And ſenſe by differing images confound:
Strange injudicious management of thought,
Not born to rage, nor into method brought.
Ah, ſacred Muſe! from ſuch a Realm retreat,
Nor idly waſte the influence of thy heat
On ſhallow ſoils, where quick productions riſe,
And wither as the warmth that rais'd them dies."
Here o'er his breaſt a ſort of pity roll'd,
Which ſomething labouring in the mind control'd,
And made him touch the loud reſounding ſtrings,
While thus with Muſic's ſtronger tones he ſings:
[224]
" Mount higher ſtill, ſtill keep thy faithful ſeat,
Mind the firm reins, and curb thy courſer's heat;
Nor let him touch the Realms that next appear,
Whoſe hanging turrets ſeem a fall to fear;
And ſtrangely ſtand along the tracts of air,
Where thunder rolls, and bearded comets glare.
The thoughts that moſt extravagantly ſoar,
The words that ſound as if they meant to roar;
For rant and noiſe are offer'd here to choice,
And ſtand elected by the public voice.
All ſchemes are ſlighted which attempt to ſhine
At once with ſtrange and probable deſign;
'Tis here a mean conceit, a vulgar view,
That bears the leaſt reſpect to ſeeming true;
While every trifling turn of things is ſeen
To move by Gods deſcending in machine.
Here ſwelling lines with ſtalking ſtrut proceed,
And in the clouds terrific rumblings breed;
Here ſingle heroes deal grim deaths around,
And armies periſh in tremendous ſound;
Here fearful monſters are preſerv'd to die,
In ſuch a tumult as affrights the ſky;
For which the golden ſun ſhall hide with dread,
And Neptune lift his ſedgy-matted head,
Admire the roar, and dive with dire diſmay,
And ſeek his deepeſt chambers in the ſea.
To raiſe their ſubject thus the lines deviſe,
And falſe extravagance would fain ſurprize;
Yet ſtill, ye Gods, ye live untouch'd by fear,
And undiſturb'd at bellowing monſters here:
[225]But with compaſſion guard the brain of men,
If thus they bellow through the Poet's pen:
So will the Reader's eyes diſcern aright
The raſheſt ſally from the nobleſt flight,
And find that only boaſt and ſound agree
To ſeem the life and voice of majeſty,
When Writers rampant on Apollo call,
And bid him enter and poſſeſs them all,
And make his flames afford a wild pretence
To keep them unreſtrain'd by common ſenſe.
Ah, ſacred Verſe! leſt Reaſon quit thy ſeat,
Give none to ſuch, or give a gentler heat."
'Twas here the Singer felt his temper wrought
By fairer proſpects, which aroſe to thought;
And in himſelf a while collected ſat,
And much admir'd at this, and much at that;
Till all the beauteous forms in order ran,
And then he took their track, and thus began:
" Above the beauties, far above the ſhow
In which weak Nature dreſſes here below,
Stands the great palace of the Bright and Fine,
Where fair ideas in full glory ſhine;
Eternal models of exalted parts,
The pride of minds, and conquerors of hearts.
Upon the firſt arrival here, are ſeen
Rang'd walks of bay, the Muſes' ever-green,
Each ſweetly ſpringing from ſome ſacred bough,
Whoſe circling ſhade adorn'd a Poet's brow,
While through the leaves, in unmoleſted ſkies,
The gentle breathing of applauſes flies,
[226]And flattering ſounds are heard within the breze,
And pleaſing murmur runs among the trees,
And falls of water join the flattering ſounds,
And murmur ſoftening from the ſhore rebounds.
The warbled melody, the lovely ſights,
The calms of ſolitude inſpire delights,
The dazzled eyes, the raviſh'd ears, are caught,
The panting heart unites to purer thought,
And grateful ſhiverings wander o'er the ſkin,
And wondrous ecſtaſies ariſe within,
Whence admiration overflows the mind,
And leaves the pleaſure felt, but undefin'd.
Stay, daring Rider, now no longer rove;
Now paſs to find the palace through the grove:
Whate'er you ſee, whate'er you feel, diſplay
The Realm you ſought for; daring Rider, ſtay.
Here various Fancy ſpreads a varied ſcene,
And Judgement likes the ſight, and looks ſerene,
And can be pleas'd itſelf, and helps to pleaſe,
And joins the work, and regulates the lays.
Thus, on a plan deſign'd by double care,
The building riſes in the glitterring air,
With juſt agreement fram'd in every part,
And ſmoothly poliſh'd with the niceſt art.
Here laurel-boughs, which ancient heroes wore,
Now not ſo fading as they prov'd before,
Wreath round the pillars which the Poets rear,
And ſlope their points to make a foliage there.
Here chaplets, pull'd in gently-breathing wind,
And wrought by lovers innocently kind,
[227]Hung o'er the porch, their fragrant odours give,
And freſh in laſting ſong for ever live.
The ſhades, for whom with ſuch indulgent care
Fame wreaths the boughs, or hangs the chaplets there,
To deathleſs honours thus preſerv'd above,
For ages conquer, or for ages love.
Here bold Deſcription paints the walls within,
Her pencil touches, and the world is ſeen:
The fields look beauteous in their flowery pride,
The mountains rear aloft, the vales ſubſide;
The cities riſe, the rivers ſeem to play,
And hanging rocks repell the foaming ſea;
The foaming ſeas their angry billows ſhow,
Curl'd white above, and darkly roll'd below,
Or ceaſe their rage, and, as they calmly lie,
Return the pleaſing pictures of the ſky;
The ſkies, extended in an open view,
Appear a lofty diſtant arch of blue,
In which Deſcription ſtains the painted bow,
Or thickens clouds, and feathers-out the ſnow,
Or mingles bluſhes in the morning ray,
Or gilds the noon, or turns an evening gray.
Here, on the pedeſtals of War and Peace,
In different rows, and with a different grace,
Fine Statues proudly ride, or nobly ſtand,
To which Narration with a pointing hand
Directs the ſight, and makes examples pleaſe
By boldly venturing to dilate in praiſe;
While choſen beauties lengthen out the ſong,
Yet make her hearers never think it long.
[228]Or if, with cloſer art, with ſprightly mien,
Scarce like herſelf, and more like Action ſeen,
She bids their facts in images ariſe,
And ſeem to paſs before the Reader's eyes,
The words like charms inchanted motion give,
And all the Statues of the Palace live.
Then hoſts embattled ſtretch their lines afar,
Their leaders' ſpeeches animate the war,
The trumpets ſound, the feather'd arrows fly,
The ſword is drawn, the lance is toſs'd on high,
The brave preſs-on, the fainter forces yield,
And death in different ſhapes deforms the field.
Or, ſhould the ſhepherds be diſpos'd to play,
Amintor's jolly pipe beguiles the day,
And jocund Echos dally with the ſound,
And Nymphs in meaſures trip along the ground,
And, ere the dews have wet the graſs below,
Turn homewards ſinging all the way they go.
Here, as on circumſtance Narrations dwell.
And tell what moves, and hardly ſeem to tell,
The toil of Heroes on the duſty plains,
Or on the green the merriment of Swains,
Reflection ſpeaks: then all the Forms that roſe
In life's inchanted ſcene themſelves compoſe;
Whilſt the grave voice, controling all the ſpells,
With ſolemn utterance, thus the Moral tells:
" So Public Worth its enemies deſtroys,
Or Private Innocence itſelf enjoys."
Here all the Paſſions, for their greater ſway,
In all the power of words themſelves array;
[229]And hence the ſoft Pathetic gently charms,
And hence the bolder fills the breaſt with arms.
Sweet Love in numbers finds a world of darts,
And with Deſirings wounds the tender hearts.
Fair Hope diſplays its pinions to the wind,
And flutters in the lines, and lifts the mind.
Briſk Joy with tranſport fills the riſing ſtrain,
Breaks in the notes, and bounds in every vein.
Stern Courage, glittering in the ſparks of Ire,
Inflames thoſe lays that ſet the breaſt on fire.
Averſion learns to fly with ſwifter will,
In numbers taught to repreſent an ill.
By frightful accents Fear produces fears;
By ſad expreſſion Sorrow melts to tears:
And dire Amazement and Deſpair are brought
By words of Horror through the wilds of thought.
'Tis thus tumultuous Paſſions learn to roll;
Thus, arm'd with Poetry, they win the ſoul.
Paſs further through the Dome, another view
Would now the pleaſures of thy mind renew,
Where oft Deſcription for the colours goes,
Which raiſe and animate its native ſhows;
Where oft Narration ſeeks a florid grace
To keep from ſinking ere 'tis time to ceaſe;
Where eaſy turns Reflection looks to find,
When Morals aim at dreſs to pleaſe the mind;
Where lively Figures are for uſe array'd,
And theſe an Action, thoſe a Paſſion, aid.
There modeſt Metaphors in order ſit,
With unaffected, undiſguiſing Wit,
[230]That leave their own, and ſeek another's place,
Not forc'd, but changing with an eaſy pace,
To deck a notion faintly ſeen before,
And Truth preſerves her ſhape, and ſhines the more.
By theſe the beauteous Similes reſide,
In look more open, in deſign ally'd,
Who, fond of likeneſs, from another's face
Bring every feature's correſponding grace,
With near approaches in expreſſion flow,
And take the turn their pattern loves to ſhow;
As in a glaſs the ſhadows meet the fair,
And dreſs and practiſe with reſembling air.
Thus Truth by pleaſure doth her aim purſue,
Looks bright, and fixes on the doubled view.
There Repetitions one another meet,
Expreſsly ſtrong, or languiſhingly ſweet,
And raiſe the ſort of ſentiment they pleaſe,
And urge the ſort of ſentiment they raiſe.
There cloſe in order are the Queſtions plac'd,
Which march with art conceal'd in ſhows of haſte,
And work the Reader till his mind be brought
To make its anſwers in the Writer's thought.
For thus the moving Paſſions ſeem to throng,
And with their quickneſs force the ſoul along;
And thus the ſoul grows fond they ſhould prevail,
When every Queſtion ſeems a fair appeal;
And if by juſt degrees of ſtrength they ſoar,
In ſteps as equal each affects the more.
There ſtrange Commotion, naturally ſhown,
Speaks on regardleſs that ſhe ſpeaks alone,
[231]Nor minds if they to whom ſhe talks be near,
Nor cares if that to which ſhe talks can hear.
The warmth of Anger dares an abſent Foe;
The words of Pity ſpeak to tears of Woe;
The Love that hopes, on errands ſends the breeze;
And Love deſpairing moans to naked trees.
There ſtand the new Creations of the Muſe,
Poetic Perſons, whom the Writers uſe
Whene'er a cauſe magnificently great
Would fix attention with peculiar weight.
'Tis hence that humble Provinces are ſeen
Transform'd to Matrons with neglected mien,
Who call their Warriors in a mournful ſound,
And ſhew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground,
While over Urns reclining Rivers moan
They ſhould enrich a nation not their own.
'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd
To be but rules of reaſon in the mind;
The heavenly Forms ſtart forth, appear to breathe,
And in bright ſhapes converſe with men beneath;
And, as a God in combat Valour leads,
In council Prudence as a Goddeſs aids.
There Exclamations all the voice employ
In ſudden fluſhes of Concern or Joy:
Then ſeem the ſluices, which the Paſſions bound,
To burſt aſunder with a ſpeechleſs ſound;
And then with tumult and ſurprize they roll,
And ſhew the caſe important in the ſoul.
There riſing Sentences attempt to ſpeak,
Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break;
[232]But ſo the Part directs to find the reſt,
That what remains behind is more than gueſs'd.
Thus fill'd with eaſe, yet left unfiniſh'd too,
The ſenſe looks large within the Reader's view:
He freely gathers all the Paſſion means,
And artful ſilence more than words explains.
Methinks a thouſand Graces more I ſee,
And I could dwell—but when would thought be free?
Engaging Method ranges all the band,
And ſmooth Tranſition joins them hand in hand:
Around the muſick of my lays they throng,
Ah, too deſerving objects of my ſong!
Live, wondrous Palace, live ſecure of time,
To Senſes Harmony, to Souls ſublime,
And juſt Proportion all, and great Deſign,
And lively Colours, and an Air divine.
'Tis here that, guided by the Muſes' fire,
And fill'd with ſacred thought, her Friends retire,
Unbent to care, and unconcern'd with noiſe,
To taſte repoſe and elevated joys,
Which in a deep untroubled leiſure meet,
Serenely raviſhing, politely ſweet.
From hence the Charms that moſt engage they chooſe,
And, as they pleaſe, the glittering objects uſe;
While to their Genius, more than Art, they truſt,
Yet Art acknowledges their labours juſt.
From hence they look, from this exalted ſhow,
To chooſe their ſubject in the world below,
And where an Hero well deſerves a name,
They conſecrate his acts in ſong to Fame;
[233]Or, if a Science unadorn'd they find,
They ſmooth its look to pleaſe and teach the mind;
And where a Friendſhip 's generouſly ſtrong,
They celebrate the knot of ſouls in ſong;
Or, if the Verſes muſt inflame Deſire,
The thoughts are melted, and the words on fire:
But, when the Temples deck'd with glory ſtand,
And hymns of Gratitude the Gods demand,
Their boſoms kindle with Celeſtial Love,
And then alone they caſt their eyes above.
Hail, ſacred Verſe! ye ſacred Muſes, hail!
Could I your pleaſures with your fire reveal,
The world might then be taught to know you right,
And court your rage, and envy my delight.
But, whilſt I follow where your pointed beams
My courſe directing ſhoot in golden ſtreams,
The bright appearance dazzles Fancy's eyes,
And weary'd-out the fix'd Attention lies;
Enough, my Verſes, have you work'd my breaſt,
I'll ſeek the ſacred Grove, and ſink to reſt."
No longer now the raviſh'd Poet ſung,
His voice in eaſy cadence left the tongue;
Nor o'er the muſick did his fingers fly,
The ſounds ran tingling, and they ſeem'd to die.
O, Bolingbroke! O Favourite of the ſkies,
O born to gifts by which the nobleſt riſe,
Improv'd in arts by which the brighteſt pleaſe,
Intent to buſineſs, and polite for eaſe;
Sublime in eloquence, where loud applauſe
Hath ſtil'd thee Patron of a nation's cauſe.
[234]'Twas there the world perceiv'd and own'd thee great,
Thence Anna call'd thee to the reins of State;
" Go, ſaid the greateſt Queen, with Oxford go,
And ſtill the tumults of the world below,
Exert thy powers, and proſper; he that knows
To move with Oxford, never ſhould repoſe."
She ſpake: the Patriot overſpread thy mind,
And all thy days to public good reſign'd.
Elſe might thy ſoul, ſo wonderfully wrought
For every depth and turn of curious thought,
To this the Poet's ſweet receſs* retreat,
And thence report the pleaſures of the ſeat,
Deſcribe the raptures which a Writer knows,
When in his breaſt a vein of fancy glows,
Deſcribe his buſineſs while he works the mine,
Deſcribe his temper when he ſees it ſhine,
Or ſay, when Readers eaſy verſe inſnares,
How much the Writer's mind can act on theirs:
Whence images, in charming numbers ſet,
A ſort of likeneſs in the ſoul beget,
And what fair viſions oft we fancy nigh
By fond deluſions of the ſwimming eye,
Or further pierce through Nature's maze to find
How paſſions drawn give paſſions to the mind.
Oh, what a ſweet confuſion! what ſurprize!
How quick the ſhifting views of pleaſure riſe!
While, lightly ſkimming, with a tranſient wing,
I touch the beauties which I wiſh to ſing.
[235]Is Verſe a ſovereign Regent of the ſoul,
And fitted all its motions to control?
Or are they ſiſters, tun'd at once above,
And ſhake like uniſons if either move?
For, when the numbers ſing an eager ſight,
I've heard a ſoldier's voice expreſs delight;
I've ſeen his eyes with crowding ſpirits ſhine,
And round his hilt his hand unthinking twine.
When from the ſhore the fickle Trojan flies,
And in ſweet meaſures poor Eliza dies,
I've ſeen the book forſake the virgin's hand,
And in her eyes the tears but hardly ſtand.
I've known her bluſh at ſoft Corinna's name,
And in red characters confeſs a flame:
Or wiſh ſucceſs had more adorn'd his arms,
Who gave the world for Cleopatra's charms.
Ye Sons of Glory, be my firſt appeal,
If here the power of lines theſe lines reveal.
When ſome great youth has with impetuous thought
Read o'er atchievements which another wrought,
And ſeen his courage and his honour go
Through crowding nations in triumphant ſhow,
His ſoul, enchanted by the words he reads,
Shines all impregnated with ſparkling ſeeds,
And courage here, and honour there, appears
In brave deſign that ſoars beyond his years,
And this a ſpear, and that a chariot lends,
And war and triumph he by turns attends;
Thus gallant pleaſures are his waking dream.
Till ſome fair cauſe have call'd him forth to fame.
[236]Then, form'd to life on what the Poet made,
And breathing ſlaughter, and in arms array'd,
He marches forward on the daring foe,
And emulation acts in every blow.
Great Hector's ſhade in fancy ſtalks along,
From rank to rank amongſt the martial throng;
While from his acts he learns a noble rage,
And ſhines like Hector in the preſent age.
Thus verſe will raiſe him to the victor's bays;
And verſe, that rais'd him, ſhall reſound his praiſe.
Ye tender Beauties, be my witneſs too,
If Song can charm, and if my Song be true.
With ſweet experience oft a Fair may find
Her paſſions mov'd by paſſions well deſign'd;
And then ſhe longs to meet a gentle ſwain,
And longs to love, and to be lov'd again.
And if by chance an amorous youth appears,
With pants and bluſhes ſhe the courtſhip hears;
And finds a tale that muſt with theirs agree,
And he's Septimius, and his Acme* ſhe:
Thus loſt in thought her melted heart ſhe gives,
And the rais'd Lover by the Poet lives.
THE COUNTER-SCUFFLE*, 1670. WHEREUNTO IS ADDED, THE COUNTER-RAT, WRITTEN BY R. S.†.
[237]LET that majeſtic pen that writes
Of brave King Arthur and his Knights,
And of their noble feats and fights;
And thoſe who tell of Mice and Frogs,
And of the ſkirmiſhes of Hogs,
And of fierce Bears, and Maſtiff Dogs,
be ſilent.
[238]
And now let each one liſten well,
While I the famous Battle tell,
In Woodſtreet-Counter that befell,
in high Lent;
In which great ſcuffle only twain,
Without much hurt, or being ſlain,
Immortal honour did obtain
by merit.
One was a Captain in degree,
A ſtrong and luſty man was he;
T' other a Tradeſman bold and free
of ſpirit.
And though he was no man of force,
He had a ſtomach like a horſe,
And in his rage had no remorſe
or pity,
Full nimbly could he cuſſ and clout,
And was accounted, without doubt,
One of the prettieſt ſparks about
the city.
And at his weapon any way
He could perform a ſingle f [...]ay,
Even from the long pike to the Tay⯑lor's
bodkin.
He reckt not for his fleſh a jot,
He fear'd not Engliſhman nor Scot,
For man or monſter car'd he not
a dodkin.
[239]
For fighting was his recreation,
And like a man in deſperation,
For Law, Edict, or Proclamation,
he car'd not:
And in his anger (cauſe being given)
To lift his hand 'gainſt good Sir Steeven,
Or any juſtice under Heaven,
he fear'd not.
He durſt his enemy withſtand,
Or at Tergoos or Calis-Sand,
And bravely there with ſword in hand
would greet him.
And noble Ellis was his name,
Who, 'mongſt his foes to purchaſe fame,
Not cared though the Devil came
to meet him.
And this brave Goldſmith was the man,
Who firſt this worthy brawl began,
Which after ended in a can
of mild beer.
But, had you ſeen him when he fought,
How eagerly for blood he ſought,
There's no man but would have him thought
a wild bear,
Imagine now you ſee a ſcore
Of mad-cap gentlemen, or more,
Boys that did uſe to roiſt and roar,
and ſwagger:
[240]
Among the which were three or four,
That rul'd themſelves by wiſdom's lore,
Whoſe very grandfires ſcarcely wore
a dagger.
A Prieſt and Lawyer, men well read
In wiping ſpoons and chipping bread,
And falling to, ſhort grace being ſaid,
full [...]oundly:
Whoſe hungry maws no ſallads need
Good appetites therein to breed,
Their ſtomachs without ſauce could feed
profoundly.
'Twas ill that men of ſober diet,
Who lov'd to fill their guts in quiet,
Were plac'd with ruffians that to riot
were given.
And (O great grief!) e'en from their food
(Their ſtomachs too being ſtrong and good)
And that ſweet place whereon it ſtood,
be driven.
But here 'tis ſitting I repeat
What food our dainty priſoners eat;
But if, in placing of the meat
and diſhes,
From curious order I do ſwerve,
'Tis that themſelves did none obſerve,
For which nor fleſh they did deſerve,
nor fiſhes.
[241]
But ſome, perhaps, will ſay that Lent
Affords them not what here is meant,
So much, ſo good; and that they went
without it.
'Tis like: but, if I add a diſh,
Or twain, or three, of fleſh or fiſh,
They either had, or did it wiſh,
ne'er doubt it.
Then wipe your mouths, while I declare
The goodneſs of this Lenten fare,
Which is in priſon very rare,
I tell ye.
Furmity, ſweet as any Nut,
As good as ever ſwill'd a gut,
And butter ſweet as e'er was put
in belly.
Eggs by the dozen, new and good,
Which, in white ſalt, uprightly ſtood,
And meats which heat and ſtir the blood
to action.
As butter'd Crabs, and Lobſters red,
Which ſend the married pair to bed,
And in looſe bloods have often bred
a faction.
Fiſh butter'd to the platter's brim,
And Parſnips did in butter ſwim,
Strew'd o'er with pepper neat and trim,
Salt Salmon.
[242]
Smelts cry'd, come eat me, do not ſtay;
Freſh-cod and Maids full neatly lay,
And next to theſe a luſty Ba-
con Gammon.
Stuck thick with cloves upon the back,
Well ſtuft with ſage, and for the ſmack,
Daintily ſtrew'd with pepper black.
Sous'd Gurnet,
Pickrell, Sturgeon, Tench, and Trout,
Meat far too good for ſuch a rout,
To tumble, toſs, and throw about,
and ſpurn it.
The next a Neat's-tongue neatly dry'd,
Muſtard and Sugar by his ſide,
Roaches butter'd, Flounders fry'd,
hot Cuſtard.
Eels boil'd and broil'd; and next they bring
Hertings, that is the Fiſhes King,
And then a courtly Poul of Ling
and Muſtard.
But ſtay, I had almoſt forgot
The fleſh which ſtill ſtands piping hot,
Some from the ſpit, ſome from the pot
new taken:
A Shoulder and a Leg of Mutton,
As good as ever knife was put on,
Which never were by a true glutton
forſaken.
[243]
A Loin of Veal that would have dar'd
One of the hungrieſt of the Guard;
And they ſometimes will feed full hard,
like tall men.
And ſuch as love the luſty Chine;
But, when that I ſhall ſup or dine,
God grant they be no Gueſts of mine,
of all men!
Thus the deſcriptions are compleat,
Which I have made of Men and Meat:
Mars, aid me now while I repeat
the battle,
Where pots and ſtools were us'd as gins
To break each other's heads and ſhins,
Where blows did make bones in their ſkins
to rattle;
Where men to madneſs never ceas'd,
Till each one (furious as a beaſt)
Had ſpoil'd the faſhion of a feaſt
full dainty;
Whereon (had they not been accurſt)
They might have fed till bellies burſt:
But Ellis ſhew'd himſelf the worſt
of twenty.
For he began this monſtrous brawl,
Which afterwards incens'd them all
To throw the meat about the hall
that even.
[244]
And now give ear unto the jar
That fell between theſe men of war,
Wherein ſo many a harmleſs ſcar
was given.
The board thus finiſh'd, each man ſate
Some fell to feeding, ſome to prate,
'Mong whom a jarring queſtion ſtrait
was riſen
For they grew hotly in diſpute,
What calling was of moſt repute;
'Twas well their wits were ſo acute
in priſon.
THE PARSON.
While they diſcours'd, the Parſon blithe
Fed as he meant to have the tithe
Of every diſh, being ſharp as ſcythe
in feeding.
But haſte had almoſt made him choke,
Or elſe, perhaps, he would have ſpoke
In praiſe of his long thread-bare cloak
and breeding.
THE LAWYER.
But, after a deliberate pauſe,
The Lawyer ſpoke, as he had cauſe,
In commendation of the Laws
profeſſion.
" The Law, quoth he, by a juſt doom
Doth cenſure all that to it come,
And ſtill defends the innocent from
oppreſſion;
[245]
It favours Truth, it curbs the hope
Of Vice; it gives Allegiance ſcope,
Provides a gallows and a rope
for Treaſon.
This doth the Law, and this is it
Which makes us here in priſon ſit,
Which grounded is on holy writ
and reaſon.
To which all men muſt ſubject be,
As we by daily proof do ſee,
From higheſt to the low'ſt degree;
the Scholar,
Noble, and Rich: it doth ſubdue
The Soldier and his ſwaggering crew—"
But at that word the Captain grew
in choler;
THE SOLDIER.
He look'd full grim, and at firſt word
Rapt out an oath that ſhook the board,
And ſtruck his fiſt, that the ſound roar'd
like thunder;
It made all ſkip that ſtood him near,
The frighted Cuſtard quak'd for fear,
And thoſe that heard it ſtricken were
with wonder;
Nought did he now but frown and puff,
And, having ſtar'd and ſwore enough,
Thus he began, in language rough,
" Thou cogging
[246]
Baſe foyſting Lawyer, that doſt ſet
Thy mind on nothing but to get
Thy living by thy damned pet-
tifogging.
A ſlave, that ſhall for half a crown,
With buckram bag and daggled gown,
Wait like a dog about the town,
and follow
A buſineſs on the Devil's part
For fees, though not with law nor art,
But head as empty as thy heart
is hollow;
You ſtay at home, and pocket fees,
While we abroad our bloods do leeſe,
And then with ſuch baſe terms as theſe
you wrong us;
But, Lawyer, it is ſafer far
For thee to prattle at a bar,
Than once to ſhew thy face i' th' war
among us;
Where, to defend ſuch thankleſs hinds,
The ſoldier little quiet finds,
But is expos'd to ſtormy winds
and weathers,
And oft in blood he wades full deep,
Your throats from foreign ſwords to keep,
And wakes when you ſecurely ſleep
in feathers.
[247]
What could your Laws and Statutes do
Againſt invaſions of a Foe,
Did not the valiant Soldier go
to quell them?
And, to prevent your further harms,
With enſign, fife, and loud alarms
Of warlike drum, by force of arms
repell them?
Your Treſpaſs Action will not ſtand,
For ſetting foot upon your land,
When they in ſcorn of your command
come hither:
No remedy in Courts of Paul's*,
In Common-Pleas, or in the Rolls,
For jouling of your jobbernouls
together.
Were 't not for us, thou Swad! (quoth he)
Where would'ſt thou fog to get a fee?
But to defend ſuch things as thee,
'tis pity.
For ſuch as thou eſteem us leaſt,
Whoever have been ready preſt
To guard you, and the Cuckow's neſt,
your city."
THE CITIZEN.
That very word made Ellis ſtart,
And all his blood ran to his heart;
He ſhook, and quak'd in every part
with anger:
[248]
He look'd as if nought might aſſuage
The heat of his enflamed rage;
His very countenance did preſage
ſome danger.
" A Cuckow's neſt!" quoth he, and ſo
He humm'd, and held his head full low,
As if diſtracted thoughts did o-
verpreſs him.
At length, quoth he, "My mother ſaid,
At Briſtol ſhe was brought-to-bed,
And there was Ellis born and bred,
(God bleſs him!)
Of London-city I am free,
And there I firſt my wife did ſee;
And for that very cauſe, quoth he,
I love it:
And he that calls it Cuckow's neſt,
Except he ſays he ſpeaks in jeſt,
He is a villain and a beaſt,
I 'll prove it:
This I 'll maintain, nor do I care
Though Captain Pot-gun ſtamp and ſtare,
And ſwagger, ſwear, and tear his hair
in fury;
And, with the hazard of my blood,
I 'll fight up to the knees in mud,
But I will make my quarrel good,
aſſure ye.
[249]
For though I am a man of trade,
And free of London-city made,
Yet can I uſe Gun, Bill, and Blade,
in battle;
And Citizens, if need require,
Themſelves can force the foe retire,
Whatever this Low-Country ſquire
do prattle;
For we have Soldiers of our own,
Able enough to guard the town,
And Captains of moſt fair renown
about it;
If any foe ſhould fight amain,
And ſet on us with all his train;
We 'll make him to retire again,
ne'er doubt it.
We have fought well in dangers paſt,
And will do while our lives do laſt,
Without the help of any caſt
Commanders,
That hither come, compell'd by want,
With ruſty ſwords and ſuits provant,
From Utrecht, Nimeguen, or Ghent,
in Flanders."
The Captain could no longer hold;
But, looking fiercely, plainly told
The Citizen, he was too bold,
and call'd him
[250]
Proud Boy, and for his ſaucy ſpeech
Did vow ſhortly to whip his breech:
Then Ellis ſnatcht the pot, with which
he maul'd him.
THE SCUFFLE.
He threw the jug, and therewithal
Did give the Captain ſuch a maul
As made him thump againſt the wall
his crupper.
With that the Captain took a diſh
That ſtood brim-full of butter'd fiſh,
As good as any heart could wiſh
to ſupper:
And as he threw, his foot did ſlide,
Which turn'd his arm and diſh aſide,
And all be-butterfiſhifide
Nick Ballat:
And he, good man! did none diſeaſe;
But ſitting quiet and at his eaſe,
With butter'd Rochets thought to pleaſe
his palate.
But, when he felt the wrong he had,
He rag'd, and ſwore, and grew ſtark-mad;
Some in the room been better had
without him;
For he took hold of any thing;
And firſt he caught the Poul of Ling,
Which he courageouſly did fling
about him:
[251]
Out of his hand it flew apace,
And hit the Lawyer in the face,
Who at the board in higheſt place
was ſeated.
And as the Lawyer thought to riſe,
The ſalt was thrown into his eyes,
Which him of ſight in woeful wiſe
defeated.
All things near hand Nick Ballat threw;
At length his butter'd Rochets flew,
And hit by chance, among the crew,
the Parſon:
The ſauce his coat did all bewet,
The Prieſt began to fume and fret,
The ſeat was butter'd which he ſet
his * * * * on:
He knew not what to do or ſay,
It was in vain to preach or pray,
Or cry, "You are all gone aſtray,
good people!"
He might as well go ſtrive to teach
Divinty beyond his reach;
Or, when the bells ring out, go preach
i' th' ſteeple.
At this miſchance, the ſilly man
Out of the room would fain have ran,
And very angerly began
to mutter.
[252]
Ill luck had he; for, after that,
One threw the Parſnips full of fat,
Which ſtuck like Broaches in his hat
with butter.
Out of the place he ſoon repairs,
And ran half headlong down the ſtairs,
And made complaint to Maſter Aires,
with crying.
Then up ran he to know the matter,
And found how they the things did ſcatter;
Here a Trencher, there a Platter,
were lying.
I dare not ſay he ſtunk for woe,
Nor will, unleſs I did it know;
But ſome there be that dare ſay ſo,
that ſmelt him.
Nor could you blame him if he did,
For they threw diſhes at his head,
And did with Eggs and Loaves of Bread
bepelt him.
He thruſt himſelf into the throng,
And us'd the virtue of his tongue;
But what could one man's words among
ſo many?
The Candles were all ſhuffled out,
The Victuals flew afreſh about;
Was never ſuch a combat fought
by any.
[253]
Now in the dark was all the coil;
Some were bloody in the broil,
And ſome were ſteep'd in Sallad-oil
and Muſtard.
The ſight would make a man afeard:
Another had a butter'd beard,
Another's face was was all beſmear'd
with Cuſtard:
Others were daub'd up to the knee
With butter'd Fiſh and Furmity;
And ſome the men could ſcarcely ſee
that beat them.
Under the Boar Lluellin* lay,
Being ſore affrighted with the fray,
And as the weapons flew that way,
he eat them.
The bread ſtuck in the windows all,
Like bullets in a caſtle-wall
Which furious foes did ſeek to ſcale
in battle.
Shoulders of Mutton, and Loins of Veal,
Appointed for to ſerve the meal,
About their ears full many a peal
did rattle;
The which when Owen Blany† ſpy'd,
" Oh, take away their arms, he cry'd,
Leſt ſome great hurt do them betide,
prevent it.
[254]
And then the knave away did ſteal
Of food that fell no little deal,
And in his houſe at many a meal
he ſpent it.
The Captain ran the reſt among,
As eager to revenge the wrong
Done by the Pot which Ellis flung
ſo ſtoutly:
And angry Ellis ſought about
To find the furious Captain out;
At length they met, and then they fought
devoutly.
Now, being met, they never lin,
Till with their loud robuſtious din
The room and all that was therein
did rumble.
Inſtead of weapons made of ſteel,
The Captain took a ſalted Eel,
And at each blow made Ellis reel
and tumble.
Ellis a Pippin-pie had got,
A ſorer weapon than the pot;
For, lo, the apples being hot
did ſcald him.
The Captain laid about him ſtill,
As if he would poor Ellis kill,
And with his Eel with a good will
he maul'd him.
[255]
At length, quoth he, "Ellis, thou art
A fellow of courageous heart,
Yield now, and I will take thy part
hereafter."
Quoth Ellis, "Much I ſcorn to hear
Thy words of threat, being free from fear;"
With which he hardly could forbear
from laughter.
Together then afreſh they fly,
The Eel againſt the Pippin-pie:
But Blany ſtood there purpoſely
to watch them.
The weapons wherewithal they fought
Were thoſe for which he chiefly ſought,
And with an eager ſtomach thought
to catch them;
But 'ſcap'd not now ſo well away
As at the Veal and Mutton fray;
He thought to have with ſuch a prey
his jaws fed:
But all his hope did turn aſide,
He look'd for that which luck deny'd,
For Ellis all be-pippin-py'd
his calves head.
Woe was the caſe he now was in,
The apples hot did ſcald his ſkin;
His ſkull, as it had rotten been,
did quoddle.
[256]
With that one Fool among the rout
Made out-cry all the houſe about,
That Blany's brains were beaten out
his noddle:
Which Lockwood* hearing, needs would ſee
What all this coil and ſtir might be;
And up the ſtairs his guts and he
went waddling.
But when he came the chamber near,
Behind the door he ſtood to hear;
For in he durſt not come, for fear
of ſwaddling:
There ſtood he in a frightful caſe:
And as by chance he ſtirr'd his face,
Full in the mouth a butter'd Plaice
did hit him.
Away he ſneak'd, and with his tongue
He lick'd and ſwallow'd-up the wrong,
And, as he went the room along,
be * * * * him.
For help now doth poor Lockwood cry,
" Oh, bring a ſurgeon, or I die,
My guts out of my belly fly;
come quickly!"
Blany with open mouth likewiſe
For preſent help of ſurgeon cries;
" Pity a man, quoth he, that lies
ſo ſickly!"
[257]
Phillips the ſkilful ſurgeon then
Was call'd, and call'd, and call'd again,
If he had ſkill to cure theſe men,
to ſhew it.
At length he comes, and firſt he puts
His hands to feel for Lockwood's guts;
Which came not forth ſo ſweet as nuts,
all know it:
He cries for water. In the mean,
One calls up Madge the Kitchin-quean;
To take and make the baby clean,
and clout it.
Faſt by the noſe ſhe took the ſquall,
And led him ſoftly through the hall,
Leſt the perfume through knees ſhould fall
about it.
She turn'd his hoſe beneath the knee,
Nor could ſhe chuſe but laugh to ſee
That yellow which was wont to be
a white breech.
She took a diſh-clout off the ſhelf,
And with it wip'd the ſh***** elf,
Which had not wit to help itſelf,
poor ****-breech.
Thus leaving Lockwood all bewray'd
Unto the mercy of the maid,
Who well deſerved to be paid
for taking
[258]
Such homely pains: now let us caſt
Our thought back on the ſtir that's paſt,
And them whoſe bones could not in haſte
leave aching.
And, like the candles, ſhall my pen
Shew you theſe gallants once again;
Which now like Furies, not like men,
appeared.
Freſh lights being brought t' appeaſe the brawl,
Shew twenty mad-men in the hall,
With blood and ſauce their faces all
beſmeared.
Their cloaths all rent and ſouc'd in drink,
Oil, Muſtard, Butter, and the ſtink
Which Lockwood left, would make one think
in ſadneſs,
That theſe ſo monſtrous creatures dwell
Either in Bedlam or in Hell,
Or that no tongue or pen can tell
their madneſs.
They were indeed disfigur'd ſo,
Friend knew not friend, nor foe-man foe:
For each man ſcarce himſelf did know:
But after
A frantick ſtaring round about,
They ſuddenly did quit their doubt,
And loudly all at once brake out
in laughter.
[259]
The heat of all is now allay'd,
The Keepers gently do perſuade;
And, as before, all friends are made.
full kindly.
Ellis the Captain doth embrace,
The Captain doth return the grace,
And ſo do all men in the place,
as friendly.
" By Jove I love thee," Ellis cry'd:
The Captain ſoon as much reply'd:
" Thou art, quoth he, a man well try'd:
and Vulcan.
With Mars at odds again ſhall be,
Ere any jars 'twixt thee and me;
And thereupon I drink to thee
a full can."
And then he kneel'd upon the ground,
" Drink 't off, quoth Ellis, for this round
For ever ſhall be held renown'd:
and never
May any quarrel 'twixt us twain
Ariſe, or this renew again,
But may we loving friends remain
for ever!"
" Amen," cry'd the Captain, ſo did all;
And ſo the health went round the hall;
And thus the famous Counter-brawl
was ended.
[260]
But hunger now did vex them more
Than all their anger did before;
They ſearch'd i' th' room how far their ſtore
extended.
They want the meat which Blany ſtole;
One finds a Herring in a hole
With dirt and duſt black as a coal,
and trodden
All under feet. The next in poſt
Snaps up and feeds on what was loſt,
And looks not whether it were roaſt,
or ſodden.
A third finds in another place
A piece of Ling in dirty caſe,
And Muſtard in his fellow's face.
Another
Eſpies, and finds a loaf of bread,
A diſh of butter all beſpread,
And ſtuck upon another's head
i' th' pother.
Thus what they found contented ſome:
At length the Keeper brings a broom,
Meaning therewith to cleanſe the room
with ſweeping;
But under table on the ground
Looking to ſweep, by chance he found
Lluellin, faining to be ſound-
ly ſleeping.
[261]
He pull'd him out ſo ſwift by th' heels,
As if his bum had run on wheels,
And found his pocket ſtuff'd with Eels:
his ********
Did plenty of proviſion bring,
Somewhat it held of every thing,
Smelts, Flounders, Rochets, and of Ling
a broad piece.
At this diſcovery each man round
Took equal ſhare of what was found,
Which afterwards they freely drown'd
in good drink.
For of good beer there was good ſtore,
Till all were glad to give it o'er;
For each man had enough and more,
that would drink.
And when they thus had drunk and fed,
As if no quarrel had been bred,
They all ſhook hands, and all to bed
did ſhuffle.
Ellis, the glory of the town,
With that brave Captain of renown:
And thus I end this famous Coun-
ter-Scuffle.
TO THE READER.
This Bacchanalian night-prize of the Counter-Scuffle being thus finiſhed, hath ever ſince frighted both priſoners and gaolers from coming into any room, for fear of a ſecond up⯑roar. So that the Counter, for want of ſweet garniſhing, and cleanly looking to, is grown ſo naſly that no man (by his good-will) will thruſt his noſe in at any of the grates: nay, [262] will rather go a mile about than come near it; though, to keep it ſweet, a great deal of mace is ſtuck upon every ſer⯑jeant, as if he were a capon in white broth. Upon this ſloven⯑lineſs it is woefully haunted with Rats: not ſuch Rats as run up and down in Brew-houſes, ſucking the new wort of ſtrong beer ſo long, and in ſuch abundance, that half the city is compelled to drink beer as ſmall as water; nor thoſe Rats which are not mealy-mouth'd in Bake-houſes, where they gnaw ſo many batches of bread, that a penny loaf wants ſometimes three or four ounces in weight: and then the honeſt Baker is blam'd, and curs'd, and (perhaps) innocently ſet in the pillory. Neither are they thoſe Rats which greaze their throats in Fallow-chandlers ſhops, where they nibble ſo much upon candles, that not one pound in an hundred is ever full weight. No, theſe are no Rats with four legs, but only two; and though they have neſts in a thouſand places of London, yet for the moſt part they run but into two Rat⯑traps, that is to ſay, the Counters of Wood-ſtreet and the Poultry, and for that cauſe are called Counter-rats:
How caught, how mouz'd, and what they are,
This picture lively doth declare.
R. S.
THE COUNTER-RAT.
OF Knights and Squires of low degree,
Of Roaring Boys, that ſtick and ſnee,
Of Battoon Dam-mees, that cry Bree,
I ſing now,
At men and women (Bawds and Whores)
At Pimps and Pandars that keep doors*,
At all that out-face Vintners ſcores,
I fling now.
[263]
What fling I? Nothing, but light rhymes,
(Not tun'd as are St. Pulcher's chimes)
No ſteeples' height my Muſe now climbs;
But flieth.
Cloſe to the ground as ſwallows do,
When rainy weather muſt enſue,
She flies, and ſings, and, if not true,
She lyeth.
Lay, (Hocus-Pocus*,) thy tricks by;
Let Martin Parker's† Ballads die;
Thy theming likewiſe I defy,
O Fennor‡.
Let Hogſdon-ſcrapers on their baſe
Sound fum-fum-fum from totter'd caſe,
Nor Mean nor Treble now take place,
But Tenor;
A Counter-tenor is that note,
Too eaſy—'tis ne'er ſung by rote,
But got with wetting well your throat
With claret.
Or ſtout March-beer, or Windſor-ale,
Or Labour-in-vain (ſo ſeldom ſtale),
Or Pimlico, whoſe too great ſale
Did marr it:
[264]
He that me reads ſhall fall out flat
With Homer's Frog, and Virgil's Gnat,
And Ovid's Flea, which ſo near ſat
The Moon-ſhine.
For I of ſtranger wonders write,
Of a wild Vermin got each night,
Mad Bulls i' th' dark, but Gulls in ſight
Of ſun-ſhine.
My metamorphoſis is rare,
For Men to Rats transformed are,
And then thoſe Rats are Priſoners fare,
O pity!
But 'tis good ſport to ſee them dreſt,
To garniſh out a morning's feaſt,
Each bit being ſalted with a jeſt
Scarce witty:
Theſe are not Rats that nibble cheeſe,
Or challenge mouldy cruſts for fees,
And rather will their long tails leeſe
Than bacon:
No, theſe are they, whoſe guts being cramm'd,
(As cannons hard with powder ramm'd)
And bag-pipe cheeks with wines inflam'd,
Are taken
By Conſtables and Bill-men eke,
Who ſpeak not Latin, French, nor Greek,
But are night-ſconces out to ſeek
Night-ſneakers,
[265]
Who late in taverns up do ſit,
Whiffing ſmoke, money, time, and wit,
Pouring in bowls, till out they ſpit
Full beakers.
Theſe, then, being to the Counter led,
Each Priſoner ſhakes his ſhaggy head,
And, leaning half out of his bed,
A laughing
Falls, and cries out—"A Rat—A Rat!"
" Oh! roars another, is he fat?
If not, fley off his cloak or hat!"
Thus ſcoffing,
Till morn they lie. The poor Rat gets
Into ſome hole. Beſide his wits,
To hear ſuch caterwauling fits,
So fright him;
But, day being riſen, all up do riſe,
And call for Beer to clear his eyes,
" A Garniſh!" then, the whole room cries:
They bite him.
Aſk any how ſuch news I tell,
Of Woodſtreet's hole or Poultry's hell?
Know, I did 'mongſt thoſe Gypſies dwell,
That cozen there.
I mean the Turnkeys and thoſe knaves,
Who rack for fees men worſe than ſlaves,
I ſaw brought in with bills and glaves
Some dozen there.
[266]
For I one night, by Rug-gowns* caught,
Was for a Rat to th' Counter brought,
What there my dear experience bought,
I'll ſell ye
Cheaper than I could have it there,
For they for tokens throats will tear,
But ſuch as 'tis, fill with the chear
Your belly.
Prick up your ears—for I begin
To tell what Rats, my night, came in,
Caught without cat, or trap, or ginn,
But mildly,
Being call'd before the Bench of wits
Who ſit out midnights Bedlam fits;
But ſome being rid, like jades with bits,
Ran wildly.
Firſt, about twelve, the Counter-gates
Thunder'd with thumpings—Doors and grates
Reel'd at the peal—when our priſon mates
Up ſtarting,
Saw in the yard a frantic ſwarm,
Crying, "O my head, neck, ſides, leg, arm!"
Sore had the fight been, but ſmall harm
At parting.
It was a Watch, ſwearing "We bleed!"
But 'twas their noſes dropt indeed;
" Maſters, quoth they, we charge you take heed
Of him there!
[267]A ROARING RAT.
That Royſter us to our trumps has put,
And run our Beadle through a gut,
His Bilbo has from each man cut
A limb here."
They gone, up comes the Breda-bouncer,
His tuſks ſtiff-ſtark like a brave Mounſer,
Of Turnbull-punks a ſtaring trouncer,
Some knew him;
" Why here?" quoth he: "why, zounds, becauſe
I'tugg'd with bears, and par'd their paws:
But ſure I mawl'd Mr. Conſtable's jaws,
O, ſlew him!"
" All's-one!" ſaid one. "Pleaſe you to bed, Sir?"
He, ſwearing, roar'd, "I'm better bred, Sir:
[...]ſcorn to rock my harneſs-head, Sir,
In feathers.
Give me a brick, Sir, for my bolſter,
An Armourer ſtill is my Upholſter,
In froſt, ſnow, muck-hills, I can roll, Sir;
Hang weathers!
Rogue, fetch me a ſweet truſs of ſtraw,
To ſire thy gaol.—Pox o' this Law,
That coops a Soldier like Jack-daw,
Is 't treaſon?
Raſcal! more claret!"—"There's none here, Sir;"
" Why then, you mangy cur, ſome beer, Sir."
" There's not a Tapſter dares come near, Sir."
" Thy reaſon?"
[268]
" Becauſe you thwack out ſuch huge words, Sir,
His wezand fears them worſe than ſwords, Sir."
" Mum then—I'll take a nap o' th' boards, Sir."
He ſleeps there.
A CROSS-LEGGED RAT.
A Puritan Taylor then came in,
Who, to take meaſure, out had been,
And, maudlin-drunk, to rince his ſin,
He weeps there.
Weeps to be call'd a Rat, being known
A man at leaſt—ſo down being thrown,
On a hard bench, thus did he groan
In ſorrow;
" Brethren, where am I?" One replied,
" In Woodſtreet Counter."—"O, my pride,
Thou art ta'en down! and I muſt hide
To-morrow
A head that was not hid before.
Wo worth him makes Manaſſes roar!
But die I may not in his ſcore,
Believe me,
For conſolation I eſpy
Through my ſweet Spaniſh needle's eye,
The Siſters* will (if here I lie)
Relieve me.
Siſters i'th' Counter! oh, no: here
Only the wicked-ones appear,
Waſh then thy ſhame in briniſh tears,
Confeſſing
[269]
Thou 'rt rightly puniſh'd for thy yard,
And for thy gooſe which graz'd too hard,
And for ſome ſtuffs which thou haſt marr'd
With preſſing."
We aſk'd him why he was brought in,
" Black threads of vice, quoth he, I ſpin;"
And then again did thus begin
Condoling,
" All are not Friars, I ſee, wear Cowls,
Nor all in minc'd ruffs milk-white ſouls,
I ſhould have talk'd thus when the bowls
Were trolling.
But then, to ſteal I held no harm,
Lappets of drink to keep me warm,
But linings wet hurt, though they arm,
Indeed-la!
O would my ſheers might cut my thread!
Why is this croſs-legg'd miſchief bred?
Mending my want from heel to head
With ſpeed-la.
Sorrow has made me dry: no matter;
Out of mine eyes will I drink water,
No other ram my brains ſhall batter
To kill me.
Roof, touch no more wines French or Spaniſh!
All drinks Papiſtical I baniſh,
Out of my lips this phraſe ſhall vaniſh,
Boy, fill me!"
[270]
One bid him call for beer. He ſaid,
" Oh, no more beer!—but reach me bread,
By that I'll ſwear—Would I were dead
And rotten,
When I again ſwill aught but whey,
Yet leſt, being cold, my zeal decay,
Hot waters ſhall not be one day
Forgotten."
AN OLD GREY RAT.
This done, he nods, and quickly ſnores;
And then afreſh wind-fly the doors,
An Uſurer hedg'd-in with mad Whores
Came wallowing
As does a great ſhip on the ſeas,
Set on by gallies; for all theſe
Were Fiſh-wives, who had wine at eaſe
Been ſwallowing,
And blown him up with penny-pots
Of ſack, which fall to him by lots,
Paid him at week's end by th' old Trots,
For ſhillings
Each Monday lent them, to buy ſkate,
Crabs, plaice, and ſprats, at Billingſgate:
Thus then they met, and hold thus late
Their drillings.
He reſts in peace, but is not dead,
Yet is worm's meat in louſy bed,
And lies like one wrapt up in lead,
None ſtirr'd him,
[271]
But all his oyſter-mouths gap'd wide,
(Wine in their guts was at ſtill tide)
The Devil did ſo their rumps beſtride,
And ſpurr'd them:
They flung and winc'd, and kick'd down ſtairs
Themſelves, and ſtampt like Flanders mares,
Hell is broke looſe; no Keeper dares
Approach them;
For at that dog (beſauc'd in ſack)
They grind their teeth, and curſe him black,
Crying out, "'tis he does break their back,
And broach them
So faſt, that all their gains boil out
Deep red to dye his filthy ſnout."
But that which flung theſe brands about
So hotly
'Gan now to quench them; ſleep does ſound
Retreat; dead drunk they all lie drown'd
In caſt-up wine; and on the ground
The ſhot lie.
A BLACK RAT.
Scarce was this helliſh din allay'd,
But, drench'd in mire, with drink bewray'd,
New curried was brought in a jade
All mettle,
An Oſtrich that iron bars could eat,
And ſtrong-beer out of ſeacoals beat:
His fifty cuffs did the watch fret
And nettle;
[272]
This ſecond Smug, who had the ſtaggers,
This Vulcaniſt whoſe nails were daggers,
This Smith ſo arm'd in ale, he ſwaggers,
At ſnoring,
Though lockt-up, yet ſet up his trade,
Bolts, hinges, bars, and grates, he made
Fly: which being heard, the Jaylors paid
His roaring.
They furniſh'd him with iron enough:
Neck, hands, and legs, had armour tough,
And ſtronger, but more cold, than buff,
To guard him.
How did they this? None durſt come near him,
Like Tom of Bedlam did they fear him,
All bringing cans, to pledge them ſwear him,
So ſnar'd him.
Yet for all this he danc'd in 's ſhackles,
And cried, "T'other pot; I want more tackles!"
And thus, till break of day, it cackles,
Laid having
The addle-egg of his turn'd brains,
In his iron neſt of ruſty chains,
Which made him loſe both ſenſe of pains,
And raving.
A LONG-TAILED RAT.
The next that in our Little-eaſe*
Came to be bit with lice and fleas,
Was a ſpruce knave like none of theſe,
But ſober.
[273]
As the Strand May-pole*, he did go,
In ruff—His thumb through ring did ſhow
A Gentleman ſeal'd; for he was no
Hog-grubber:
It was a petty-fogging varlet,
Whoſe back wore frieze, but bum no ſcarlet,
And was ta'en napping with his harlot,
At noddy:
But, being hal'd in, his hair he rent;
And ſwore they all ſhould dear repent
Their baſeneſs—for no ill he meant
To her body.
The Priſoners aſk'd then what ſhe was.
Quoth he, "My Client—one well to paſs:
Though here they impound me like an aſs,
I 'll ſerk them.
I 'll make the beadle pluck in 's horn;
He ſtirted at my noſe in ſcorn:
The Watch ſhall ſtink, the Conſtable mourn,
I 'll jerk them—
Hang them, if need be, for they broke
Her houſe—that's burglary—the clock
Scarce counting two—and then they ſtruck
O' th' mazzard.
An action of ſtrong Battery! good!
They made my noſe then guſh-out blood—
One more!—And that I miſs'd the mud
Was hazard.
[274]
Here's law in lumps. Muſt, when to trial
My client comes, I have denial
For ingreſs to her, by ſcabs? A Ryall
I enter
At midnight, a plain-caſe: elſe, Ployden,
The caſe is alter'd. Shall each Hoyden
Bar Law her courſe? Dare ruſtic Royden
So venture?"
A farthing candle burning by,
By chance his railing rage did die,
Yet to his breaſt Revenge did cry.
So churning
His brains for Law-tricks how to ſting them.
And up to all the bars to bring them,
He ſate, hard-twiſting cords to wring them,
till morning.
No more of this light ſkipping verſe,
A dreary tale I now rehearſe.
LONG this brown ſtudy did no [...] laſt,
But in at Counter-gates as faſt
Throng'd all the watch again. A noiſe
Of ſcraping men and ſqueaking boys
Straight fill'd the houſe. The Two-penny ward
Leapt up, and fell a-dancing hard:
Out at the hole all thruſt their heads.
The Knights-ward left their ſeven-groa [...] beds:
The Maſter's-ſide, hearing the din,
Swore, that the Devil was ſure brought in,
[275]But, when they heard they Fiddlers were,
Some curs'd the noiſe, ſome lent an ear;
None curs'd, but what went drunk to bed,
Being then for want of drink half dead.
Lock'd were the Fiddlers in a room,
All cry'd, "Strike up; play, Rogues, Fum-fum!"
The minikin tinkled, roar did the baſe;
Then bawdy ſongs all ſleep muſt chace.
The men play'd heavily, boys did whine,
Not ſeeing meat, money, beer, nor wine,
Up ſuch a laugh the priſoners took,
That the beds danc'd, and chambers ſhook:
Nay, the ſtrange hubbub did ſo pleaſe,
At priſon-bace ran both lice and fleas.
The roſin rubb'd off, and cat-guts weary,
We aſk'd, "How they, who made men merry.
Grew ſad themſelves; and why, like ſprites,
Fiddlers being ſtrung to walk a-nights,
Were they lock'd up?"—One then, i' th' eye
Putting his finger, told us why.
Quoth he, "Being met by a mad crew.
In theſe poor caſes, up they drew
Our fiddles, and like Tinkers ſwore,
We ſhould play them to The Blue Boar,
Kept by mad Ralph* at Iſlington;
Whoſe hum and mum, being pour'd upon
Our guts, ſo burnt them, we deſir'd
To part, being out o' th' houſe e'en fir'd:
As our hands play'd, our heads were plied,
And, though the night was cold, we fried;
[276]For ſuch hot waters ſod our brain,
Like Daws in June, we gap'd for rain;
Strong were our coxcombs, our legs weak,
We nor our fiddles had wit to ſpeak,
The company then being faſt aſleep,
And we paid foundly, out did creep
Into the highway. O ſweet Moon!
We, but for thee, had been undone:
Yet, though thy torch to us was lighted,
We all might well have been indicted,
For breaking into other's ground,
Three in one ditch being almoſt drown'd,
Yet out we ſcrambled, and along
The Play-houſe* came, where ſeeing no throng,
We ſwore 'twas ſure ſome ſcurvy play,
That all the people ſo ſneak'd away,
And ſo the players deſcended were
To the Stars, Nag's-head, or Chriſtopher.
To all thoſe taverns†, we cry'd, let 's go,
At which one fell, and then ſwore—No.
[277]
The Bars at Smithfield well we paſs'd,
For all the watch had run in haſte,
Arm'd with chalk'd bills, wak'd by a cry
Of Whore-drops ta'en by th' enemy.
From Cow-croſs ſtood thoſe ſtoves not far,
In which were enter'd men of war
(Low-country Soldiers late come o'er),
Each one going-in to preſs a Whore.
Leaving them preſſing, on we trot
Through the Horſe-fair, till we had got
Into the middle of Long-lane,
Where up the Devil does Brokers train;
There down we fell, and then 't fell out,
Our leathern caſes flew about,
We fenc'd, and foin'd, and fought ſo long,
That all our fiddles lay half unſtrung,
Their backs were broke, and we o' th' ground
Swooning for grief they did not ſound;
Our noiſe brought up from Alderſgate
The rugged watch, who before ſate
Nodding at the Mermaid's door,
Who with a guard of half a ſcore
Seiz'd us, and cry'd at going away,
" Sad Lachrymae you there ſhall play!"
This told, the Priſoners laugh'd outright;
And though the whole Ward had no light,
Yet from their beds all ſkip and cry,
" Scraper, ſtrike up; we the Watch defy."
The Moon ſo bold was to look in,
And ſaw ſome only in their ſkin
[278](Naked as Cuckoos when June 's paſt)
Some had long ſhirts down to their waiſt,
Some wanted back-parts, ſome an arm,
None wore a ſhirt could keep him warm,
A French boy, that ſweeps chimnies, wears
His patch'd-up frock as white as theirs:
Some on their heads no night-caps wore,
Some lapp'd their brows in hoſe all tore.
They hobble out, they friſk, they ſing,
So long that crack'd was every ſtring
By their rude horſe-play altogether,
Flinging their legs they car'd not whither.
Such horrid noiſe, ſuch ſtinking ſmell,
Cannot be heard nor felt in hell:
Yet o'er they gave not, till the ſun
Aroſe; then all to bed did run.
GOOD-MORROW.
The Rats into the trap that fell
This night were few: the Conſtable
Belike did wink, and would not ſee;
For, when the winds riſe, his Watch and he
Toſs all that venture on their waves;
The rocks being brown-bills, clubs, and ſtaves,
On which they ſplit them: theſe and they,
When morning comes, are fetch'd away;
Thoſe Rats, o'er night whoſe ſhapes did leeſe,
Being ſoon turn'd Men, by paying but fees:
Yet ſome loſe tail, ſome are ſcratch'd bare,
Whilſt Conſtables and Counters ſhare.
THE CHURCH-SCUFFLE; OR, THE NOBLE LABOURS OF THE GREAT DEAN OF NOTRE-DAME IN PARIS, FOR THE ERECTING IN HIS CHOIR A THRONE FOR HIS GLORY, AND THE ECLIPSING THE PRIDE OF AN IMPERIOUS, USURPING CHANTER: AN HEROIC POEM. CONTAINING A TRUE HISTORY; AND SHEWING THE FOLLY, FOPPERY, LUXURY, LAZINESS, PRIDE, AM⯑BITION, AND CONTENTION OF THE ROMISH CLERGY.
[279]TO JOHN EARL OF MULGRAVE, &c.
[280]MY LORD,
I HAVE long been aſhamed to ſee ſo many of my writings march into the world, and yet, not one of them honoured by your lordſhip's patronage. It is an eaſy matter for a troop to force themſelves on ladies and [281] neutral gentlemen, or nobility, who will not arm; but they muſt be men of ſome merit and gallantry, who compel regard from a General. Your lordſhip is as much above us in our own ways, as you are in other reſpects; and I give this manifeſt proof of it: your fortune, and, moſt men believe, your inclination, fixes you on the top of eaſe and pleaſure; therefore you would never have written one line, if it had coſt you any pains: yet have you performed maſteries, which we, who [282] make poetry the whole buſineſs of our lives, could never equal. In your Eſſay on Poetry there appears to me a commanding genius ſtanding on a riſe, over-looking the age you live in, ſeeing all the writers in it marching below you, and too often diſorderly; and you give us thoſe orders which plainly ſhew, Poetry attends on you, you may do what you pleaſe with it; but we, compared with your lordſhip, are but poor drudges to it, that have oftener the will than the power to do well. Your lordſhip has not only a perfect underſtanding of what is fit to paſs in the world, but you are of a ſevere temper, which will not give your paſs to any falſe ſenſe; the abſence therefore of your name from my writings ſeems a ſilent charge againſt me of want of merit. To remove that reproach, I take this occaſion to tell the world, your lordſhip has approved of ſome of my writings; and I have longed to make my brags of it, but have been hindered either by the unkindneſs of for⯑tune, which has given me ſome blow, and made me unfit to appear before you, or by the kindneſs of ſome generous perſons, by which my writings have been in a manner mortgaged. Though the law of the land does not reckon favour freely beſtowed among debts, the law of gratitude does; whenever a man is obliged, a judgement is entered againſt him. In the late reign, when your lordſhip graced the Lord Chamberlain's office, you were pleaſed to ſhew me thoſe regards which made me vain: and I was very deſirous to make it known to the world, but the cloudineſs of thoſe times got I think into my head, I did not write ſo well as I [283] have done formerly. Now I venture before your lord⯑ſhip, becauſe I bring an acquaintance of yours, I am ſure you value, Mr. Boileau; and a piece of his all men of ſenſe have eſteemed, becauſe it expoſes to con⯑tempt men who are the antipodes to good ſenſe; prieſts who advance nonſenſe above reaſon, make trifles of the moſt ſolemn matters, and ſolemn things of trifles, are idle in the great affairs of their calling, and buſy in impertinence. By the few we have had amongſt us of ſuch kind of Churchmen, we may gueſs the miſery of the people who live in the Roman Church, where there are ſcarce any other; where the whole maſs of prieſt⯑hood is a heap of proud fleſh, and all the ſtrength and nutriment of a nation goes to feed eccleſiaſtical cor⯑ruption; thanks be to God, we are in a condition to make ſport with them; if ever they come amongſt us, they will ſpoil the jeſt. And, paſt diſpute, it is very fit to render men contemptible who endeavour to make Re⯑ligion ſo. We have had too many in our Church who have buſied themſelves, and embroiled others about things which the French have had the underſtanding to know were only fit for a droll. But now we have greater affairs on our hand. We have not time to con⯑tend for modes in Religion, when the Being of the Pro⯑teſtant Religion, and indeed the Engliſh Nation, lies at ſtake. In a calm at ſea, men may have leiſure to wrangle at Cheſs; but, if a ſtorm ariſes, the quarrel is at an end, and the biſhops, knights, rooks, and pawns, that bred it, are left to ſhift for themſelves. I am well aſſured the Lutrin pleaſes your lordſhip, but I may doubt of [284] my management of it; for I treat it as an Engliſh pri⯑vateer would do a French prize, great part of it I ſling away, and I daſh, brew, and diſguiſe, the reſt as I think good. I ſhall not value how the world cenſures me, if I have the good-fortune to be approved of by your lordſhip, and thought worthy of the title of, my Lord,
Your lordſhip's moſt humble and obliged ſervant,
JOHN CROWNE.
CANTO I.
I SING of Angels—not the heavenly Choir,
Whom Peace and Truth, and Harmony inſpire.
Hoarſe brazen trumpet-like is my rough voice,
Jarring Church-Angels, therefore, are my choice.
In mighty Paris two great ſpirits reign'd,
Where one with eaſe could not be well contain'd.
They ſtrove, and from them dreadful thunders broke,
Which made great Notre-Dame both ſhake and ſmoke:
And, ere the almoſt falling Church could fix,
Strange janglings made, among Church-candleſticks.
Of all the Prieſts that wealthy Dome ſupply'd
With lazineſs, with luxury, and pride,
None deeper ſunk, or firmlier remain'd
In peace and fat, than he who o'er it reign'd,
The Dean; a ſolid Prieſt in fleſh and bone;
He like a ſleepy Roller trundled on
Along all times; and gather'd as he roll'd
A heavy heap of fat and clammy mold.
[285]He never knew when changes went or came,
All Times, Faiths, Oaths, appear'd to him the ſame.
He had no palate but for Meats and Wine,
In thoſe he was a learn'd profound Divine;
And to thoſe ſtudies kept ſo cloſe and hard,
To his Cathedral he paid ſmall regard.
Mean-while a haughty, melancholy, ſour,
Old buſy ſnarling Chanter ſteep'd in power:
Chief of the Chanters there he was by right;
But, not contented with that noble height,
Uſurp'd the Dean's ſupremacy, and, more,
Took high prerogatives unknown before,
As ſcorning power only at ſecond-hand;
And he was terrible in his command;
He made the Singers ſhake more than in ſong,
This fierce Uſurper rul'd in quiet long,
Obey'd, fear'd, honour'd, Church-affairs went on
In a profound ſtill current, croſs'd by none.
At length the Dean from his long ſlumbers woke,
Burſt through his cloud, and Church repoſe he broke.
He ſaw his reverence and ſtate were gone,
And gallantly reſolv'd to ſeize his own;
Nay his prelatic legal pomp advance
On the intruding Chanter's arrogance.
The great ſoul'd Chanter having proudly reign'd,
Submiſſion ſcorn'd, and uſurp'd ſtate maintain'd.
By his devotion to pomp, power, and pride,
He won the zealous Canons to his ſide;
Who, ſkill'd in cauſes of that mighty weight,
Lent him their aid by many a loud debate:
[286]So, of old, Pagan Prelates madly ſtrove
The Moon's eclipſe by noiſes to remove:
Pagans beat diſhes, pans, and platters hard,
Our Prieſts no chattering in quotations ſpar'd.
What Devil, envious of Church repoſe,
Theſe fire-balls into holy boſoms throws,
And turns the Church to a diſorder'd [...]out?
How can ſuch fury enter ſouls devout?
Stand off, Atheiſtic Wits, and Scoffers vain,
Do not my grave and ſolemn ſong prophane:
Great Notre-Dame, the high and ſtately ſcene
Of our enſuing ſtory, long had been
Adorn'd and bleſt with many a deep Divine,
Not deep in arts, but in down-beds and wine.
Their great devotion doubly they expreſt;
In Church by pomp, at home by heavenly reſt.
It grac'd their Maſter's ſervice, to maintain
In eaſe themſelves his favorite Gentlemen.
On their ſoft beds the morn they dos'd away,
And left the Choir the drudgery to pray;
And to rich lofty cuſhions to ſupply
Ther rooms in Church, and raiſe God's honour high
God was well ſerv'd, though Prieſts were never there:
Bright Reſidentiaries the cuſhions were.
The holy men eat, drank, and ſlept with zeal,
All for Heaven's honour, and the Church's weal:
Kept from themſelves all ſacrilegious toil;
True to their fat they were, as Rhemes to oil,
To anoint Gallic Kings an Angel brought
Much unctuous fat God ſent his holy lot,
[287]Our pious Canons, which to keep from waſte
Careful they were, not to preach, pray, or faſt;
Or only faſt to give themſelves a whet,
So when they charg'd, the rout was dreadful great.
Sometimes ſoul-lulling Sermons from them ſtream'd;
But ah! ſo gently, when they preach'd they ſeem'd
Like Halcyons brooding o'er a ſlumbering wave,
To the Cathedral peaceful calms they gave.
No croaking Preacher ſpoil'd, with tedious din,
Good Sunday dinners, or ſweet weekly Sin.
No noiſe was there but of harmonious ſound,
Diviſion there only in ſong was found.
When horrid Diſcord rear'd her ſnaky head,
To ſee who entertain'd a calm ſo dead,
So loath'd by her. Her Empire ſhe ſurvey'd,
And found her will by millions was obey'd.
Gladly ſhe ſaw in each well-govern'd ſtate
The law with formal pomp ſupport debate;
But Churches highly pleas'd her ear and eye,
She ſaw all Churches ſet her honour high.
Yet our Cathedral, only in Muſic loud,
Lodg'd Peace in ſcorn of Diſcord and her crowd.
Diſcord in rage perch'd on the lofty dome,
And from her mouth ſhe rain'd a poiſonous foam,
Which crack'd the glaſs; martyr'd th' Apoſtles there;
Then with a ſigh, which made trees ſhed their hair,
Foul'd the Church-plate, that all its ſplendors died,
Like men in damps; ſhe vented thus her pride:
" How dar'ſt thou, proud Cathedral, friendſhip ſhew
To Peace, (ſaid ſhe) my known and vanquiſh'd foe,
[288]Which round the world I 've ſpurn'd? Where has ſhe reſt?
In one fair Realm ſhe'as ſcarce one ſingle breaſt.
How often there in the ſame perſon fight
Whig, Tory, Williamite, and Jacobite,
Who have by turns the better of the fray;
As French or Iriſh get or loſe the day;
Or, as the hands of their good Moſes riſe,
Well to reward, or ſharply to chaſtiſe.
I 've made myſelf a barricado ſtrong
Of ſtiff Non-ſwearers, a moſt ſtubborn throng,
Who by no art to yield can be compell'd,
And grow more hard, like trees by being fell'd.
Nay ev'n ſome Swearers, to advance my reign,
The crown ſecur'd by law unfix again;
Carve power by conqueſt, which is carv'd by law:
Some Swearers againſt theſe keen weapons draw,
Between them Peace and Truth lead wretched lives,
Theſe fighters wound them with their carving-knives,
Me above Church and State all nations ſet:
And dares one Church neglect a power ſo great?
Woes for thee this provoking crime provides.
Streight her enormous figure Diſcord hides
With a ſquare cap, a ſurplice, hood, and gown;
Nor from an old ſour Canon could be known.
Moſt true to Diſcord; he wag'd endleſs war
With Peace, in preſſes, pulpits, at the bar,
All bars of civil and of canon laws,
To law he went, with or without a cauſe.
With ſuits at law all his tithe-corn he ground,
Aye, and himſelf and all his neighbours round.
[289]He would not ſpare his purſe, brain, fleſh, or bone,
To ſtir the clack of lawyers and his own.
Diſcord and wrangling better to promote,
He rail'd, he ſued, he ſtudied, and he wrote;
Toil'd unlike God, from light he darkneſs ſpun;
Worlds by this Anti-maker were undone.
He preach'd for malice, in the pulpit boil'd,
Till dinners and devotions were both ſpoil'd.
When his thin flock by winter winds were flea'd,
To gaul the ſore, he'd a long ſervice read;
Then far above his hour in pulpit rail,
Then tack an Altar-ſervice to the tail,
Till all their meat was burnt, and noſes raw,
Some to provoke to give him food for Law.
Diſſent, aſſent, his dues detain or pay,
(Though not to Heaven) to Court 's the certain way.
By this good guide all they were ſure to find,
Who not conform'd in all things to his mind:
If pious reverence they forgot to ſhew
To altars, and his perſon, by a bow;
And did not ſervice ſo exactly mark,
To ſtart at all reſponſes with the Clerk,
To pour their voices in the muttering throng,
And help to puſh the murmuring ſtream along;
If they nick'd not their times to kneel and riſe,
And on theſe faults his ſpectacles were ſpies.
But woe to Hugonots remote or nigh;
From his hot buſy zeal and watchful eye,
Proctors and Paritours had wealthy ſpoil,
And Conſtables an everlaſting toil.
[290]Baptiſmal water, ſacramental wine,
Caſt away much of the reformers coin.
Baſons and bowls not bleſt with legal forms
Were ſure to meet with moſt confounding ſtorms.
Diſcord had choſe this Canon for her own,
And therefore mark [...]d his brow with many a frown.
His lean cheeks wrangled, all the wrinkles claſh'd
Whene'er they met, and deep his viſage ſlaſh'd.
Therefore his figure Diſcord wiſely wore,
For none could fit her better, pleaſe her more.
CANTO II.
TO the Dean's palace ſtormy Diſcord ſteer'd,
And finds the bulkly Prelate ſepulcher'd
In an alcove and down; in hopes at laſt
Of joyful reſurrection to repaſt:
In his fair ſpreading cheeks, the Church's charge
Had rais'd a garden beautiful and large;
And in two ſtories built his goodly chin;
To let theſe run to ruin, were a ſin.
The holy man did no expences ſpare,
To keep them faithfully in good repair;
And every part about him fat and ſound,
For they were Church demeſnes and holy ground.
Rich curtains gave his ſlumbers ſtrong defence,
Againſt Da [...]'s ſacrilegious violence.
Soft pillows had his cheeks, and let no air
Approach to harm the lively roſes there:
For Youth's Spring-flowers in his dull Autumn grew,
Thoſe checks poſſeſſing which were Age's due.
[291]
All things in order were for dinner laid,
When the great Goddeſs her proud entry made.
Such exact order highly pleas'd her eye;
She knew the Church by ſcrupulous decency.
In all the joys of ſilence, eaſe, and pride,
And with a breakfaſt ſtrongly fortified,
The Dean, attending dinner, ſlumbering lay;
When thus the Goddeſs drove his reſt away.
" Wake quickly, Dean, ſhe ſaid, or wake no more;
A Chanter haughtily uſurps thy power,
Shines in the Choir with thy prelatic grace,
And awes it with the ſame commanding face.
All bows of Singers are to him addreſt;
All Congregations by his mouth are bleſt;
He graces all the Saints high ſolemn days,
When, to oblige them, he in perſon prays.
Shortly he'll youth confirm, and prieſts ordain,
And ſcarce to thee thy rochet ſhall remain.
Renounce thy prelacy, or thy repoſe:
Thy fortune dooms thee one of them to loſe."
This ſaid, ſhe breathes into him, through his ear,
The ſpirit of a common Barretter.
He wakes and yawns, and with half-open'd eyes
Gives the dire fiend his bleſſing as he flies;
Then, like a raging bull with hornet ſtung,
Around the chamber his fat body flung;
Chid maids and lacqueys, why he did not know,
And before dinner to the Choir will go.
But his wiſe Steward much allay'd his rage,
By counſels ſeaſonable, calm, and ſage.
[292]" What fury's this, ſaid he, has ſeiz'd your mind,
And hurries you to Church before you've din'd?
Oft have you left the work of ſaving fouls,
To ſport ſome hours at tables, cheſs, or bowls,
But for the Church ne'er dinner left till now;
The dreſſer-board is ready for the blow.
Your cook now foams, and ſo does your pot-táge,
With your judicious palate to engage.
And if your roaſt-meats you compel to ſtay,
Sir, they will weep their gravy all away.
Your haut-gouſts, now moſt vigorous and ſtrong,
Will ſicken if in cold they tarry long,
And never be reviv'd by ſecond heat:
Sir, if you go, you'll murder all your meat.
It is not Lent; ſay 'twere, it ſeems a waſte
Of holineſs in holy men to faſt.
Your tongues and pens ſupport Church rites and laws,
What need y' engage your bowels in the cauſe?
Sure 'twas the Church's motherly intent,
Lent ſhould keep Prelates, and not Prelates Lent.
Religiouſly ſupport your high degree,
Do not by toil debaſe your dignity."
This ſaid, he wiſely cover'd all the cloth
With crowds of diſhes, and a flood of broth.
Much on the pious Dean this viſion wrought;
His cloth a while St. Peter's ſheet he thought;
A treat let down from Heaven in a dream,
Till his pleas'd noſtrils felt th' inviting ſteam.
Then fiercely he apply'd himſelf to eat,
And found it more than viſionary meat.
[293]Faſt o'er the tongue he turn'd his morſels all;
Like morning-collects [...]t a feſtival;
Himſelf he almoſt choak'd, but not his wroth,
He champ'd his words and meat confuſedly both.
He ſkipt from diſh to diſh, he knew not why,
No order minded, nor ſweet decency.
The Steward thought his Maſter's end was near,
He knew not creatures which he lov'd ſo dear;
And in great ſorrow was about to run
To ſummon friends; but Fame that work had done.
They ſcattering came like troops of daunted cranes,
When the proud pigmy a recruit obtains.
The viſit rais'd the Prelate from deſpair,
Chac'd from his viſage the late furious air.
So pleas'd he was with the reſpect they ſhew'd,
That he vouchſaf'd to riſe, nay more, he bow'd:
Commanded the Weſtphalia-ham again,
Fill'd wine himſelf to honour the good men,
Drank firſt and largely; the example pleas'd,
And ſtrait a flaggon of its load was eas'd.
He kindly mov'd them then to take a part
Of what remain'd, and of a fair deſert;
The table clear, out burſt his inward pain;
" Dear friends, ſaid he, by whoſe ſupport I reign,
Myſelf your charitable work I own,
Which the proud Chanter thinks to tumble down;
At leaſt, by interpoſing in my rights,
To make me uſeleſs, and blind up my lights.
To him do all Church-officers repair;
At his command the Sexton rings to prayer.
[294]Chapters are held at his uſurping call;
What need of Deans, if Chanters can do all?"
But then tears ſtopt the current of his talk:
His loving Steward empower'd his tongue to walk
With chearful wine, when Bovrude, bending low
With heavy age, with trembling ſteps and ſlow,
Enter'd the room. The Church had us'd his pains
In four ſucceſſive Deans voluptuous reigns.
None in Church-cuſtoms was ſo ſkill'd as he;
He was a living true Church-hiſtory.
His knowledge rais'd him from a Sexton poor,
To the high truſt of all Church-garniture.
Great office! Robes are often half the Dean:
This rules thoſe Robes, ordains them to be clean.
One in this office half a Dean ordains,
O'er half a Dean as Dean he proudly reigns.
He has in part an arch-prelatic power;
He 's of one college parcel-viſitour.
At firſt approach, the Reverend Sage eſpies
The Dean's demoliſh'd pride and groveling eyes.
Gueſſing the cauſe, he ſmiling tow'rds him mov'd,
And, father-like, his childiſh grief reprov'd.
" For ſhame, ſaid he, let the poor Chanter weep,
Your rights and empire ſtudy you to keep.
Hark to the counſel Heaven does now inſpire;
Where the proud Chanter over-looks the Choir
With frowning arrogance, ſome ages paſt,
The Church was ſhaded with an engine vaſt,
Deſk, throne, or pulpit, call it what you pleaſe:
At once it ſerv'd devotion, pomp, and eaſe.
[295]There, thron'd in glory, I have known a Dean,
In veſtments rich, on velvet cuſhions lean.
Prayer-books, emboſt with gold, before him ſhone,
Which drew all eyes upon them but his own.
A worm ſtol'n from a grave the Chanter ſeem'd,
Juſt viſible enough to be contemn'd.
Time, fate, or fiends, malicious men, or all,
(For they 're all foes to good) conſpir'd its fall.
Malicious men, we think, by ſecret art
Gave it a ſickneſs in ſome noble part,
That never viſited nor minded well,
One morn it yawn'd, and down to ruin fell;
And to its worth th' ungrateful Choir unjuſt,
Laid it in dark forgetfulneſs and duſt
What honour'd once the Choir, has now forlorn
Lain thirty winters languiſhing in ſcorn.
Three of us, fit for ſuch a great affair,
Will, perriwig'd in Night's diſhevel'd hair,
Steal to the pulpit, in its mournful room,
And gloriouſly reward its martyrdom.
If once to murmur the proud Chanter dare,
The wretch with forty biting actions tear.
Since not in Learning, be in Law renown'd;
Shew a Church-ſpirit, the whole Church confound,
Ere quit a tittle of your ſacred right;
Let Laymen pray. Prelates are known by might.
Your dazzling right divine dart at your foe;
Then to the Church in all Church-ſplendor go;
And there brow-beat th' uſurper to the ground;
Then, to out-brave him, diſperſe bleſſings round.
[296]To blaſt his pride, and ſhew yourſelf ſupreme,
Bleſs all the Congregation, nay, bleſs him."
The counſel ſeem'd to admiration wiſe;
The Dean in raviſhments, with lifted eyes,
Heaven's inſpiration moſt devoutly bleſt;
But ſtrait a new reflection ſtruck his breaſt.
" I now have in the Choir a ſeat, ſaid he.
Cloath'd with rich cuſhions, crown'd with canopy
On what pretence can I erect this throne?"
Boyrude reply'd, "A moſt religious one:
Sermons to hear!" Th' aſſembly trembled all
With horror at the ſound fanatical.
The Prelate, hotly fir'd, profanely ſwore;
And almoſt call'd for an Inquiſitor.
" Dar'ſt thou, ſaid he, name ſermons in my ear?
I 'll be no Dean, ere buy the place ſo dear.
I 'll rather combat with wild beaſts, like Paul,
Or, like Iſaiah, be ſaw'd once for all,
Than weakly be with torturing ſermons ſaw'd,
Poſtpone my meals, and be with faſting gnaw'd;
Nay more, myſelf into the toil they 'll fetch,
And I myſelf ſhall be oblig'd to preach."
" Make potent Prelates preach! the Sage replies,
Pray, by what rule' you are not tongues, but eyes.
Our eyes guide all our limbs, yet keep their eaſe;
Labour becomes not higheſt dignities.
Sectaries, like Jews, with wanderings are perplext,
Doom'd all their lives to rove from text to text,
Die in that wilderneſs, and ne'er poſſeſs
Rome's bleſſed holy land of lazineſs;
[297]A land that flows with honey, milk, and gains,
At Heaven's ſole coſt, and not the owner's pains.
Of this you 've more than a dim Piſgah ſight;
And eaſe is your inviolable right.
Make Canons preach; and, while the work is done,
Let your auſtere grave preſence laſh them on.
By their dull ſaws no doubt you would be pain'd,
But you 'll with ſweet revenge be entertain'd.
They 've uncanonical rebellious tongues,
And from them you 've receiv'd a thouſand wrongs.
Like jades in water-works, Sir, make them ſweat,
Till from them penetential drops you get.
Then you 'll ſoon have revenge and reverence both;
Soon at your feet they 'll fall, to compaſs ſloth."
Into a loud applauſe th' aſſembly broke,
And thought man never with more wiſdom ſpoke.
All ſtart, of fame to have the greateſt ſhare;
But the wiſe Dean reduc'd them as they were.
" All things in Church by order muſt be done,
Said he, that rears and fixes every throne.
None ſhall approach this work, but thoſe whom Fate
Shall, by a lot, ordain and conſecrate."
Thirty ſelected names are writ with haſte,
And in the bottom of a bonnet caſt.
Fairly to draw the billets, they employ
Roſy-cheek'd Will, that pretty Singing-boy;
His head new poll'd, his face and linen clean,
Though no Saint's-day, for much he pleas'd the Dean.
The Prelate all partiality diſclaims;
Having thrice bleſt, as often ſhakes the names.
[298]
Will draws, and Trole is the firſt name that comes:
Birds promis'd good, which freely peck'd their crumbs;
Sure no ill augury could now be read,
This red-beak'd bird from liquor never fled.
A pleaſing murmur in the throng was rais'd,
And Fortune's choice by every one was prais'd.
Will to his office does again repair,
And draws a name, moſt fatal to the fair,
Of a young Singing-man, whoſe charms ('tis ſaid)
Had been the death of many a Chamber-maid.
Nay, his keen mounting darts reach'd lofty game,
Threatened high ranks with loſs of life or fame.
Whatever beauty ogled him was loſt,
And ſoon became a ſtrumpet, or a ghoſt.
Yet to the dangerous ſnare they ventur'd all:
His ſilver pipe was a true lady-call,
Which both Church-pews and Play-houſe boxes cram'd,
Entic'd the Fair both to be ſav'd and damn'd.
But, oh! that lady gain'd the height of bliſs,
Whom he in private taught to ſing and kiſs.
Long the ſoft ſex did for the youth contend;
Some took their eyes, ſome money, for their friend.
Some had him all, and ſome had modeſt ſhares,
Some clear'd their tones, ſome gave a crack to theirs.
To him his fortune gave a ſecond choice,
And now they go to aſk Fate's laſt advice,
Their names and panting hearts are toſt again,
Each fearing Fate his perſon ſhould diſdain.
Honeſt old Verger! what ſincere delight
Shook thy dry corpſe, when thy name roſe in ſight!
[299]Thy yellow cheeks turn'd red, and, with a ſhout,
Thou backwards gav'ſt a ſpring in ſpite of gout.
Now loyal true Church hearts, who for Church weal
Had an unquenchable religious zeal,
Much prais'd Fate's choice of men for Church affairs,
And wiſh'd all realms as able miniſters;
All kings as deep in ſight, as Fate had ſhewn
In chuſing men, to ſerve the Church and Throne.
On the deſign now all prepare to go;
And, in a murmuring ſtream away they flow
To the Dean's cellar, where they rent the arch
With drunken ſongs, and ſounded oft a march.
The Prelate, calm'd, reſum'd his loſt repoſe,
And now, till ſupper, laid him down to doſe.
CANTO III.
NOW Night was in the middle of her reign:
Great was her pomp, and ſpacious was her train.
From her large throne of jet, ſhe ſaw the proud
High towers of Paris ſcorn an humble cloud.
Ravens, and all the prophets of the air,
Nightly to dormitories near repair:
Amongſt the reſt, for twenty winters foul,
In a dark cave, a Sibyl, call'd an Owl,
Secur'd herſelf from Day's oppreſſing light;
And fled abroad, to propheſy at Night.
Of great diſaſters ſhe has early ſenſe,
Is an impartial true intelligence.
All ſects believe her, though ſhe joins with none;
The Schiſmatick flies all communion.
[300]Night for her healing touch Nature enthrones,
She often cures both crazy minds and bones.
Kings fall'n with care below e'en common men,
She re-anoints, and makes them kings again.
Day wears, but Night repairs, nay makes mankind,
The only labour to her reign aſſign'd,
Therefore this Ethiop with Day divides
The rule of time; half through her empire ſlides.
Angry to ſee her reign profan'd with toil,
She poſted to ſuppreſs the noiſy broil,
And the bold authors; for the great affair,
She choſe this Owl her premier miniſter,
And call'd her out; her black queen's voice ſhe knew,
To her retinue joyfully ſhe flew.
Both ſwiftly through th' auguſt Cathedral paſt,
And found the priſon of the engine vaſt.
It lay neglected in a deſert room;
Night plac'd her bird deep in its duſty womb.
Now Trole and Minnum, two great chiefs elect,
Left the Dean's vault, and the ſlow Verger check'd.
He was as vigorous as they in mind,
But age and gout detain'd him far behind.
Beſides, th' old tortoiſe carried on his back
Of neceſſary tools a boiſterous pack,
As hammer, chiſſels, mallet, ſaw, and nails,
Under whoſe weight his waſted vigour fails.
The warriors force through Night's affrightful ſhade;
Then valiantly the high proud dome invade.
Firſt they aſcend to the magnific porch,
Which ſtor'd the valued learning of the Church.
[301]
The Verger ſtopp'd the troop, whilſt, with the dint
Of ſteel, he cut the veins of ſtubborn flint,
And forc'd from thence a ſpark; the infant bright
As ſoon as born begot another light,
Which proves to them a kind of midnight ſun,
By whoſe direction boldly they go on.
Th' unfolding gates upon the troop let looſe
Deteſted ſhades, like floods through opening ſluice.
Like a bold caravan the ſtream they ſtem,
The horrors and the ſolitude contemn,
So on in wilds where never was a road,
And reach at length the pulpit's dark abode.
Their wonders on the fall'n machine they feaſt,
Like birds upon the carcaſs of a beaſt.
" How now? ſaid Minnum, come we here to gaze?"
And then, ambitious to engroſs the praiſe,
With a ſtiff threatening arm, and bending back,
He ſingly made a deſperate attack.
Ere half his force the engine had receiv'd,
(Aſtoniſhing! and ſcarce to be believ'd)
A horrid voice out of the pulpit flew,
Th' old Verger from his back his burthen threw;
The fire from Trole's flaming viſage ſtray'd,
Only in his noſe, as in a ſocket, play'd.
Pale Minnum like a lily hung his head,
With his loſt miſtreſs wiſh'd himſelf in bed:
But, fearing ſhame, he put falſe courage on,
Seem'd bolder now more danger might be won.
The frightful dangerous engine ſhook once more,
With greater reſolution than before.
[302]
The angry Owl, once more depriv'd of eaſe,
Ruſhes abroad with greater menaces,
Scattering a ſtorm of wind and duſt about,
Which put their candle and their courage out.
Their trembling knees could not their bodies bear;
Their nerves were weaker than their ſtaring hair.
In wild confuſion they ſlunk all away,
Like truants by their whipſter catch'd at play.
Diſcord rag'd at their foil, and, in deſpight
Of their baſe fear, will force them to the fight.
In Boyrude's wither'd figure ſhe appears,
Aged, but worn with wrangling more than years;
Wrinkled, but malice half the cyphers made,
And claim to half his waſted viſage laid.
Her bending trunk ſhe with a ſtaff ſupports,
And haſtes to find her warriors' dark reſorts.
With broken voice, and hoarſe with frequent brawl,
She cries, "Where are you fled, ye cowards all?
Think you, becauſe your odious heads ye hide,
Your infamy more odious is not ſpy'd?
Come out, and ſhew the reaſon of your fear."
Stung with reproof, with boldneſs they appear,
Proud of th' encounter, and prepar'd to boaſt,
For all of them believ'd the Owl a Ghoſt.
Minnum was fix'd in the opinion ſtrong;
His charms had kill'd a Sempſtreſs fair and young,
Her heart was cruſh'd between his voice and face,
The kingdom had not ſuch a dangerous place.
His voice had fix'd her in the fatal ſnare:
She often came to gaze on him at prayer,
[303]And, when his eye was from the book releas'd,
He glances ſhot which pierc'd her tender breaſt.
At length, alas! ſhe periſh'd in the fray,
Her ruin therefore heavy on him lay.
What ſhape could more exactly fit her ſoul,
Than that of an unlovely baſhful Owl,
Whom the wing'd Chanters drive out of their ſight,
And make her live in melancholy night?
With theſe conceits they ſwelling came, and cram'd;
Minnum for th' Owl a doleful ſpeech had fram'd.
He ſaid, "We ſaw a Ghoſt or Goblin foul!"
Reply'd the Goddeſs, "Goblin! a poor Owl
Drives you from glory by baſe childiſh fears,
This Owl has been my neighbour thirty years.
Near my own houſe ſhe every evening makes,
And ſends abroad, her nightly Almanacks.
Fear you a fooliſh timorous Owl's grimace?
How durſt y' encounter then a Judge's face?
Board Lawyers without ſees, as I have done,
And to myſelf immortal glory won.
Judges from me could not protect the bar,
Where ſpite of them my deeds recorded are.
Oh, Sirs! the Church produc'd brave ſpirits then,
A Sexton was as ſurly as a Dean;
Bore wrongs as proudly, and forgave as few:
The leaſt of us would a whole Chapter ſue.
But the old world grows barren by degrees,
And breeds no more ſuch gallant ſouls as theſe.
However, imitate their virtues great,
Let not an Owl compel you to retreat.
[304]Think what diſhonour on yourſelves you throw,
How inſolent you'll make the Chanter grow:
From texts he cannot borrow ſuch control,
As from the ſhameful ſtory of the Owl.
The thought o' th' Owl will ride you night and day;
Diſpirit you, though ye be ne'er ſo gay;
Untune your voices when you'd ſing your beſt,
Ruſſle your plumes when you are neatly dreſt,
Your ſurplices, wips, cravats, ſet with care,
E'en women will regard you leſs than prayer;
The pews will be neglected by degrees,
And the old Verger loſe his Sunday fees.
I hear a murmur ſay your ſpirits riſe,
And I ſee Church-like fury in your eyes.
Away to honour, gather laurels faſt,
With preſent bravery hide diſhonour paſt."
This ſaid, the warlike Goddeſs took her flight.
And, mounting, ſtreak'd the air with tracks of light,
Which fir'd our champions hearts. The Howlard fled;
A generous contempt ſucceeded dread.
Th' affront receiv'd from the vile ſaucy foe
On th' engine was reveng'd by many a blow.
In mournful tones the pitying organ moan'd,
And the whole ſympathizing temple groan'd.
Ah! when this ſpacious wooden horſe was rear'd,
If thou, oh Chanter! hadſt the treaſon heard,
Thou, in defence of eccleſiaſtic pride,
Like a true Church Apoſtle, would'ſt have dy'd;
Rather great Martyr been, than Chanter ſmall,
And in red letters ſhine, or not at all.
[305]But ſleep thou feed'ſt does with thy foes combine,
And hug thee whilſt they compaſs their deſign.
For now a lofty Eccleſiaſtic Throne
Buries thy Bench, where thou ſo long haſt ſhone.
CANTO IV.
NOW do the cocks begin their morning brawl,
And drowſy Chanters to their mattins call.
Their Chief was troubled with a frightful dream,
Which made him ſweat, and waken with a ſcream.
His trembling Valets, on his ſecond cries,
Forſake their warm enticing down, and riſe.
But wakeful Gerot reach'd his Maſter firſt,
An humble Valet, but a Verger curſt.
He kept the Choir on the ſiniſter ſide,
He crouch'd at home, but there he ſhew'd his pride.
Mean were his common cuſtomers for pews,
So in their humble bows he took his dues.
Said he, "What humour drives your reſt away?
Will you to Church, when it is ſcarcely day?
Sleep on; your buſineſs is to take your eaſe:
Let vulgar Chanters earn their ſalaries."
" Friend, ſaid the Chanter, trembling, faint, and pale,
Your mirth would die, if you knew what I ail.
Inſult not o'er me, but prepare to hear
Th' amazing cauſe of my ſurprizing fear.
When ſleep had twice upon my eyes beſtow'd
Of drowſy poppies a freſh-gather'd load;
I dreamt I fill'd my lofty Seat in prayer,
Triumphing o'er the Minor Chanters there,
[306]Abſolving, chanting, taking humble bows.
Giving the bleſſing; all with frowning brows:
When a great Dragon, with jaws dreadful wide,
Souz'd on my Bench, and ſwallow'd all my pride."
Then rage tongue-ty'd him; Gerot, laughing loud,
Said, "Dreams were fumes from ill-concocted food;
Cooks with ill ſauce could every night beſtow
On childiſh fancies ſuch a puppet-ſhow."
The ſour old man could ne'er with mirth agree,
But now abhorr'd his ill-tim'd raillery:
Forbad him ſpeaking, and from bed he flings.
Gerot, to calm him, his rich habit brings:
Which very little could his mind ſuſtain,
For, if his Deſk be hid, all thoſe were vain.
But yet their offer'd grace he will not ſlight;
He ruſh'd into his gown, and ſurplice white.
But, above all, he will not leave behind,
His ſpacious ſcarlet hood, with tabby lin'd:
His haughty heart would break, if he ſhould lack
That proof of learning, to adorn his back.
With his beſt bonnet then he grac'd his brow,
Sole mark of learning his white head could ſhew,
His purple gloves he never fail'd to wear,
When he would honour much himſelf and prayer.
And, marching now in battle to engage,
Omitted no illuſtrious equipage.
Then much beyond the weakneſs of his years
Puſh'd on, and earlieſt in the Choir appears.
But, oh! what ſpite and fury fir'd his blood,
When on his Bench he ſaw the Pulpit ſtood!
[307]" Oh, Gerot ſee, ſaid he, the Dragon ſee,
Which broke my ſleep, and now will ſwallow me.
Oh, faithful Dream! thou too much truth haſt ſhown;
The Dean is an ingenious tyrant grown;
By this machine, does wittily contrive
To ſend me to infernal ſhades alive.
Nothing but God will ever ſee me here;
Dark ſhadows will expunge my character.
Ere ſuch a horrible affront I'll bear,
I'll quit my office, and the Church forſwear;
I'll give my vain ſuperfluous Chantings o'er,
And tire the ears of God and Man no more.
I'll never toil that Deans may glory win,
Nor ſee that Choir where I ſhall ne'er be ſeen.
'Tis time enough to go to ſhades when dead,
I'll now have light." Then his old arms he ſpread
With fury ſtrong; and ſhook the wondrous frame,
When th' Organiſt and the Clock-mender came,
His faithful friends. The viſion ſtruck them wan,
With trembling hands they held th' old venturous man;
Said they, "The work's too weighty for us all;
By a full Chapter let the Monſter fall,
In open day; 'twill your great party ſhew,
Strengthen yourſelf, and terrify the foe.
" Right," ſaid the Chanter; "go, by noiſe or force.
The ſleeping Canons from their beds divorce."
The Champions trembled, when beyond their thought
Their counſel on themſelves ſuch danger brought.
" Oh! moderate your anger, Sir! ſaid they.
Awaken rich fat Canons before day?
[308]Men doubly buried both in fleſh and down!
Th' attempt is rare, the deed was never known.
Starv'd Monks a larum in their boſoms keep,
Hunger, a watchful enemy to Sleep.
Their thin-worn wheels are ſoon in motion ſet:
But who can ſtir a Canon mir'd in fat?"
" Deceitful cowards, th' old teſty man reply'd,
You fain your terror of the Dean would hide:
A hundred times I've ſeen you croüching ſtand
With ſervile necks, beneath his bleſſing hand.
The work, good Gerot, ſhall by us be done,
Our friends for once ſhall ſhame the loitering ſun."
Cunning old Gerot knew the Canons well,
Spar'd his worn lungs, rung the great maſter-bell;
Which, like the heavy Dean, but ſerv'd for ſtate,
And almoſt broke the Church with needleſs weight.
Th' unchriſt'ned bell, with ſacrilegious roar,
From his ſtrong camp the God of ſlumbers tore;
Broke open all the holy Canons eyes,
And made the Devil of noiſe and tumult riſe.
Some believ'd thunder broke into the room,
Others half fear'd it was the day of doom.
Some Prieſts, leſs ſcar'd, thought 'twas a dying knell;
Some keenly hungry hop'd 'twas Pancake-bell.
The ſound with different ſenſe fill'd every head,
Like a dark text, wondrous confuſion bred.
So when, to batter down a hundred walls,
The thund'ring Lewis leaves the fair Verſailles
To the young Spring, not valuing her delights,
And with ſpread banners all the world affrights;
[309]Danow to th' Euxine haſtes his march to ſhun,
Swift Rhine in great commotion hurries-on,
Bruſſels for burſting bombs looks every hour,
And Sodom-like to feel a fiery ſhower.
Rich ſkirted Tagus creeps far under ground,
And hides much treaſure there in vaults profound.
Amphibious Holland plunges deep in waves,
Buries itſelf alive in watery graves.
So under blankets the prieſts duck'd their heads,
Sought a warm eaſy burial in their beds.
Vexatious Gerot knew their temper well:
With potent words he ſeconded the bell.
" Ho, breakfaſt waits!" the cunning Verger cries.
At that angelic ſummons, all ariſe:
In expectations of divine delights,
All look their cloaths, but none their appetites,
For they were ready, ere their gowns were on:
Headlong undreſt to the great hall they run:
But, 'ſtead of breakfaſt, met a mournful tale,
Told by the Chanter with great fury pale;
Who, as a peſtilence were in his breath,
Struck mighty hunger with a ſudden death.
Everard a painful abſtinence abhorr'd,
And bad the Verger cover ſtrait the board.
To that once ſavoury motion no man ſpoke,
At length learn'd Allen the deep ſilence broke.
He only, of all the Prieſts our Church obey'd,
Had not his Latin ſmother'd and o'erlaid.
Others by wealth to dulneſs did advance,
And with the Church's coin brought ignorance.
[310]But he had wander'd from that practis'd rule,
And was as learn'd as when he came from ſchool.
His Roman tongue there gave him mighty power,
There he was almoſt Roman Emperor.
None in his preſence durſt lay claim to parts,
For, if they did, his Latin ſtabb'd their hearts.
This tyrant yet was their defence and grace:
Latin was ſuch a terror to the place,
All other Canons fled at firſt alarms
Of men approaching with ſuch dreadful arms.
But noble Allen ſcorn'd his head to hide,
And ſturdy ſhocks of Latin durſt abide.
Moſt learnedly equipp'd, th' accompliſh'd man,
Having firſt cough'd, his wiſe harangue began:
" Some Huguenots, our curſt eternal foes,
Planted this here, to batter our repoſe.
In ſome Church Hiſtory they 've read, I fear,
Canons once preach'd, and Deans ſat here to hear.
I range in volumes, not to poach for art,
But to meet Latin which delights my heart.
Let us all ſtudy with what ſpeed we may,
And ſhew ourſelves as deeply learn'd as they.
About this Pulpit then let 's quickly found
All learned men in theſe great things profound."
Th' unlook'd-for counſel all th' aſſembly ſcar'd,
But made an earthquake in fat Everard;
Who ſhaking with aſtoniſhment and rage,
" How I, ſaid he, turn ſchool-boy in my age!
Do thou look pale, and wither o'er a book,
I ne'er ſo much as on the Bible look.
[311]I only ſtudy when our rents are due,
When leaſes fall, and tenants ſhould renew.
Books I abhor; they fill the Church with Schiſms;
Much miſchief we have had from Syllogiſms.
If to Religion you would converts make,
Burn Books and Men, ſay I, and uſe a ſtake.
I will not vex my head: my arm alone
Shall, without Latin, throw this Pulpit down.
I care not what Heretic Raſcals ſay:
What troubles me, I 'll throw out of my way.
So let's prepare for the renown'd deſign,
And, when accompliſh'd, plentifully dine."
No ſooner the word Dinner paſs'd their ears,
Than up their ſtomachs roſe, down fell their fears,
But then the Chanter, none more bold and great,
Exclaim'd, "This Tub too long has made us ſweat.
Do Deans fear duſt? muſt they be cas'd like clocks?
Would they like ſentries awe us from a box?
In our Church-pillar is ſome rottenneſs ſpread:
To hide himſelf, he would be wainſcoted.
My vengeance on this ſoppery I'll throw;
And an hour's faſting on the work beſtow.
This done, at once we 'll break our faſt, and dine,
And two fair meals with both their portions join."
By this inſpir'd, the haughty Champions go
With an audacious zeal to charge the foe.
The walls vain aid to the poor Engine lent,
The nails in vain their iron fingers bent;
The Champions vanquiſh'd all reſiſtance round,
The batter'd Engine fell with many a wound.
[312]Antichriſt never had ſuch dreadful blows
From mighty Prieſts who were his bitter foes:
For, as this Pulpit was, he 's wondrous high,
A great Uſurper of Church-vanity.
Therefore have many rail'd at him aloud;
He will let no man but himſelf be proud.
Now the Dean's State, of late ſo high and great,
Once more is in a ſea of darkneſs ſet!
LINES BY MR. HIGGONS*, IN THE BLANK LEAF OF "THE ROYAL MISCHIEF," A TRAGEDY, BY MRS. MANLEY.
THE tender boy in our cold country 's chill'd;
No ſooner born, but the young Cupid 's kill'd.
All talk of Love, but few the paſſion feel,
Till thy warm lines the ſacred power reveal;
Such myſteries of Love thy ſcenes convey,
That 'tis Enjoyment but to read thy Play.
All ſex and age attend thy moving ſong,
Which virtue brings to all; confirms the ſtrong,
Recruits the weak, and makes the dotard young.
VERSES TO THE QUEEN AND PRINCE, ON THEIR VISITING OXFORD, 1702.
[313]I. TO THE QUEEN, AT CHRIST-CHURCH.
WHEN haughty Monarchs their proud ſtate expoſe,
And Majeſty an aweful greatneſs ſhews;
Their ſubjects, Madam, with amazement ſeiz'd,
Gaze at the pomp, rather ſurpriz'd than pleas'd.
But your more gentle influence imparts
Wonder at once and pleaſure to our hearts.
Where-e'er You come, joy ſhines in every face;
Such winning goodneſs, ſuch an eaſy grace,
Through all your realms diffuſive kindneſs pours,
That every Engliſh heart 's entirely yours.
The Muſes' ſons with eager tranſport view
Their long-deſponding hopes reviv'd in You,
The Muſes' ſons to Monarchs ever true.
Theſe happy walls, by royal bounty plac'd,
Often with royal preſence have been grac'd.
Here Kings, to eaſe the cares attend a crown,
Preferr'd the Muſes' laurels to their own.
And here You once enjoy'd a ſafe retreat,
From noiſe and envy free: to this lov'd ſeat,
To be a gueſt, You then did condeſcend;
Which now, its happy guardian, You defend.
Oxford, with joy, beholds the Royal Pair,
And finds her Muſes are her Prince's care.
[314]May we preſume to claim a nearer tye?
They are your Subjects, we your Family.
Accept the duty then we doubly owe,
We ſhare your Preſence and Protection too.
So, when great Jove within the country cell
Of humble pious Baucis meant to dwell,
The bounteous God grac'd her with gifts divine;
And, where he found his refuge, fix'd his ſhrine.
II. TO THE PRINCE, AT CHRIST-CHURCH.
AND You, auſpicious Prince, our other care,
Accept the duty which your Iſis pays:
Whether in arts of Peace, or deeds of War,
The Hero juſtly claims the Muſe's praiſe.
Aſpiring Youth, fir'd with a generous flame,
The tracts of princely virtues here purſue;
At once both copy and admire your fame;
And all their different aims unite in You.
One bloody ſieges and feign'd camp deſigns,
And fancied ſchemes of future actions draws,
And early, in imaginary times,
Defends his Country's and his Prince's cauſe.
Others the milder arts of Phoebus chuſe,
And to ſmooth numbers form their tuneful tongue:
From You begin, to You direct their Muſe,
The Subject and the Patron of their ſong.
[315]Illuſtrious Gueſts, Joint-partners in our love,
Protect theſe arts which by your influence live.
Thoſe arts which we with loyal zeal improve,
To You return the vigour they receive.
Whilſt Ormond, by undaunted courage led,
Regions unknown and diſtant foes alarms;
We, Ormond's care, to early duty bred,
Learn here to aid your councils and your arms.
III. TO THE QUEEN, AT SUPPER.
BY MR. FINCH*.
WITH love, though rude, we crowd this hallow'd place,
And clog that triumph which we mean to grace,
To view the Queen, that frees us from alarms,
Secures our quiet, and directs our arms.
England before its ruin'd trade deplor'd,
A mourning victor and diſputed lord.
Now mouldering fleets in Gallic harbours lie,
While Britiſh ſhips their double world defy.
Our Muſes hear the battles from afar,
And ſing the triumphs, and enjoy the war.
This now; but ſoon the quivering ſpear they'll wield,
And lead the ſhouting ſquadrons to the field.
They'll ſerve that Princeſs whom before they ſung,
Defend that Queen beneath whoſe eye they ſprung.
So ſpreading oaks, from lovely Windſor born,
Shall ſhelter Britain, which they now adorn:
With ſwelling ſails o'er diſtant ſeas they'll go,
And guard that Goddefs by whoſe care they grow.
IV. TO THE QUEEN, GOING TO BED.
[316]MADAM, once more, th' obſequious Muſe,
With zeal and juſt ambition fir'd,
Her grateful homage here renews,
In numbers by Yourſelf inſpir'd:
And late her willing duty ſhows,
To guard you to your ſafe repoſe.
Within this ſilent humble cell,
Secure the gifts of ſleep receive;
No factions here or diſcords dwell,
To break that reſt the Muſes give.
Here daily cares help to increaſe,
Not interrupt, our mighty eaſe.
Theſe walls, more happy now, poſſeſt
Of the moſt fair and ſhining Court,
Not in the Muſes, but their Gueſt,
Theirs and the Muſes' chief ſupport.
So Delphos was the bleſs'd abode
Of Phoebus' Prieſts and of the God.
May Heaven its ſacred charge defend!
May every Grace and every Muſe,
Round You with watchful care attend,
And balms of gentle ſleep infuſe!
Such as the virtuous only know;
Kind as the bleſſings You beſtow!
Appendix A CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.
[317]- THE Eagle and the Robin. By Dr. King. Page 3
- Robin Red Breaſt with the Beaſts; an Old Cat's Prophecy. By the ſame. 13
- Bibliotheca, or the Modern Library. By the ſame. 19
- Epiſtle to Mr. Goddard. By the ſame. 74
- Receipt to make an Oatmeal Pudding. By the ſame. 77
- Receipt to make a Sack-poſſet. By the ſame. ibid.
- Upon a Giant's Angling. By the ſame. 78
- Apple-Pye. By the ſame. ibid.
- The Charms of Liberty, in Alluſion to the Arch⯑biſhop of Cambray's Telemachus. By W. Cavendiſh, Duke of Devonſhire. 81
- To the Returning Sun. By J. H. 87
- On the Dutcheſs of Portſmouth. 88
- The Dream. By Mr. Talbot. Occaſioned by the Death of Lady Seymour. 89
- Elegy, by Mr. J. Talbot. Occaſioned by reading and tranſcribing Mr. Waller's "Poem of Di⯑vine Love" after his Death. 92
- Againſt Sloth; when the King was at Oxford. 93
- Ode ſung before King Charles II. on New-year's-day. By Mr. Jacob Alleſtry. 94
- What art thou, Love? By the ſame. 96
- To Sir Godfrey Kneller, drawing Lady Hyde's Pic⯑ture. By Mr. Higgons. 113
- To a Lady, who, raffling for the King of France's Picture, flung the higheſt chances on the Dice. By the ſame. ibid.
- [318]On Lady Sandwich's being ſtayed in Town by the immoderate Rain. By Mr. Higgons. 114
- To Mr. Pope. By the ſame. ibid.
- Of the Immortality of the Muſes. By Henry Cromwell, Eſq. 115
- Ode to Sylvia. In Imitation of Prior. 117
- The Apparition. By Abel Evans, D.D. Occaſioned by the publication of Tindal's Rights of the Chriſtian Church. 118
- Vertumnus, an Epiſtle to Mr. Jacob Bobart. By Dr. Evans. 145
- On Blenheim Houſe. By the ſame. 161
- On Sir J. Vanbrugh, an Epigrammatical Epitaph. By the ſame. ibid.
- On a Learned Device on Blenheim Great Gate; a huge Lion tearing a Cock in Pieces. By the ſame. 162
- On the ſame. ibid.
- On Dr. Tadlow. By the ſame. ibid.
- Dr. Conyers to Dr. Evans Burſar, on cutting down ſome fine College-trees. 163
- On the Monument at London. By Capt. Radcliffe. ibid.
- Dryden's Deſcription of Night burleſqued. By the ſame. 166
- To the Memory of a fair young Lady. By Dr. Yalden. ibid.
- To Myra, written in her Cleopatra. By the ſame. 168
- Advice to a Lover. By the ſame. ibid.
- To the Earl of Roſcommon, on his Eſſay on Tranſ⯑lated Verſe. By Dr. Chetwood. 169
- [319]On the Marriage of the Lady Mary with the Prince of Orange. By Dr. Chetwood. 173
- On the Firſt Fit of the Gout. Probably by the ſame. 175
- To Dr. Chetwood, when he had the Gout. By Dr. Waldren. 177
- Epiſtle-from Dr. Waldren to Dr. Chetwood, on his refuſing to take the Oaths 179
- To Celia. By the ſame. 180
- An Eſſay upon Death. By the ſame. 181
- Song, made for a Wedding. By the ſame. 185
- Epigram on a Pigmy's Death. By Dr. Sprat. ibid.
- Marvel's Ghoſt. By Captain John Ayloffe. 186
- On the Cambridge Commencement. By the ſame. 188
- Written in a Lady''s Waller. 190
- Song 191
- Anacreon imitated. ibid.
- Anacreon imitated. 192
- Anacreon imitated. 193
- Pallas. ibid.
- Part of Virgil's Firſt Georgick. By Mr. Sacheverell. 194
- Song. By Sir John Eaton. 199
- Sir John Eaton imitated. By John Earl of Rocheſter. 200
- The Paſſing Bell. 201
- Ballad on a New Opera. 1658. 202
- The Hypocrite. By Mr. Caryll. 1678. 205
- On Seeing a Bank of Primroſes covered with Snow. By Mr. Thomas Foxton. 207
- On the Caſtle of Dublin. By Dr. Parnell, 1715. 208
- On the Death of Mr. Viner. By the ſame. 209
- Epigram. By the ſame. 212
- [320]Love in Diſguiſe. By Dr. Parnell. 213
- Chloris appearing in a Looking-glaſs. By the ſame. 214
- On a Lady with Foul Breath. By the ſame. 215
- On the Number Three. By the ſame. 219
- Eſſay on the different Styles of Poetry. By the ſame. 217
- The Counter-Scuffle, 1670 237
- The Counter-Rat. 262
- The Church-Scuffle. 279
- Canto I. 284
- II. 290
- III. 299
- IV. 305
- Lines by Mr. Higgons, in the blank Leaf of the Royal Miſchief, a Tragedy by Mrs. Manley. 312
- Verſes to Queen Anne and the Prince of Denmark, on their viſiting Oxford in 1702. 313
- I. To the Queen at Chriſt-Church. By Mr. Harcourt.
- II. To the Prince at Chriſt-Church. By Mr. Cowſlade. 314
- III. To the Queen at Supper. By Mr. Finch. 315
- IV. To the Queen, going to Bed. By Mr. Pulteney. 316
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
Notes
*
The political moral of this little apologue is too evident to need any other comment, than barely mentioning that the lady was Queen Anne; deſiring the reader to recollect the change which ſhe made in her miniſtry in 1709, the year in which this poem was written; and referring to Dr. King's "Rufinus, or the Favourite," in the Engliſh Poets, vol. XX. [...]. 367 N.
*
To the works of this excellent Humouriſt, which were firſt collected in 1776, I prefixed ſome Memoirs of his Life; which have ſince been ſo elegantly epitomized, that it would be ſuperfluous to enlarge on this article. Some extracts from his laſt biographer ſhall therefore ſupply the place: ‘"William King was born in London in 1663, the ſon of Ezekiel King, a gentleman. He was allied to the family of Clarendon. From Weſtminſter-ſchool, where he was a ſcholar on the foundation under the care of Dr. Buſby, he was at eighteen elected to Chriſt-church, in 1681. In 1688, he was made maſter of arts; and, engaging in the ſtudy of the Civil Law, became doctor in 1692, and was admitted advocate at Doc⯑tors Commons.—Though he was a regular advocate in the courts of civil and canon law, he did not love his profeſſion, nor indeed any kind of buſineſs which interrupted his volup⯑tuary dreams, or forced him to rouſe from that indulgence in which only he could find delight. His reputation as a civi⯑lian was yet maintained by his judgements in the courts of Delegates, and raiſed very high by the addreſs and know⯑ledge which he diſcovered in 1700, when he defended the earl of Angleſea againſt his lady, afterwards dutcheſs of Buckinghamſhire, who ſued for a divorce, and obtained it. The expence of his pleaſures, and neglect of buſineſs, had now leſſened his revenues; and he was willing to accept of a ſettlement in Ireland, where, about 1702, he was made judge of the admiralty, commiſſioner of the prizes, keeper of the records in Birmingham's tower, and vicar-general to Dr. Marſh the primate. But it is vain to put wealth within the reach of him who will not ſtretch out his hand to take it. King ſoon found a friend, as idle and thoughtleſs as himſelf, in Upton, one of the judges, who had a pleaſant houſe called Mountown, near Dublin, to which King frequently retired; delighting to neglect his intereſt, forget his cares, and deſert his duty. Here he wrote "Mully of Mountown," a poem, by which, though fanciful readers in the pride of ſagacity have given it a political interpretation, was meant originally no more than it expreſſed, as it was dictated only by the au⯑thor's delight in the quiet of Mountown. In 1708, when lord Wharton was ſent to govern Ireland, King returned to London, with his poverty, his idleneſs, and his wit. In 1711, competence, if not plenty, was again put into his power. He was, without the trouble of attendance, or the mortification of a requeſt, made gazetteer. He was now again [...]laced in a profitable employment, and again threw the be⯑nefit away. An Act of Inſolvency made his buſineſs at that time particularly troubleſome; and he would not wait till hurry ſhould be at an end, but impatiently reſigned it, and returned to his wonted indigence and amuſements. One of his amuſements at Lambeth, where he reſided, was to mor⯑tify Dr. Tenniſon, the archbiſhop, by a publick feſtivity, on the ſurrender of Dunkirk to Hill; an event with which Ten⯑niſon's political bigotry did not ſuffer him to be delighted. King was reſolved to counteract his ſullenneſs, and at the ex⯑pence of a few barrels of ale filled the neighbourhood with honeſt merriment. In the autumn of 1712 his health de⯑clined; he grew weaker by degrees, and died on Chriſtmas-day. Though his life had not been without irregularity, his principles were pure and orthodox, and his death was pious. After this relation, it will be naturally ſuppoſed that his poems were rather the amuſements of idleneſs than efforts of ſtudy; that he endeavoured rather to divert than aſtoniſh; that his thoughts ſeldom aſpired to ſublimity; and that, if his verſe was eaſy and his images familiar, he attained what he deſired. His purpoſe is to be merry; though perhaps, to enjoy his mirth, it may be ſometimes neceſſary to think well of his opinions."’ I need not repeat that this is quoted from Dr. Johnſon.
The poems which are now preſented to the reader are none of them in the late collection of the Engliſh Poets. N.
*
[...], amongſt the Greeks, ſignifies ‘"Honour as tender as the eye."’ KING.
*
The political drift of this pretended prophecy is ſtill more evident than that of the preceding poem; the ſatire being abundantly more perſonal. N.
*
This is aſcribed to Dr. King upon conjecture only. It was publiſhed in 1712, the winter before he died, by his bookſeller, inſcribed to his patron, and is very much in his manner. His name is accordingly affixed to the author's notes. The poem is on many accounts worth preſerving; and if it is not Dr. King's, it is at leaſt not by an inferior writer. N.
†
The duke was captain of the band of gentlemen pen⯑ſioners. N.
*
Though the intereſts of Virtue and Religion are beſt ſe⯑cured by the ſevereſt reaſon and argument, yet I hope a leſs ſolemn recommendation of them to the world- may not be eſteemed a prejudice to either. How oft has a ſtubborn folly been ſucceſsfully arraigned by a candid and eaſy rebuke, which had long maintained itſelf againſt a more powerful, though a leſs familiar, conviction! If we can ſmile away the follies of an adverſary, ſport with his vanities, and laugh him into a ſenſe of his errors; why ſhould we forfeit that exquiſite pleaſure of complacency and good-humour, which a malicious conflict with a rival would moſt certainly deprive us of? If we miſcarry in an attempt of this nature, our defeat would be the leſs diſhonourable, becauſe we ſeemed only to play and trifle with the miſtakes of an author; but ſhould we, under the maſk of a little raillery, wit, and good-humour, obtain our end, it would double our ſatisfaction, as well as the glory of our conqueſt. Two important debates of the utmoſt conſequence in religion (Eachard's Contempt of the Clergy, and Philautus and Timothy) have with won⯑derful applauſe lately appeared in the world; the beauties of their author's ſtile, the purity of their diction, the elegant turn of thought, and above all a torrent of ſevere but good-natured wit, drew a thouſand readers to peruſe an hypotheſis they little imagined ever to eſpouſe; but they were inſenſibly deluded into good principles, and betrayed into a conviction of thoſe very truths they came on purpoſe to deride and ridicule. Where they expected to gratify a fancy only, they found a more real advantage in the reformation of their judgement, and, from admirers of the author's wit and beauties, became at laſt proſelytes to their opinions. If in two or three inſtances I have tranſgreſſed my own rules, the Fool or the Knave muſt be imagined very notorious; and that thoſe tender and merciful laſhes that were judged ſufficient for little offenders would hardly have reached the vanities of the one, or the villainies of the other. And if I am thought to have injured any perſon in his character, or to have ſaid as much as I am able, I muſt beg leave to aſſure the world, that it was owing to abundance of humanity and good-nature I did not ſay a great deal more; and would rather adviſe them to ſit eaſy and quiet under the innocent rebukes of a ſatire, than provoke others to prepare that correction, which their ignorance, their impudence, or both, have ſo juſtly deſerved. KING.
†
John Scott, D.D. author of the Chriſtian Life, 5 vols. R.
‡
A whimſical odd fellow, and a preacher among the Camiſars. KING. — Lacy was one of thoſe enthuſiaſts who ſupported the French prophets. R.
*
See the battle of Mons, 1709. KING.
*
Dr. King's very humourous "Dialogues of the Dead" are particularly leveled againſt this coloſſal critic. N.
†
Sir Richard Blackmore. N.
‡
The God of Medicine and of Verſe. N.
*
Ogilby and Lauderdale. KING. — To the latter of theſe tranſlators, however, Mr. Dryden was conſiderably indebted. N.
*
An engraver of ſingular eminence. N.
*
De Foe. He wrote a dull ſcandalous libel on all the Engliſh nobility, called "The true-born Engliſh-man." KING.
†
De Foe's firſt profeſſion. N.
*
He wrote an infamous libel called "The ſhorteſt Way," for which he was apprehended and ſtood in the pillory, to which afterwards he wrote a "Hymn," KING.
*
An alluſion to one of his tracts, called "The Shorteſt Way with the Diſſenters." N.
*
Of whom, ſee the Supplement to Swift. N.
†
Two poems by ſir Richard Blackmore. KING.
†
Two poems by ſir Richard Blackmore. KING.
*
Of George Wither, whoſe memory is preſerved wi [...] unjuſt contempt by Swift and Pope, ſee Dean Percy [...] "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," vol. III. p. 190. N.
*
John Sheffield, duke of Buckingham. N.
*
See Dr. Gibſon's edition of Camden. KING.
†
See in the ſame book, Miracles of Glaſtonbury Abbey. Ib.
*
The Arcadia. KING.
*
This ſeems intended for Wharton; but it cannot be the lady whoſe poems are printed in the firſt volume of this col⯑lection. It may probably be the firſt wife of the marquis of Wharton, who, Mr. Walpole ſays, was a poeteſs, and has an article in the General Dictionary. I know nothing of her works. R.
†
Afterwards the celebrated Mrs. Rowe. N.
‡
Mrs. Philipps. See vol. II. p. 50. N.
*
See vol. I. p. 85. N.
†
A Moth. KING.
*
Captain Ayloffe, author of "Marvell's Ghoſt."
†
The ſatire on Marvell is wonderfully miſplaced. N.
*
See the Mortality of the Soul, and Licentia Poetica [...]ſcuſſed, written by Dr. Coward. KING. — To the Licentia [...]oetica was prefixed the firſt known poem of Mr. Gay. [...] the Engliſh Poets, vol. XLI. p. 207. N.
*
Mr. Edward Holdſworth, author of the "Muſcipula," a poem which is eſteemed a maſter-piece in its kind, written with the purity of Virgil whom the author ſo perfectly underſtood, and with the pleaſantry of Lucian, was elected demy of Magdalen college, Oxford, in July 1705; took his degree of M.A. April 18, 1711; became a college-tutor, and had a conſiderable number of pupils. In January 1715, when, according to the order of ſucceſſion at that time obſerved, he was the next to be choſen into a fellowſhip, he reſigned his demiſhip, and left the college, being determined againſt taking the oaths to the new government. From that period he was employed to the time of his death in travelling with young noblemen as tutor. He died of a fever at lord Digby's at Coleſhill, in Warwickſhire, Dec. 30, 1747. He is the [...]erſon of whom Mr. Spence ſpeaks in Polymetis, p. 174, [...]s one who underſtood Virgil in a more maſterly manner [...]han any perſon he ever knew. See alſo p. 232 and 276. He [...]as the author of a diſſertation intituled "Pharſalia & Phi⯑lippi, or the two Philippi in Virgil's Georgies attempted to be explained and reconciled to hiſtory, 1741." 4to. and a quarto volume of "Remarks and Diſſertations on Virgil; with ſome other claſſical obſervations, publiſhed" [under the inſpection of Dr. Lowth] "with ſeveral notes and ad⯑ditional remarks by Mr. Spence, 1768." 4to. See Briti [...] Topography, vol. II. p. 497, 498. N.
*
Places in Oxford ſo called. KING.
*
Various have been the Engliſh imitations of the Muſ⯑cipula; but no one happier than Chancellor Hoadly's. N.
*
Biſhop of Exeter from 1707 to 1716. N.
†
The name which Edmund Smith went by. See the Life of him by Dr. Johnſon. N.
*
A very famous Burleſque Poem in imitation of Milton. KING.
†
See the Deiſt's notions of a future ſtate, taken from their Orthodox ſcripture of Virgil's Sixth Aeneid. KING.
‡
A very celebrated univerſity ale-houſe. KING.
*
Lucretius. KING.
†
Theory of the Earth. Ibid.
*
‘"Horatius Emendatus, invitis omnibus criticis, [...] eſſe lege [...] dum pronuncio."’ Modeſt Doctor Bentley! KING.
" Tis true, on words is ſtill our whole debate,
" Diſputes of Me or Te, of aut or at."
POPE, Dunciad IV. 219.
*
See "Horatius Emendatus;" and Dr. Bentley's Dedica⯑tion of Horace to the earl of Oxford, deſigned for the late trea⯑ſurer if he had continued in his poſt till laſt Chriſtmas. KING.
*
The reſemblance between OBLIVION and the GODDESS OF THE DUNCIAD is too ſtriking to have been accidental; and indeed there are many traits of that admirable Satire to be diſcerned in this "Deſcription of a Modern Library." N.
†
A whimſical Theoriſt, and a late Apoſtate to Soci⯑ [...]ianiſm. KING. — However whimſical Mr. Whiſton might be in ſome of his opinions, yet candour muſt acknowledge that he was learned, pious, and indefatigable, a warm friend, and very uſeful member of ſociety. N.
*
A ſcandalous atheiſtical club, at the Grecian coffee-houſe. KING.
†
The Italian Singers. KING.
‡
See Hydaſpes, act third, a hero drubbing a lion. KING And ſee the Spectator. N.
*
A celebrated academy in Covent-garden, obliged by [...] charter to furniſh out a dozen of Engliſh wits every ye [...] KING
†
An inſolent audacious Deiſt and Republican. KING.
‡
See the Natural Mortality of the Soul, by Mr. Dod⯑well. KING.
‖
Two intimate friends, an Engliſh Atheiſt and a Dut [...] Socinian. KING.
*
i. e. Biſhop Burnet. N.
†
The Solemn League much preferable to the Apoſtles Creed, about Edinburgh. KING.
‡
See the Moſaical Hiſtory, corrected and confuted by Whiſton, Woodward, Burnet, Carteſius, and Ovid's Me⯑tamorphoſes. KING.
*
The arms of Ireland. KING.
†
Anthony Collins, eſq. N.
‡
Party prejudice is here too prevalent. N.
‡
Party prejudice is here too prevalent. N.
‖
Abel Boyer. N.
*
The character which cloſes this poem cannot fail of pleaſing. Even the biaſs of party, which affected both Mr. Steele and this Poet, is readily forgotten and forgiven. N.
†
Taken from an admirable banter of our author's, in⯑tituled, "Two Friendly Letters from honeſt Tom Boggy, to the Rev. Mr. Goddard, Canon of Windſor," very proper to be racked to the Canon's Sermon;" firſt printed in 8vo, 1710. This Sermon (full of high treaſon againſt High-church, Hereditary Right, and Sacheverell) was intituled, "The Guilt, Miſchief, and Aggravation of Cenſure; ſet forth in a Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel within her Majeſty's Caſtle of Windſor, on Sunday the 25th of June, 1710. By Thomas Goddard, A.M. Canon of Windſor. London, printed for B. Lintot, 1710." — Mr. Goddard was inſtalled canon May 26, 1707, and was alſo rector of St. Bennet Finch, London. He publiſhed a 30th of January Sermon, in 4to, 1703; and "The Mercy of God to this Church and Kingdom, exemplified in the ſeveral Inſtances of it, from the Beginning of the Reformation down to the preſent Time. A Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel at Windſor, on Tueſday the 7th of No⯑vember, the Day of Thankſgiving, 1710," 8vo. They were all reprinted in 1715, with three others, under the title of "Six Sermons on ſeveral Occaſions," 8vo. N.
*
A well-known political paper by De Foe; in which Mr. Goddard's Sermon was immoderately commended. See a long account of this writer, and of Ridpath and Tutchin his aſſo⯑ciates, in the "Supplement to Swift." N.
*
This poem hath been claimed as Mr. Welſted's, in "The Weekly Oracle," Auguſt 16, 1735; with a remark, that ‘"Dr. King, the Civilian, a gentleman of no mean reputation in the world of letters, let it paſs ſome years, without con⯑tradiction, as his own."’ It is in King's manner. N.
†
See the old Ballad of "King Cole," in the Anglo-Saxon language, in the ſecond volume of King's Works, p. 87.
*
This nobleman, the firſt Duke of Devonſhire, is more known for the political integrity of his character, and the ſpirit with which he reſiſted the tyrant of his country, than for the abilities which he diſplayed as a writer. He was born Jan. 25, 1640; and at an early age travelled with Dr. Killigrew, afterwards maſter of the Savoy, who gave him a juſt and true reliſh of poetry, and all the refinements of wit and ſenſe. He joined the party which oppoſed the arbitrary proceedings of Charles the Second, and was very active in all the meaſures which were adopted againſt that monarch and his ſucceſſor James the Second. On the death of his father, on the 23d of November, 1684, he ſucceeded him in the title of Earl of Devonſhire, and ſoon after becam [...] a principal promoter of the Revolution, being one o [...] thoſe who ſecretly planned it, and took up arms to carry th [...] deſign into execution. On the accompliſhment of that im⯑portant event, he received the rewards which his ſervice [...] merited; and was, on the 30th of April, 1694, create [...] Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonſhire. He con⯑tinued to enjoy the favour of his ſovereign until the time o [...] his death, which happened on the 18th of Auguſt, 1707, i [...] the 67th year of his age. Mr. Walpole obſerves, that h [...] was ‘"a patriot among the men, galant among the ladie [...] His friendſhip with Lord Ruſſell, his free ſpirit, hi [...] bravery, duels, honours, amours, are well known, an [...] his epitaph, will never be forgotten.’ R.
" WILLIELMUS DUX DEVONIAE
" BONORUM PRINCIPUM SUBDITUS FIDELIS,
" INIMICUS ET INVISUS TYRANNIS."
*
Another copy reads, N.
" Here let imaginary fears prevail,
" And give a colour to affected zeal."
*
I cannot aſcertain to whom theſe initials belong; per⯑haps to Mr. John Hughes. N.
*
Louiſe de Queroualle, miſtreſs to Charles II; created dutcheſs Aug. 9, 1673; died April 11, 1734, at Paris. N.
*
Who this J. Talbot was, I cannot diſcover; but there was a tranſlation of Seneca's Troas, by J. T. publiſhed in 1686; and in a copy thrown out of Lord Bathurſt's Library, which I ſaw, the laſt initial was filled up with the name of Talbot, and I have no doubt but he is the ſame perſon. R.
†
Lady Elizabeth Seymour, daughter to William lord Al⯑lington, of Horſheath, in the county of Cambridge; ſhe was the ſecond lady of Charles lord Seymour of Trowbridge, and mother to Francis and Charles ſucceſſively dukes of Somerſet. This noble lady was afterwards married to Sir John Ernle, knt. chancellor of the exchequer. N.
*
This idea occurs in "Sable Night," a favourite ſong in "The Duenna." N.
*
Lady Elizabeth Audry, wife to Joſceline Percy the 11th earl of Northumberland, and after his death married to Ralph lord Montagu, afterwards created duke. N.
*
Son of James Alleſtry, a bookſeller of London, who was ruined by the great fire of 1666. Jacob was educated at Weſtminſter ſchool, entered thence at Chriſt Church in Act Term 1671 at the age of 18, and was elected ſtudent in 1672. He took the degrees in Arts; was Muſic Reader in 1679, and Terrae Filius in 1681, ‘"both which offices, Wood ſays, he performed with very great applauſe, being then accounted a good philologiſt and poet. But, being exceed⯑ingly given to the vices of poets, his body was ſo much macerated and ſpent by juvenile extravagances, that he retired to an obſcure houſe in the ſuburb of Oxon;"’ where continuing incognito about 7 weeks, he died in a miſerable condition, Oct. 15, 1686, and was buried very meanly in St. Thomas's church-yard, at the eaſt end of the chancel. N
*
Mr. Alleſtry had the chief hand (as Wood was informed) in making the Verſes and Paſtorals which were ſpoken in the Theatre of Oxford, May 21, 1681, by William Savile ſecond ſon of George earl (afterwards marquis) of Halifax, and George Cholmondeley third ſon of Robert viſcount Cholmondeley of Kellis (both of Chriſt Church), before James duke of York, his dutcheſs, and the lady Anne. N.
†
By the death of his eldeſt brother, this young nobleman ſucceeded to his father's title of marquis of Halifax; which, on his own deceaſe in 1699, became extinct. N.
*
This young gentleman was made cornet of horſe in 168 [...]. On king William's acceſſion he was appointed one of the grooms of his bedchamber, and ſerved in all the wars during that reign. He was conſtituted major general of queen Anne's forces July 1, 1702, and governor of the forts of Tilbury and Graveſand. He was continued in his employments, and pro⯑moted by George I. who created him baron of Newborough in Ireland March 15, 1714 15; and baron Newburgh in England July 2, 1716. He ſucceeded his brother as earl of Cholmondeley, March 20, 1724-5; and died May 17, 1733. N.
*
The character of Damon was ſupported by Lord Savile; that of Thyrſis by Mr. Cholmondeley. N.
*
The poetical name by which the earl of Rochaſter was diſtinguiſhed. See vol. II. p. 125. N.
*
The honourable Edward Howard, by his poem called "The Britiſh Princes," engaged the attention of by far the moſt eminent of his contemporaries; who played upon his vanity, as the wits of half a century before had done on that of Thomas Coriat, by writing extravagant compliments on his work. See Butler's verſes, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. VII. p. 197; Waller's, vol. VIII. p. 179; Denham's, vol. IX. p. 143; Sprat's, in the ſame volume, p. 162; and the Duke of Dorſet's, vol. XI. p. 187. N.
†
The ingenious writer, to whom Dr. Spratt addreſſed his Life of Cowley. He was maſter of the Charter-houſe. N.
*
John lord Vaughan, grandſon to Richard the firſt earl of Carbery. He was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of Charles II. and was for ſome time governor of Jamaica. The latter part of his days were paſſed in retire⯑ment, enjoying a fine fortune, greatly improved by his own excellent conduct. In this interval he built a handſome manſion-houſe at Chelſea; where he died, Jan. 16, 1712-13. Anne his only daughter and heir was married in 1713 to Charles marquis of Wincheſter, heir apparent to the duke of Bolton; who never cohabited with her. She died Sept. 20, 1751. N.
*
An account of this poet has been already printed in vol. I. p. 128; to which the following anecdote may be added. ‘"King Charles II. ſold Dunkirk to Louis XIV. and gave him Engliſh oak enough to build the very fleet that after⯑wards attacked and defeated one of ours in Bantry Bay on the coaſt of Ireland. This puts me in mind of the foreſight of a gentleman, who had been ſome time envoy from the king to the princes and ſtates of Italy, and who, in his return home, made the coaſt of France his road; in order to be as uſeful to his country as poſſible, and to his ſovereign too, as he thought. In his audience of the king, he told his majeſty, that the French were hard at work, building men of war in ſeveral of their ports, and that ſuch a haſty increaſe of the naval power of France could not but threaten England's ſo⯑vereignty of the ſeas, and conſequently portend deſtruction to her trade. The gentleman was in the right, for our trade and the ſovereignty of the ſeas are dependent on each other; they muſt live or die together. But what a recompenſe do you think he met with for his fidelity? really ſuch a one as I would hardly have believed, had I been told it by any perſon but his own ſon, the late Mr. Bevil Higgons, whoſe works, both in proſe and verſe, have made him known to all the men of letters in Britain, and whoſe attachment to the fa⯑mily of Stuart, even to his dying day, puts his veracity in this point out of diſpute. The recompence was a ſevere re⯑primand from the king, as the fore-runner to the laying him aſide, for talking of things which his majeſty told him it was not his buſineſs to meddle with."’ I forget from which of the political writers between 1730 and 1740 this anecdote was tranſcribed; moſt probably The Craftſman. N.
*
Elizabeth, counteſs of Edward the third earl. N.
*
Better known as the friend and correſpondent of Mr. Pope, than by any writings of his own. It was from a miſ⯑treſs of this gentleman (Mrs. Thomas, or, as ſhe was com⯑monly called, Corinna) that Curll obtained the firſt Letters of Mr. Pope that were exhibited to public view. N.
*
Dr. Abel Evans, the author of this and the following poems, though a man of genius, the friend of the firſt poets of the times, and applauded by them, is now hardly known. He is generally ſtyled Dr. Evans the Epigrammiſt, and was one of the Oxford wits enumerated in the following diſtich (wretchedly imitated in the "Additions to Pope," vol. I. p. 163.): He is likewiſe mentioned in the Dunciad, B. II. ver. 116. in company with Dr. Young and Dean Swift, as one of the authors whoſe works had been claimed by James More Smith. Dr. Evans was of St. John the Baptiſt's College, Oxford; and took the degree of M.A. March 23, 1699; that of B.D. April 26, 1705; and D.D. May 16, 1711. He was burſar to his college; vicar of St. Gyles's, Oxford; and appears to have been intimate with Mr. Pope, to whom there are two letters by him in print, in one of which the initial letter W. (intended for his Chriſtian name) is by miſtake put inſtead of that by which he uſed to ſign himſelf. R.
" Alma novem genuit celebres Rhedycina poetas;
" Bub, Stubb, Cobb, Crabb, Trapp, Young, Carey, Tickell, Evans."
*
The celebrated Diſſenter.
†
The great phyſician. N.
*
Tindal, bad as he was, is ſurely delineated here in terms of exaggeration. N.
*
See, "The Axe laid to the Root," where you may plainly find ſuch malice, and ſuch blaſphemy, to be the ſen⯑timents and language of theſe execrable apoſtates. EVANS.
*
The great archbiſhop, and his royal maſter. N.
*
The great archbiſhop, and his royal maſter. N.
*
The well-known declaimer againſt theatrical repreſen⯑tations. N.
†
Poſſibly Docket, a good comedian. N.
*
The aſſaſſinator of Henry IV. of France. N.
†
Two noted Preſbyterian Seminaries in the Weſt of England. EVANS.
†
Two noted Preſbyterian Seminaries in the Weſt of England. EVANS.
*
I believe afterwards the great Lord Barrington, juſtly celebrated for his ſingular integrity of life, and for the piety of his writings. R.
*
Sir John Vanbrugh; he was often called Vanbrook in the early part of his life.—He will appear as a poet in the fourth volume of this collection. N.
†
Dr. Thomas Burnet, maſter of the Charter-houſe; author of "The Theory of the Earth." N.
‡
Hoadly. R.
‖
Swift has given this thought an admirable turn, when he wanted to expreſs contempt — ‘"The fellow who was pilloried—his name I have forgot."’ N.
*
See Bp. Hoadly's Works, vol. I. p. 107. R.
†
They pretended they could raiſe Dr. Emes from the dead. R.
*
Botany Profeſſor to the Univerſity of Oxford, and Keeper of the Phyſic Garden; both which offices appear to have been enjoyed by his father, who was the firſt Keeper of the Phyſic Garden, wrote a volume of the "Plantarum Hiſtoria univerſalis Oxonienſis, ſeu Herbarum Diſtributio nova," and was to have added a third volume on trees, but died in 1679. The firſt volume of that work was compiled by Dr. Robert Morriſon, a native of Aberdeen, who, quit⯑ting Scotland in the troubles, ſtudied at Paris, took a degree in phyſic at Angers, directed the royal gardens at Blois till the death of the duke of Orleans; at the Reſtoration he was appointed overſeer of the king's gardens, fellow of the College of Phyſicians, and in 1669 profeſſor of Botany in the Univerſity of Oxford, where he read lectures till he ſet about publiſhing the "Univerſal Knowledge of Simples." Wood's Faſti, II. 178. Edmund Gayton, the Poetaſter, wrote a poem on Mr. Jacob Bobart's "Yeomen of the Guards to the Phyſic Garden, to the tune of the Counter Scuffle; Oxford, 1662." See "Britiſh Topography," I. 137. II. 137, 138. The younger Bobart (who was an old man in 1713) collected a Hortus Siccus in twenty volumes. See this Epiſtle, p. 158. N.
*
Aeſculapius, ſo called from his temple at Epidaurus. N.
*
The Phyſic Garden, which lies at the Eaſt end of Ox⯑ford, on the river Cherwell, was the donation of Henry Danvers earl of Danby; who purchaſed the ground (con⯑taining five acres) of Magdalen College, ſurrounded it with a wall, and erected ſeveral beautiful gates at its entrance; on the principal of which (of the Compoſite order) is the fol⯑lowing inſcription: ‘"Gloriae Dei optimi Maximi, Honori Caroli I. Regis, in uſum Academiae & Reipublicae, Hen⯑ricus Comes Danby, anno 1632."’ The Earl alſo ſettled an annual revenue for the maintenance of the Garden, and for ſupplying it with plants and herbs, with which it is well ſtocked. Dr. Sherrard, who was Conſul at Smyrna, brought from thence a fine collection of exotics, built a library here, furniſhed it with botanical books, and augmented the pro⯑feſſorſhip. The noble founder of the garden was created by king James I. baron Danvers of Dantſey; and by king Charles I. earl of Danby, and made a knight of the Bath. Dying unmarried, Jan. 20, 1643, the title became extinct; but was revived, in 1674, in the family of the duke of Leeds. N.
*
Magdalen College was founded by William Patten of Wainfleet in Lincolnſhire, uſually called Wainfleet from the place of his birth. He was educated at Wincheſter ſchool; from whence he was ſent to New College, Oxford When he had taken the degree of B.D. he was appointed chief maſter of Wincheſter ſchool, where he continued twelve years, and was then made provoſt of Eaton by Henry VI. who preferred him to the ſee of Wincheſter in 1447, and made him chancellor in 1449. He obtained leave of the king in 1456 to convert St. John's hoſpital into ‘"a perpetual College for poor and indigent clerks in the Univerſity of Oxford, ſtudying arts and ſciences; the number of fellow [...] to be forty; with thirty demies, or ſemi-commoners, fo [...] chaplain-prieſts, eight clerks, and ſixteen choiriſters:"’ and died in 1486. N.
†
See "Britiſh Topography," II. 156. N.
*
A Hortus Siccus is a collection of plants, paſted upon paper, and kept dry in a book. EVANS.
*
The duke of Marlborough's palace at Woodſtock. N.
†
Erroneouſly aſcribed to Mr. Pope by the Editor of the "Additions to Pope's Works." N.
*
Of this gentleman little is known, but that he was re⯑markably fat. The following ſhorter epigram on his bulk is probably by Dr. Evans:
" When Tadlow walks the ſtreets, the pa [...]iours cry,
" God bleſs you, Sir! and lay their rammers by."
*
This epigram, with the following variations, is aſcribed to Dr. Tadlow in the "Additions to Pope," vol. I. p. 132.
" Indulgent Nature to each kind beſtows
A ſecret inſtinct to diſcern its foes.
The gooſe, a ſilly bird, yet knows the ſox;
Hares fly from dogs, and ſailors ſteer from rocks:
This rogue the gallows for his fate foreſees,
And bears a like antipathy to trees."
†
This writer has already appeared in vol. I. p. 145. I did not then know that he had publiſhed a collection of his poems, under the title of "The Ramble, an Anti-heroick Poem, together with ſome Terreſtrial Hymns and Carnal Ejaculations, by Alexander Radcliffe, of Grays Inn, Eſq. 1682," 8vo; inſcribed to James Lord Anneſley. He had publiſhed in 1680 "Ovid Traveſtie, a Burleſque upon Ovid's Epiſtles;" with a ſatirical introduction occaſioned by the "Preface to a late-Book, called The Wits paraphraſed." Mr. Tonſon printed a third edition of this Traveſtie in 1696. The Dedication "To Robert Fairbeard, of Grays Inn, Eſq." is no bad ſpecimen of the author's humour. ‘"Having com⯑mitted theſe Epiſtles to the Preſs, I was horribly put to it for a Patron. I thought of ſome great Lord, or ſome angelic Lady; but then again conſidered I ſhould never be able to adorn my Dedication with benign beams, corruſcant rays, and the Devil and all of influence. At laſt I heard my good friend Mr. Fairbeard was come to town—nay then—all's well enough. To you therefore I offer this Engliſh Ovid, to whom you may not be unaptly compared in ſeveral parcels of your life and converſation, only with this exception, that you have nothing of his Triſtibus. 'Tis you who burleſque all the fop⯑pery and conceited gravity of the age. I remember you once told a grave and affected Advocate, 'that he burleſqued God's image, for God had made him after his own likeneſs, but he made himſelf look like an aſs.' Upon the whole matter I am very well ſatisfied in my choice of you for a judge; if you ſpeak well of the book, 'tis all I deſire, and the bookſeller will have reaſon to rejoice: though by your approbation you may draw upon yourſelf a grand inconvenience; for perhaps you may too often have ſongs, ſonnets, madrigals, and an innumerable army of ſtanzas obtruded upon you by, Sir, Your humble ſervant, ALEX. RADCLIFFE."’
Amongſt his other poems, is a facetious one "On the Me⯑mory of Mr. John Sprat, late Steward of Grays Inn;" another, "On the Death of Edward Story, Eſq. Maſter of the Pond, and Principal of Bernard's Inn;" and, "The Sword's Farewell upon the Approach of Michaelmas-term." N.
*
" All things were huſh'd as Nature's ſelf lay dead,
" The mountains ſeem to nod their drowſy head;
" The little birds in dreams their ſongs repeat,
" And ſleeping flowers beneath the night-dew ſweat.
" Even Luſt and Envy ſlept," &c.
Conqueſt of Mexico, Act III. Sc. 2.
†
Of this writer's life, Dr. Johnſon's elegant little com⯑poſition ſuperſedes what otherwiſe might have been ſaid. Yalden's "Hymn to Darkneſs" is ‘"his beſt performance,"’ being ‘"for the moſt part imagined with great vigour, and expreſſed with great propriety. Of his other poems it is ſufficient to ſay that they deſerve peruſal, though they are not always exactly poliſhed."’ I the rather cite this teſti⯑mony of the great Biographer, as the publiſhers of the Engliſh Poets have been cenſured for admitting Yalden into their col⯑lection; a cenſure which, if deſerved, I muſt take upon my⯑ſelf. However it happened that this writer's poems had never been before collected, I am perſuaded that there are few who have actually read them but muſt have ſound much to admire. In the "Engliſh Poets" I inſerted as many of them as could then be met with. Farther reſearches have diſcovered what are here printed: but there are ſtill four poems (which are known to be Dr. Yalden's, two of which are particularly no⯑ticed in Dr. Johnſon's life of him) which have eluded my in⯑quiries; "The Conqueſt of Namur, 1695," folio; "The Temple of Fame, to the Memory of the Duke of Glouceſter 17 [...]0," folio; "Aeſop at Court;" and a poem "on the late Queen's acceſſion," I ſuppoſe Queen Anne; which, by the title of it, ſeems not to have been publiſhed till after her death. N.
*
Of whom ſee vol. I. p. 29, where ‘"about the ſame time was made chaplain,"’ &c. ſhould have been placed earlier in order of time; as it is properly done in the ſame volume, p. 70. — Dr. Chetwood, who was an early member of the Society of Antiquaries, had collected materials for a life of Lord Roſcommon. He publiſhed a "Speech in the Lower Houſe of Convocation, May 20, 1715, againſt the late Riots." His ſon (who purſued fruitleſtly the claim for an Engliſh barony) died, at an advanced age, Feb. 17, 1752. N.
*
See the following poem, on her marriage. N.
†
Theſe verſes of Dr. Chetwood were prefixed to Lord Roſcommon's Eſſay in 1684; with others by Mr. Dryden (ſee Engliſh Poets, vol. XIV. p. 127.) and Mr. Amherſt, and Latin verſes by Dr. Chetwood (ſee Gent. Mag. for October 1779) and Mr. C. Dryden. N.
*
The French word for dikes. N.
*
This humourous poem is probably Dr. Chetwood's. See the following Epiſtle of Dr. Waldren. N.
*
Deſcended from an antient family, and born at Exeter, where he received the early part of his education. He was admitted a ſcholar of Exeter College, Oxford, and afterwards removed to All Souls; where he applied to the ſtudy of phyſic, which he afterwards practiſed with good reputation at Exeter. On the death of Dr. Leopol-William Finch, warden of All Souls College, he was invited in 1702 to ſucceed to that headſhip; but contracted ſuch an indiſpoſition by the journey as occaſioned his death in a few days. He was buried in the outward chapel belonging to that ſociety. Jacob ſays, ‘"he was a well-bred, genteel man, moſt agreeable in conver⯑ſation, very polite in his compoſitions, and peculiarly happy in the expreſſiion of his thoughts. The Weſt-country gentlemen mention him with very great eſteem, and his name and character are very much reſpected in the Uni⯑verſity."’ N.
†
Author of a famous Book of Cookery.
‡
The maſter of a celebrated eating-houſe or tavern. See King's "Art of Cookery," ver. 484. N.
*
This gentleman, who was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, was a man of wit and humour; which carried his inclinations to poetry. He publiſhed, Jacob ſays, ſeveral valuable ſmall pieces; among which, "Marvel's Ghoſt" is very much admired. In the third volume of "Dryden's Miſcellanies" is a poem "On the Death of K. Charles II. and the Acceſſion of K. James II. to the Throne," by Mr William Ayloffe, which is tolerably harmonious, but too fulſomely flattering to deſerve preſervation. N.
*
The hiſtory of this man affords a very ſtriking example of the folly and madneſs of party, which could exalt an ob⯑ſcure individual, poſſeſſed of but moderate talents, to an height of popularity that the preſent times behold with wonder and aſtoniſhment. He was the ſon of Joſhua Sa⯑cheverell of Marlborough clerk (who died miniſter of St. Peter's Church in Marlborough, leaving a numerous family in very low circumſtances). Henry was put to ſchool at Marlborough, at the charge of Mr. Edward Hearſt, an apo⯑thecary, who, being his godfather, adopted him as his ſon, Hearſt's widow put him afterwards to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he became demy in 1687, at the age of 15. Young Sacheverell ſoon diſtinguiſhed himſelf by a regular ob⯑ſervation of the duties of the houſe, by his compoſitions, good-manners, and genteel behaviour; qualifications which recommended him to that ſociety, of which he was fellow, and, as public tutor, had the care of the education of moſt of the young gentlemen of quality and fortune that were ad⯑mitted of the college. In this ſtation he bred a great many perſons eminent for their learning and abilities; and among [...] others was tutor to Mr. Holdſworth, whoſe "Muſcipula" and "Diſſertations on Virgil" have been ſo deſervedly eſteem⯑ed. He was contemporaty and chamber-fellow with Mr. Addiſon, and one of his chief intimates till the time of his famous trial. Mr. Addiſon's "Account of the greateſt Engliſh Poets," dated April 3, 1694, in a Farewell-poem to the Muſes on his intending to enter into holy orders, was inſcribed "to Mr. Henry Sacheverell," his then deareſt friend and colleague. Much has been ſaid by Sacheverell's enemies of his ingratitude to his relations, and of his turbulent beha⯑viour at Oxford; but theſe appear to have been groundleſs ca⯑lumnies, circulated only by the ſpirit of party. In his younger years he wrote ſome excellent Latin poems: beſides ſeveral in the ſecond and third volumes of the "Muſae Anglicanae," aſcribed to his pupils, there is a good one of ſome length in the ſecond volume, under his own name (tranſcribed from the Oxford Collection, on Q. Mary's death, 1695). He took the degree of M.A. May 16, 1696; B.D, Feb. 4, 1707; D.D. July 1, 1708. His firſt preferment was Cannock, in the county of Stafford. He was appointed preacher of St. Saviour's, Southwark, in 1705; and while in this ſtation preached his famous ſermons (at Derby, Aug. 15, 1709; and at St. Paul's, Nov. 5, in the ſame year); and in one of them was ſuppoſed to point at lord Godolphin. under the name of Volpone. It has been ſuggeſted, that to this circumſtance, as much as to the doctrines contained in his ſermons, he was indebted for his proſecution, and eventually for his prefer⯑ment. Being impeached by the houſe of commons, his trial began Feb. 27, 1709-10; and continued until the 23d of March: when he was ſentenced to a ſuſpenſion from preach⯑ing for three years, and his two ſermons ordered to be burnt. This ridiculous proſecution overthrew the miniſtry, and laid the foundation of his fortune. To Sir Simon Harcourt, who was counſel for him, he preſented a ſilver baſon gilt, with an ele⯑gant inſcription. He very ſoon after was collated to a living near Shrewſbury; and, in the ſame month that his ſuſpenſion ended, had the valuable rectory of St. Andrew Holborn given him by the Queen. At that time his reputation was ſo high, that he was enabled to ſell the firſt ſermon, preached after his ſentence expired, for the ſum of 100l.; and upwards of 40,000 copies, it is ſaid, were ſoon fold. We find by Swift's Journal to Stella, Jan. 22, 1711-12, that he had alſo intereſt enough with the miniſtry to provide very amply for one of his bro⯑thers; yet, as the Dean had ſaid before, Aug. 24, 1711, ‘"they hated, and affected to deſpiſe him."’ In 1716, he prefixed a dedication to "Fifteen Diſcourſes, occaſionally de⯑livered before the Univerſity of Oxford, by W. Adams, M.A. late ſtudent of Chriſt Church, and rector of Staunton upon Wye, in Oxfordſhire." After this publication, we hear little of him, except by quarrels with his pariſhioners, al⯑though he was much ſuſpected to be concerned in Atterbury's plot. A conſiderable eſtate at Callow in Derbyſhire was left to him by his kinſman Geo. Sacheverell, eſq. He died June 5, 1724; and, by his will, bequeathed to Biſhop Atterbury, then in exile, who was ſuppoſed to have penned his defence for him, the ſum of 500l. By a letter to him from his uncle, 1711, it appears, that he had a brother named Thomas, and a ſiſter Suſannah. — The dutcheſs of Marlborough deſcribes him as ‘"an ignorant impudent incendiary; a man who was the ſcorn even of thoſe who made uſe of him as a tool."’ Account, &c. p. 247. — And Bp. Burnet ſays, ‘"He was a bold inſolent man, with a very ſmall meaſure of religion, virtue, learning, or good ſenſe; but he reſolved to force himſelf into popularity and preferment, by the moſt petulant railings at Diſſenters and Low-church men, in ſeveral ſermons and libels, wrote without either chaſte⯑neſs of ſtyle, or livelineſs of expreſſion."’ Hiſtory, vol. II. p. 277. N.
*
The poems of this witty but profligate nobleman were very judiciouſly pruned by Dr. Johnſon before their ad⯑miſſion into the tenth volume of the Engliſh Poets. The Song here preſerved, however, is ſufficiently exempt from the cenſure too many of this writer's poems have deſerved. In the "Supplement to Swift," I have had occaſion to obſerve, from Mr. Granger, that Rocheſter had natural modeſty. The fact is, he wrote but little of the ribaldry which paſſes under his name; but, having obtained the character of a lewd writer, every thing in that ſtrain was fathered upon him. ‘"In all his works,"’ Dr. Johnſon ſays, ‘"there is ſpright⯑lineſs and vigour, and every where may be found tokens of a mind which ſtudy might have carried to excellence."’ N.
*
"The Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru; expreſſed by inſtrumental and vocal Muſick, and by art of Perſpective in Scenes, &c. Repreſented daily at The Cockpit in Drury Lane at three afternoon punctually, 1658." This Opera may ſafely be aſcribed to Sir William Davenant. It was firſt acted at the time and place and in the manner be⯑fore deſcribed, and afterwards introduced by the author into "The Playhouſe to be let." See a liſt of his dramatic wri⯑tings in the new edition of Dodſley's Old Plays, vol. VIII. N.
†
Uſed by Shakſpeare and other ancient writers for Aye. N.
*
To explain this, the muſic ſhould be ſeen and heard. N.
*
Perhaps the baboon introduced in this opera. R.
*
Of whom ſee vol. II. p. 1. N.
*
An alluſion to a chirurgical inſtrument. N.
†
Author of "The Metamorphoſis of Mr. Pope into a Stinging-nettle," at the end of "The Female Dunciad," 1728; and tranſlator of Burnet's "Archaeologia Philoſo⯑phica," and his tract "De futurâ Judaeorum Reſtaura⯑tione." N.
*
Thomas Parnell, D.D. deſcended from an antient fa⯑mily of Congleton in Cheſhire, was born in Dublin, in the year 1679; and was admitted a member of Dublin College at the early age of thirteen. He took his degree of M.A. July 9, 1700; and in the ſame year was ordained a deacon by Dr. William King, then biſhop of Derry, having a diſ⯑penſation from the primate, as being under twenty-three years of age. He was admitted into prieſts orders about three years after, by Dr. King, then archbiſhop of Dublin; and was collated by Dr. St. George Aſhe, biſhop of Clogher, to the archdeaconry of Clogher, Feb. 9, 1705. About that time alſo he married Miſs Anne Minchin, a young lady of great merit and beauty, by whom he had two ſons, who died young, and a daughter, living in 1770. Swift, in his Journal to Stella, Auguſt 24, 1712, ſay, ‘"I am heartily for poor Mrs. Parnell's death: ſhe ſeemed ro be an excel⯑lent good-natured young woman, and I believe the poor lad is much afflicted: they appeared to live perfectly well to⯑gether."’ This event is ſuppoſed to have made an indelible impreſſion on his ſpirits. He was warmly recommended by the Dean to archbiſhop King: who gave him a prebend in 1713, and the vicarage of Finglas (worth about 400 l. a year) May 31, 1716. His gratitude is beautifully expreſſed in a poem on the Dean's birth-day, 1713. He died at Cheſter, in July 1718, on his way to Ireland; and was buried in Trinity church in that town, without any monu⯑ment to mark the place of his interment. As he left no male iſſue, his eſtate devolved to his only nephew, Sir Sir John Parnell, baronet, whoſe father was younger brother to the archdeacon, and one of the juſtices of the king's bench in Ireland. The character of Dr. Parnell is admirably pour⯑trayed by Dr. Goldſmith, in the Life prefixed to a volume of his Poems, originally publiſhed by Mr. Pope, in 1721. A poſthumous volume was printed at Dublin in 1758. And both theſe volumes united, with ſeveral additional poems which I had formerly collected, are printed in the forty-fourth volume of the "Engliſh Poets." N.
*
This and the preceding Poems by Dr. Parnell (as has been already ſaid of Dr. Yalden) were omitted in the for⯑mer collection only becauſe they could not then be met with. I cannot but take this opportunity of correcting a miſtake (which I was led into by Dr. Birch) in the note on the Engliſh Poets, vol. XLIV. p. 263. What is there ſaid on the Poem on Queen Anne's Peace more probably belongs to this Eſſay. The peace was not ſigned till March 30, 1713. By Swift's Journal to Stella, Dec. 22, 25, 1712, Jan. 6. 17, 31, and Feb. 19, 1712-13, it appears that this poem received ſeveral corrections in conſequence of hints from Dr. Swift, who introduced Parnell both to Oxford and Bolingbroke. N.
†
Allegory is in itſelf ſo retired a way of Writing, that it was thought proper to ſay ſomething beforehand con⯑cerning this Piece, which is entirely framed upon it. The deſign, therefore, is to ſhew the ſeveral Styles which have been made uſe of by thoſe who have endeavoured to write in verſe. The ſcheme, by which it is carried on, ſuppoſes an old Gre⯑cian Poet couching his obſervations or inſtructions within an Allegory; which Allegory is wrought out upon the ſingle word Flight, as in the figurative way it ſignifies a thought above the common level: here Wit is made to be Pegaſus, and the Poet his Rider, who flies by ſeveral countries where he muſt not touch, by which are meant ſo many vicious Styles, and arrives at laſt at the Sublime. This way of Writing is not only very engaging to the fancy whenever it is well performed; but it has been thought alſo one of the firſt that the Poets made uſe of. Hence aroſe many of thoſe ſtories concerning the Heathen Gods, which at firſt were in⯑vented to inſinuate Truth and Morality more pleaſingly, and which afterwards made Poetry itſelf more ſolemn, when they happened to be received into the Heathen Divinity. And indeed there ſeems to be no likelier way by which a Poetical Genius may yet appear as an Original, than that he ſhould proceed with a full compaſs of thought and knowledge, ei⯑ther to deſign his plan, or to beautify the parts of it, in an allegorical manner. We are much beholden to Antiquity for thoſe excellent compoſitions by which Writers at preſent form their minds; but it is not ſo much required of us to ad⯑here merely to their fables, as to obſerve their manner. For, if we preclude our own invention, Poetry will conſiſt only in expreſſion, or ſimile, or the application of old ſtories; and the utmoſt character to which a Genius can arrive will depend on imitation, or a borrowing from others, which we muſt agree together not to call ſtealing, becauſe we take only from the Ancients. There have been Poets amongſt ourſelves, ſuch as Spenſer and Milton, who have ſucceſsfully ventured further. Theſe inſtances may let us ſee that Invention is not bounded by what has been done before: they may open our imaginations, and be one method of preſerving us from Writing without ſchemes. As for what relates any further particularly to this Poem, the Reader will obſerve, that its aim is Inſtruction. Perhaps a repreſentation of ſeveral miſ⯑takes and difficulties, which happen to many who write Poe⯑try, may deter ſome from attempting what they have not been made for: and perhaps the deſcription of ſeveral beau⯑ties belonging to it may afford hints towards forming a Genius for delighting and improving mankind. If either of theſe happen, the Poem is uſeful; and upon that account its faults may be more eaſily excuſed. PARNELL.
*
Theſe and the like conceits of putting Poems into ſeve-ſhapes by the different lengths of lines, are frequent in old Poets of moſt languages. PARNELL.
*
That his Lordſhip occaſionally cultivated the Muſes, may be ſeen in the fourth volume of this Miſcellany. N.
* is the concluſion of Cowley's beautiful imitation of Catullus, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. I. p. 176. On theſe lines an excel⯑lent Prelate has obſerved, that, to the honour of Cowley's morals and good taſte, by a ſmall deviation from his original, he has converted a looſe love-poem into a ſober epithalamium; we have all the grace, and, what is more, all the warmth of Catullus, without his indecency. N.
" With ſuch a huſband, ſuch a wife,,
" With Acme and Septimius' life,"
*
Theſe poems are preſerved on account of the many droll anecdotes they contain. "The Chimney's Scuffle, 1662," a very indifferent poem, ſeems to have given riſe to this and many other of ſimilar titles; among others, to "Fragmenta Carceris; or, The King's-Bench Scuffle; with the Humours of the Common-ſide; the King's-Bench Litany, and the Legend of Duke Humphrey, by Samuel Speed, a Member of that Royal Society, 1675." N.
†
Theſe initials are poſſibly intended for Sir Roger L'Eſtrange; who, among other viciſſitudes of fortune, ſpent near ſix years in gaols, and almoſt four under a ſentence of death in Newgate. — Richard Steere, the only contemporary poet I can find with theſe initials, was author of ſome well-meaning, but indifferent, verſes on a religious ſubject, called, "The Hiſtory of the Babyloniſh Cabal; or the Intrigues, Progreſſion, Oppoſition, Defeat, and Deſtruction, of the Daniel-Catchers, 1682." N.
*
The Eccleſiaſtical Court. N.
*
Will Lluellin, a priſoner there, ſome time the keeper. R. S.
†
One of the under-keepers. R. S.
*
A Turnkey, a ſat fellow. R. S.
*
I mean no Play-doors: thoſe are too honeſt. R. S.
*
King's Juggler. R. S.
†
An alluſion now unknown. N.
‡
I am afraid Martin Parker's-Ballads muſt be conſigned to oblivion. William Fennor was a writer in the reign of James the Firſt. He publiſhed "The Compter's Common-wealth, or A Voiage made to an Infernall Iland long ſince diſcovered by many Captaines, Seafaring Men, Gentlemen, Marchants and other Tradeſmen: But the Conditions, Na⯑tures, and Qualities of the People there inhabiting, and of thoſe that trafficke with them, were never ſo truly expreſſed or lively ſet-ſorth, as by William Fennor, his Majeſti [...] Servant, 1617." 4to. It is a deſcription of the Compte [...] and the hardſhips inflicted on priſoners. R.
*
The ſheriff's officers, ſo called from their gowns. N.
*
See Cowley's "Character of an Holy Siſter," in the Engliſh Poets, vol. I. p. 353. N.
*
A place of confinement for tuibulent apprentices. N.
*
Where the New-Church now ſtands. — Swift ſays, N.
" I went in vain to look for Eupolis
" Down in The Strand, juſt where the New Pole is."
*
This mad landlord's houſe is now unknown. N.
*
The Red-bull Playhouſe, mentioned in vol. I. p. 256, was ſituate in St. John's-ſtreet. The Fortune playhouſe, which occurs in p. 255, was near Whitecroſs-ſtreet, and was re⯑built by the celebrated Edward Alleyn. See Dodſley's Old Plays, vol. IX. p. 175. N.
†
It is an obvious remark, that, whatever may be the faſhionable vices of the preſent age, drunkenneſs hath re⯑ceived a ſevere check amongſt all ranks, and particularly in higher life. Not one of the abovementioned taverns now exiſts; and every man muſt remember an amazing number in London more than there are at preſent. N.
*
A dramatic writer, whoſe performances both in comedy and tragedy were acted with applauſe, though comedy ſeems to have been more peculiarly his talent. Seventeen of his plays are enumerated by Jacob. He was bred under his father, an independent miniſter in Nova Scotia. Being a man of ſome genius, and impatient of the gloomy education he received in that country, he reſolved upon coming to England, to try if he could not make his fortune by his wits. When he firſt arrived here, his neceſſities were ex⯑tremely urgent: and he was obliged to become a gentleman-uſher to an old Independent lady. But he ſoon grew as weary of that preciſe office, as he was of the diſcipline of Nova Scotia. He ſet himſelf therefore to writing; and preſently made himſelf ſo known to the court and town, that he was no⯑minated by Charles II. to write "The Maſque of Calypſo." This nomination was procured him by the earl of Rocheſter: it muſt not however be aſcribed entirely to his merit, but to ſome little ſpite in this lord, who deſigned by that pre⯑ference to mortify Mr. Dryden. Upon the breaking-out of the two parties, after the pretended diſcovery of the Popiſh plot, the favour Crowne was in at court induced him to embrace the Tory party; about which time he wrote a comedy called "The City Politicks," in order to ſatirize and expoſe the Whigs. This comedy was by many intrigues of the party-men hindered from appearing upon the ſtage, till the king himſelf laid his abſolute commands on the lord cham⯑berlain to have it acted immediately. About the latter end of this reign, Crowne, tired out with writing, and deſirous to ſhelter himſelf from the reſentment of many enemies he had made by his "City Politicks," ventured to addreſs the king himſelf, for an eſtabliſhment in ſome office that might be a ſecurity to him for life. The king anſwered, ‘"he ſhould be provided for;"’ but added, ‘"that he would firſt ſee another comedy."’ Mr. Crowne endeavoured to excuſe himſelf, by telling the king, that ‘"he plotted ſlowly and aukwardly."’ His majeſty replied, that ‘"he would help him to a plot;"’ and ſo put into his hand the Spaniſh comedy, called "Non pued eſſer," out of which Mr. Crowne took the comedy of "Sir Courtly Nice" The play was juſt ready to appear to the world; and Mr. Crowne extremely delighted to think that he was going to be made happy the remaining part of his life, by the performance of the king's promiſe. But, upon the laſt day of the rehearſal, he met Underhill the player coming from the houſe as he was going to it; upon which, reprimanding him for neglecting ſo conſiderable a part as he had in the comedy, and upon the laſt day too; ‘"Lord, Sir, ſays Underhill, we are all un⯑done." — "How! ſays Crowne, is the playhouſe on fire?" "The whole nation, replies the player, will quickly be ſo, for the king is dead."’ The king's death ruined Crowne, who had now nothing but his wits to live on for the re⯑maining part of his life. It is not certain when he died, but it is ſuppoſed to be ſomewhere about the year 1703. See Dennis's Letters, 1721, vol. I. p. 48. and the Biographical Dictionary, 8vo. Mr. Crowne was author of two other poems, called "Pandion and Amphiginia," and "Daeneids." N.
*
See an account of this writer, and ſome of his poems, vol. I. p. 125; and in this volume, p. 111. — I have ſince been told, that he publiſhed a poem on the Peace of Utrecht; and had ſome others by him, which he intended for the preſs. He was firſt couſin to the late earl Granville. Two lines of his verſes on the Death of Waller, vol., I. p. 130, are evi⯑dently to be traced in the following couplet of Tickell, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. XXV. p. 188. N.
" Near to thoſe chambers, where the mighty reſt,
" Since their foundation, came a nobler gueſt."
*
Son to Sir Simon (afterwards lord) Harcourt. This young gentleman did not ſucceed to the title; as he died in 1720, ſeven years before his father. On his tomb at Stanton Harcourt is a beautiful epitaph by Mr. Pope. He was father to the firſt, and grandfather to the preſent, earl Harcourt. N.
*
I cannot find who Mr. Cowſlade was; and it is remark⯑able, that not one of theſe four Speakers took a regular degree at the Univerſity. N.
*
Heneage, grandſon to the firſt earl of Nottingham. His father was created baron Guernſey, March 16, 1703; and earl of Aylesford, Oct. 26, 1714. — The ſpeaker of theſe verſes died earl of Aylesford, June 26, 1757; and was grand-father to the preſent earl. N.
*
This was very likely to have been the late lord Bath; and I am ſorry that it cannot be aſcertained. N.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4777 A select collection of poems with notes biographical and historical pt 3. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-61D7-4