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J. NICHOLS'S SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS. VOLUME I.

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NATIONS UNBORN HIS MIGHTY NAME SHALL SOUND, AND WORLDS APPLAUD THAT MUST NOT YET BE FOUND

JOHN DRYDEN, DIED MAY 1, 1701.

Engraved by Basire

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A SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS: WITH NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL.

THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON: PRINTED BY AND FOR J. NICHOLS, RED LION PASSAGE, FLEET-STREET. MDCCLXXX.

TO THE REVEREND THOMAS PERCY, D.D. DEAN OF CARLISLE.

[v]

REV. SIR,

WHEN theſe MISCELLANIES are inſcribed to a PERCY, I place them under the moſt auſpicious ſhelter. THE RELIQUES OF ANCIENT POETRY, with which you obliged the world in your younger years, would, independent of all other claims, have pointed you out as a proper Patron to theſe Fugitive Remains. But, excellent as your own Publications are, it is neither to them, nor to your elevated Station in Life, that I pay this diſintereſted Tribute.

Happy in a Family Connexion, which, how⯑ever remotely, entitles me to claim Relationſhip with the Poet CLEIVELAND (extracts from whoſe Works will add merit to a future volume [vi] of this Collection); I am proud to have it known that the DEAN OF CARLISLE derives his deſcent from the ſame Family, his father's mother having been niece to the Bard above⯑mentioned: a Family diſtinguiſhed in private life for having produced a ſucceſſion of moſt excellent Clergymen, treading in the ſteps of their venerable Anceſtor, the Rev. THOMAS CLEIVELAND, father of the Poet, who is upon record^* for his very worthy character and moſt exemplary life.

That urbanity, Sir, with which you recog⯑nized me as of kin to you, and the Friendſhip I have ſince in conſequence experienced from you, as they have made an indelible impreſſion, demand the warm acknowledgements with which theſe volumes are moſt reſpectfully preſented by,

SIR,

Your very much obliged and faithful humble ſervant, J. NICHOLS.

Jan. 1, 1780.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[vii]

THIS Collection, though formed principally from that of Mr. DRYDEN, is by no means a mere republication; which would now have been particularly ill-timed, as a large portion of that excellent Miſcellany (the firſt which appeared in this kingdom with reputation) is very properly arranged among the "Works of the Engliſh Poets;" and ſome pages had crept into DRYDEN's Collection, which may be permitted to periſh without regret. There ſtill, however, are an infinite number of ſmall poems, which, coming under neither of theſe deſcriptions, muſt be allowed to poſſeſs con⯑ſiderable merit; being the productions of men of real genius, who, from the brevity rather than the inferiority of their writings, have been uſually ſtyled "Minor Poets."

On DRYDEN's foundation the preſent ſuper⯑ſtructure is begun. In its progreſs, almoſt every un⯑dertaking of a ſimilar nature has been conſulted, and material parts incorporated. The Collections formed by FENTON and STEELE have been epitomized; whilſt POPE's, PEMBERTON's, LINTOT's, and [viii] C. TOOKE's, have occaſionally contributed to embelliſhment.

The Collection by Mr. R. DODSLEY is allowed to be the completeſt of the kind; and with this the preſent publication is ſo far from interfering, that not a ſingle poem is intended to be printed, which is either in "DODSLEY's Collection," the Supplement to it by Mr. PEARCH, or in the Sixty Volumes of the "Engliſh Poets." To all or either of theſe, therefore, this Selection will be a ſuitable appen⯑dage; and the more ſo, as I have preſerved ſome poems of merit, which before were not known to have exiſted.

The Reader will find in theſe volumes ſome of the earlieſt productions of DRYDEN; ſome originals by Sir WILLIAM TEMPLE; an Ode by SWIFT, which had long been conſidered as irrecoverable; a conſiderable number of good poems by STEELE, PARNELL, FENTON, BROOME, and YALDEN, with a few pieces by HALIFAX, DORSET, RO⯑CHESTER, SPRAT, PRIOR^*, POPE, BOLING-BROKE, [ix] PHILIPS, KING, SMITH, WATTS, PITT, HUGHES, A. PHILIPS, and TICKELL, which are not to be found in any edition of their works.

[x]The aſſiſtance of ſome intelligent friends has enabled me to add a biographical account of almoſt every Writer here ſelected; and their perſuaſions have induced me to lay before the publick FOUR VOLUMES, as part of the plan I have undertaken. Two others are actually in the preſs. There are ſtill an infinite number of Collections, which, amidſt a chaos of weeds, would afford a con⯑ſiderable quantity of flowers well worth the tranſ⯑planting. But the encouragement theſe meet with muſt determine whether the publication ſhall ceaſe at the end of the SIXTH volume, or be extended ſtill farther. Without any great idea of emolument, which in this caſe is far from being the principal object, I am unwilling to ſacrifice the little leiſure of a laborious life in a purſuit that I have not reaſon to think will in ſome ſmall degree contribute to ‘"the public ſtock of harmleſs pleaſure."’

To my concluding volume ſhall be annexed a complete POETICAL INDEX. In the mean time, for the convenience of the Reader, a ſhort Index to the Notes will follow this Advertiſement.

J. N.

Jan. 1, 1780.

INDEX TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, AND MATTERS INCIDENTALLY ILLUSTRATED.

[xi]

Achilles, ii. 252.
Adams, William, ii. 21.
Aegon, iii. 102.
Aeſop at Court, iv. 198.
Aeſop in Spain, iv. 249.
Aldridge, Dean, ii. 220.
Alleſtry, Jacob, iii. 94.
Ariſtoeus, ii. 58.
Arlington, Earl of, i. 167.
Arlington Gardens, ii. 164.
Aſton, Anthony, iv. 355.
Aſton, Major, ii. 143.
Ayloffe, Captain, iii. 50. 186.

Bathurſt, Dr. i. 267.
Beale, Mary, iv. 267.
Behn, Aphara, i. 85. 145.
Bentley, Dr. iii. 60.
Biſhop, Thomas, iv. 20.
Blackhall, Biſhop, iii. 56.
Bobart, Jacob, iii. 145.
BOLINGBROKE, iii. 234. iv. 231.
Bowles, William, i. 21. 92.
Boyſe, Samuel, ii. 161.
BROOME, iv. 283. 357.
Browne, William, i. 259.
Buckhurſt, Lord, i. 249.
Buckingham (Villiers), i. 154.

Camden, iii, 41.
Cantata, Swift's, iv. 305.
Cartwright, William, i. 58.
Caryll, John, ii. 1.
Cecilia, St. iv. 28. 64. 357.
Chapman, George, i. 271.
Chetwood, Dean, i. 29. 70. iii. 169. iv. 348.
Cholmondeley, Earl, iii. 98.
Clifford, Matthew, iii. 105.
Congreve, iv. 14.
Cotton, Sir John, i. 139. ii. 154.
Counter-Scuffle, iii. 237.
Coward, Dr. iii. 51.
Cowley, iii. 236.
Cowſlade, Mr. iii. 314.
Creech, Thomas, i. 230.
Crofts, Dean, ii. 141.
Cromwell, Henry, iii. 115.
Crowne, John, iii. 279.
[xii]Croxall, Archdeacon, iv. 120.
Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru, iii. 202.
Curing-gold, iv. 351.
Cutts, Lord, ii. 192. 327.

Dabl, ii. 189. 199. iv. 355.
Danby, Earl, iii. 154. iv. 355.
Derby, Counteſs of, iv. 11.
Devonſhire, Duke of, iii. 81.
DORSET, ii. 201. iv. 314.
Drayton, Michael, i. 258.
Drunkenneſs unfaſhionable, iii. 276.
DRYDEN, i. 181. ii. 88. 90.
DRYDEN, Charles, i. 56. iv. 293.

Etherege, Sir Geo. i. 144. 192.
EVANS, iii. 118. iv. 356.
Evelyn, John, ii. 127.
Evremont, St. i. 123.
EUSDEN, iv. 128.

Fairbeard, Robert, iii. 164.
Falkland, Lord, i. 236. iv. 354.
Fenner, William, iii. 263.
FENION, iv. 33.
Finch, Heneage, iii. 315.
Flatman, Thomas, iv. 272.
Fortune Playhouſe, i. 255. iii. 276. iv. 354.
Foxton, Tho. iii. 207. iv. 356.
Frith, a builder, i. 30. iv. 348.

Gainſborough, Earl of, iv. 318.
Gallus, iii. 39.
Gardiner, James, iv. 55.
Gaywood, ii. 141.
Gibbons, Dr. ii. 214.
Gibſon, Biſhop, iii. 41.
Giffard, Lady, ii. 33.
Gildon, Charles, iv. 23.
Glanvill, John, iv. 251.
Goddard, Thomas, iii. 74.
Godolphin, Sidney, i. 116.

Haines, Joſeph, iv. 186.
HALIFAX, iv. 314.
Hall, Biſhop, ii. 148.
Hammond, Anthony, ii. 204.
Harcourt, Simon, iii. 313.
Harriſon, William, iv. 180.
Higgons, Sir Thomas, i. 42.
Higgons, Bevil, i. 128. iii. 111. 312. iv. 335.
Holdſworth, Edward, iii. 53.
Hopkins, Biſhop, ii. 187.
Hopkins, CHARLES, ii. 183.
Hopkins, John, ii. 322.
Howard, Hon. Edward, iii. 105.
[xiii]Howard, Sir Robert, i. 145. 147. iii. 330. iv. 352.
Howe, John, i. 209.
HUGHES, iii. 87. iv. 301.

Jackſon, J. iv. 66.
Jonſon, Ben, i. 137. iv. 350.

KING, iii. 3.
King (Biſhop), i. 249.
Knapp, Francis, iv. 289.

Lee, Nath. i. 46. 349. iv. 350.
L'Eſtrange, Sir Roger, iii. 237.
Loory, ii. 54. iv. 354.

Manley, Mrs. iv. 19.
Martial, iv. 18.
Mayne, Dr. Jaſper, i. 252.
Menage, i. 168.
Mermaid Tavern, iv. 354.
Middleton, Earl of, ii. 114.
Milbourne, Luke, iv. 320. 358.
Moyle, Walter, i. 202.

Newburg, Counteſs, iv. 327.
Newcaſtle, Dutch. iv. 194. 353.
Newcomb, Thomas, iv. 355.
Norfolk Drollery, ii. 141.

Oldham, John, ii. 119.
Old Playhouſes, iii. 276.
Orinda (Mrs. Philipps), ii. 50.
Ormond, James Duke of, i. 84.
Orrery, Charles Earl of, iv. 70.
Orrery, Roger Earl of, iv. 163.
Oſſory, Thomas Earl of, i. 75.
Ovid, ii. 147.

Parker, Martin, iii. 263. iv. 356.
PARNELL, iii. 208.
Paſtoral Poetry, i. 96. iv. 351.
PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iv. 296.
PHILIPS, JOHN, iv. 274.
Philips, John, iv. 282.
Phyſic-garden, Oxford, iii. 154
PITT, iv. 307.
POPE, iv. 299.
Pope, Dr. Walter, i. 170.
PRIOR, I. viii. ii. 332. iv. 46.
Pulteney, Mr. iii. 316.

Radcliffe, Capt. i. 141. iii. 163.
Red-Bull Playhouſe, i. 256.
Remond, Francis, i. 1.
Riley, John, i. 124.
ROCHESTER, iii. 200.
Rymer, Tho. i. 120. iv. 351.

Sacheverell, Dr. iii. 194.
Sannazarius, iv. 91.
Savile, Lord, iii. 27.
[xiv] Sawyer, Sir Robert, i. 220.
Scrope, Sir Car, i. 6.
Sedley, Sir Charles, i. 89.
Selden, John, i. 263.
Seymour, Lady Eliz. iii. 89.
SMITH, iv. 62.
Smith, Conſul iv. 300.
SPRAT, iii. 185.
Stafford, Richard, ii. 25.
STEELE, Sir Richard, iii. 71. 74. 237. iv. 1.
STEPNEY, iv. 315.
Stevenſon, Matthew, ii. 141.
SWIFT, iv. 303. 357.
Sylvius, iv. 270.

Tadlow, Dr. iii. 162.
Talbot, J. iii. 89.
Tate, Nahum, ii. 7. iv. 354.
TEMPLE, Sir William, ii. 33.
TICKELL, iv. 316.
Tofts, Mrs. iv. 299.
Tom Dove, iv. 222.
Townſhend, Horatio, iv. 258.

VANBRUGH, iii. 143. iv. 337.
Vaughan, John, Lord, iii. 106.
Villiers; Viſcount; iv. 9. 10.
Virgil, ii. 2.
Voiture, i. 201.

Wainfleet, Biſhop, iii. 156.
Waldren, Dr. iii. 177.
Waller, iv. 349. 352.
WATTS, iv. 319.
Weſley, Samuel, iv. 289.
Weſtminſter Tombs, iv. 169.
Wharton, Mrs. i. 51. ii. 329. iii. 44. iv. 356.
Whiſton, William, iii. 65.
Whitaker, Dr. ii. 145.
Williams, Sir William, i. 220.
Wincheſter Houſe, ii. 176.
Wither, George, iii. 34.
Woodford, Dr. Samuel, iv. 261. 265. 346.
Wolſeley, Rob. i. 138. ii. 105.

YALDEN, iii. 166. iv. 198. 357.

DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.

The Head of DRYDEN, by BASIRE, Frontiſpiece, vol. I.
The Head of TEMPLE, by COLLYER, Frontiſpiece, vol. II.
The Head of KING, by COOK, Frontiſpiece, vol. III.
The Head of STEELE, by BASIRE, Frontiſpiece, vol. IV.

[1]A SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS.

ELEGY^*, BY THE WIFE OF ST. ALEXIAS^†,
COMPLAINING OF HIS ABSENCE, HE HAVING LEFT HER ON HIS WEDDING NIGHT UNENJOYED, OUT OF ZEAL TO VISIT THE CHRISTIAN CHURCHES.
FROM THE LATIN OF FRANCIS REMOND^‡,

LOV'D by, and loving, the beſt youth of Rome,
My fatal charms ſent many to their tomb:
Now, wretched maid and miſerable wife,
In tears and in complaints I waſte my life.
Abandon'd by my huſband ere enjoy'd,
With thoughts of pleaſure yet untaſted cloy'd‖.
He leaves me to my anxious cares a prey;
Ah! my Alexias, whither do you ſtray;
[2]Whilſt in my maiden-widow'd bed I lie,
More wretched than the dead, and wiſh to die*!
In you were all my hopes, dear wanderer,
Your doubted ſafety now creates my fear.
He broke his vows, he broke our marriage-bond!
What dangers may a perjur'd wretch ſurround!
At leaſt, his flight his tender feet may wound!
Oh, that I knew which way his courſe he ſteers!
'Twould ſoften much my pains, and leſſen much my fears:
A letter ſhould inform him of my cares,
And he in pity ſure would read my prayers;
I 'd write him lines might move a ſenſeleſs ſtone,
Nay, his hard heart to feel compaſſion.
But, when we write, too ſlow are the returns;
Too ſlow for one that with my paſſion burns;
Letters I would not truſt, myſelf would go,
And from my mouth my ſorrows he ſhould know.
By ſtealth I'll leave my father's houſe: 'twas you
Did firſt, alas! the ſad example ſhew.
My preſſing love would wing my willing fe [...]t
To fly, till my Alexias I ſhould meet.
Through deſarts I durſt go (a tender maid):
In ſearch of you, I could not be afraid.
No dangers ſhould my eager ſteps retard,
My innocence and love would be my guard.
If dragons againſt me their creſts ſhould rear,
Or ſhould I meet a lion or a bear,
I never can be capable of fear.
David, too young for toils, a tender boy,
Could the fierce lion and rough bear deſtroy;
[3]From his ſmall hand a pebble could confound,
And ſtrike the mountain-giant to the ground.
Th' Aſſyrian general, Bethulia's dread,
By a chaſte woman's hand did loſe his head,
And ſhe was by her guardian angel led.
Why may not my attempts ſucceſsful prove,
Aſſiſted by divinity and love?
With fearleſs courage I dare undertake
Amazing actions for my huſband's ſake:
Through all the world, my life! I'll follow thee,
Whether by land thou wandereſt, or by ſea;
Whether on ſhore or on the ſwelling main,
One houſe, one boat, may both of us contain:
If your ſharp keel Ionian waves divide,
On that Ionian ſea my bark ſhall ride.
If (to contemplate on the ſufferings
And cruel death of the bleſt King of kings)
A pilgrim to the Holy-land you go,
I'll join in adoration there with you.
If where th' adored ſilver Jordan flows,
With you in Paleſtine I'll offer holy vows;
Or if to Scythian mountains you repair,
And leave this temperate for that frozen air,
With thee, my ſoul! I willingly can dwell
On the cold top of the Caucaſian hill.
Or ſhould you wander o'er the Libyan ſand
(That vaſt and wild unhoſpitable land),
Through thoſe parcht plains with thee, my love! I'll ſtray,
Nor fear the hungry, ſavage beaſts of prey.
[4]I'll be a Thracian, if to Thrace you ſail;
My love ſhall o'er my ſex's fears prevail,
Nothing to follow you would ſeem a toil.
Though to the utmoſt Indies you are driven,
T [...]ll I can reach your arms, I'll know no haven.
Ah! let chaſte love propitious planets keep
Safe from the dangers of the greedy deep;
Yet if my ſhip by tempeſts muſt be torn,
By artful ſtrokes above the waters borne,
In ſpite of nature I ſhall ſwim to ſhore,
For love will give my untaught hands the power.
The flaming conſtellations are in love,
And ſeas, and all that in the waters move.
Nor waves unſettled nor th' inconſtant wind,
Shall ever move my faith, or ſhake my ſtedfaſt mind.
But, if inevitable fates decree
That I muſt ſuffer in the angry ſea,
Leviathan, let me become thy prey!
The only ſuccour ſuch a fate can give,
In thy kind bowels hidden let me live,
There let me reſt, till thou ſhalt find that ſhore
Where my Alexias is a wanderer,
There caſt me up unhurt, and leave me there.
So in the ſcaly monſter Jonas lay,
Protected from the fury of the ſea;
Both wondered at their lot, and both rejoic'd,
One with his gueſt was pleas'd, the other with his hoſ [...]
The third day came, and then (by heaven's command
The fiſh reſtor'd the prophet to the land.
But if to me no fiſh will favour ſhew.
And, dear Alexias! I muſt die for you;
[5]Oh love divine! I'm pleas'd for thee to fall,
For thee, chaſte author of my funeral;
The ſea ſhall take my name, and 'mongſt the ſtars
I'll be a guide to wandering mariners:
While they with wonder ſhall repeat my name
(A faith like mine deſerves no leſs a fame);
They'll doubtleſs pray that ſuch a wife, above,
May be rewarded for ſo chaſte a love,
And that her huſband there may conſtant prove;
And, for the load of waters ſhe has born,
Her aſhes may lye eaſy in their urn.
Alas! I rave, with fancies I am fed!
Not knowing where my deareſt huſband 's fled,
I ſearch him, dreaming, in my widow'd bed.
If to the woods I go, or rocks, or ſhores,
From thee they've learn'd to ſcorn love's mighty powers
Unheard, alas! I loſe my amorous groans,
The winds and waves refuſe to hear my moans;
Echo alone can ſuffer my complaint,
And ſhe with repetition is grown faint.

Return, my life! for what can cauſe your ſtay!
If thou haſt pity, come, oh! come away:
Ah! ſuffer not thy abſence I ſhould mourn,
I'll come to thee, if thou canſt not return!

SAPPHO TO PHAON*[6]BY THE HON. SIR CARR SCROPE†, BART.
The poeteſs Sappho, forſaken by her lover Phaon (who was gone from Leſbos to Sicily), and reſolved in de⯑ſpair to drown herſelf, writes this letter to him be⯑fore ſhe dies.
WHILE Phaon to the flaming Aetna flies,
Conſum'd with no leſs fires poor Sappho dies.
I burn, I burn, like kindled fields of corn,
When by the driving winds the flames are borne.
My muſe and lute can now no longer pleaſe,
They are th' employments of a mind at eaſe.
Wandering from thought to thought I ſit alone
All day, and my once dear companions ſhun.
[7]In vain the Leſbian maids claim each a part,
Where thou alone haſt ta'en up all the heart.
Ah, lovely youth! how canſt thou cruel prove,
When blooming years and beauty bid thee love?
If none but equal charms thy heart can bind,
Then to thyſelf alone thou muſt be kind.
Yet, worthleſs as I am, there was a time
When Phaon thought me worthy his eſteem.
A thouſand tender things to mind I call,
For they who truly love remember all.
Delighted with the muſic of my tongue,
Upon my words with ſilent joy he hung,
And, ſnatching kiſſes, ſtopp'd me as I ſung;
[8]Kiſſes, whoſe melting touch his ſoul did move,
The earneſt of the coming joys of love.
Then tender words, ſhort ſighs, and thouſand charms
Of wanton arts, endear'd me to his arms;
Till, both expiring with tumultuous joys,
A gentle faintneſs did our limbs ſurprize.
Beware, Sicilian ladies. ah! beware,
How you receive my faithleſs wanderer.
You too will be abus'd, if you believe
The flattering words that he ſo well can give.
Looſe to the winds, I let my flowing hair
No more with fragant ſcents perfume the air;
But all my dreſs diſcovers wild deſpair.
For whom, alas! ſhould now my art be ſhown!
The only man I car'd to pleaſe is gone.
Oh, let me once more ſee thoſe eyes of thine:
Thy love I aſk not; do but ſuffer mine.
Thou might'ſt at leaſt have ta'en thy laſt farewell,
And feign'd a ſorrow which thou didſt not feel.
No kind remembering pledge was aſk'd by thee,
And nothing left but injuries with me.
Witneſs, ye gods, with what a death-like cold
My heart was ſeiz'd, when firſt thy flight was told.
Speechleſs and ſtupid for a while I lay,
And neither words nor tears could find their way.
But, when my ſwelling paſſion forc'd a vent,
With hair diſhevel'd, cloaths in pieces rent,
Like ſome mad mother through the ſtreets I run,
Who to the grave attends her only ſon.
[9]Expos'd to all the world myſelf I ſee,
Forgetting virtue, fame, and all but thee;
So ill, alas! do love and ſhame agree!
'Tis thou alone that art my conſtant care,
In pleaſing dreams thou comfort'ſt my deſpair:
And mak'ſt the night, that does thy form convey,
Welcome to me above the faireſt day.
Then, ſpite of abſence, I thy love enjoy;
In cloſe embraces lock'd methinks we lie;
Thy tender words I hear, thy kiſſes feel,
With all the joys that ſhame forbids to tell.
But, when I waking miſs thee from my bed,
And all my pleaſing images are fled;
The dear deluding viſion to retain,
I lay me down, and try to ſleep again.
Soon as I riſe I haunt the caves and groves
(Thoſe conſcious ſcenes of our once happy loves);
There like ſome frantic Bacchanal I walk,
And to myſelf with ſad diſtraction talk.
Then big with grief I throw me on the ground,
And view the melancholy grotto round,
Whoſe hanging roof of moſs and craggy ſtone
Delights my eyes above the brighteſt throne:
But when I ſpy the bank, whoſe graſſy bed
Retains the print our weary bodies made;
On thy forſaken ſide I lay me down,
And with a ſhower of tears the place I drown.
The trees are wither'd all ſince thou art gone,
As if for thee they put their mourning on.
[10]No warbling bird does now with muſick fill
The woods, except the mournful Philomel.
With her's my diſmal notes all night agree,
Of Tereus ſhe complains, and I of thee.
Ungentle youth! didſt thou but ſee me mourn,
Hard as thou art, thou would'ſt, thou would'ſt return.
My conſtant falling tears the paper ſtain,
And my weak hand can ſcarce direct my pen.
Oh! could thy eyes but reach my dreadful ſtate,
As now I ſtand prepar'd for ſudden fate,
Thou could'ſt not ſee this naked breaſt of mine
Daſh'd againſt rocks, rather than join'd to thine.
Peace, Sappho, peace! thou ſend'ſt thy fruitleſs cries
To one more hard than rocks, more deaf than ſ [...]as.
The flying winds bear thy complaints away,
But none will ever back his ſails convey:
No longer then thy hopeleſs love attend,
But let thy life here with thy letter end.

THE PARTING OF SIRENO AND DIANA.BY THE SAME.
Sireno and Diana having loved each other with a moſt violent paſſion, Sireno is compelled, upon the account of his maſter's ſervice, to go for ſome time into a foreign country. The melancholy parting of the two lovers is the ſubject of the following eclogue.
CLOSE by a ſtream, whoſe flowery bank might give
Delight to eyes that had no cauſe to grieve,
The ſad Sireno ſate, and fed his ſheep,
Which now, alas! he had no joy to keep;
[11]Since his hard fate compell'd him to depart
From her dear ſight, who long had charm'd his heart.
Fix'd were his thoughts upon the fatal day
That gave him firſt what this muſt take away;
Through all the ſtory of his love he ran,
And nought forgot that might increaſe his pain.
Then with a ſigh raiſing his heavy eyes,
Th' approach of his afflicted nymph he ſpies.
Sad as ſhe was, ſhe loſt no uſual grace,
But as ſhe paſs'd ſeem'd to adorn the place:
Thither ſhe came to take her laſt farewell;
Her ſilent look did her ſad buſineſs tell.
Under a neighbouring tree they ſate them down,
Whoſe ſhade had oft preſerv'd them from the ſun;
Each took the other by the willing hand,
Striving to ſpeak, but could no word command:
With mutual grief both were ſo overcome,
The much they had to ſay had made them dumb.
There many a time they two had met before,
But met, alas! upon a happier ſcore:
Cruel reverſe of fate, which all the joys
Their mutual preſence us'd to bring deſtroys.
Sireno ſaw his fatal hour draw near,
And, wanting ſtrength the parting pang to bear,
All drown'd in tears he gaz'd upon the maid,
And ſhe with equal grief the ſwain ſurvey'd;
Till his impriſon'd paſſion forc'd its way,
And gave him leave faintly at laſt to ſay:
SIRENO.
O my Diana! who would have believ'd
That when the ſad Sireno moſt had griev'd,
[12]Any affliction could have fall'n on me
That would not vaniſh at the ſight of thee?
Thy charming eyes could all my clouds diſpel;
Let but Diana ſmile, and all was well.
Abſent from thee, my ſoul no joy could know;
And yet, alas! I die to ſee thee now.
DIANA.
Turn, O Sireno! turn away thy face,
While all her ſhame a bluſhing maid betrays;
For though my eyes a ſecret pain reveal,
My tongue at leaſt ſhould my fond thoughts conceal:
Yet I would ſpeak, could ſpeaking do me good,
And ſince it is to thee, methinks it ſhould.
O ſhepherd, think how wretched I ſhall be,
When hither I return depriv'd of thee!
When, ſitting all alone within this ſhade,
Which thou ſo oft thy tender choice haſt made,
I read my name engrav'd on every bark,
Of our paſt love the kind affecting mark;
Then my deſpairing ſoul to death nuſt fly;
And muſt thou be content to let me die?
Why doſt thou weep? Alas! thoſe tears are vain,
Since 'tis thy fault that both of us complain.
By this the falſehood of thy vows I know;
For, were thy ſorrow true, thou would'ſt not go.
SIRENO.
Ceaſe, cruel nymph, ſuch killing language ceaſe,
And let the poor Sireno die in peace.
Witneſs, ye everlaſting powers above,
That never ſhepherd bore a truer love!
[13]With thee I wiſh 't had been my happy doom,
With thee alone to ſpend my life to come;
That we now part, is by no fault of mine,
Nor yet, my deareſt ſhepherdeſs, of thine;
For, as no faith did ever mine excel,
So never any nymph deſerv'd ſo well.
But the great ſhepherd whom we all obey,
'Tis his command that forces me away;
Whatever he ordains, none dare refuſe;
I muſt my joy, or elſe my honour, loſe;
Should I to him deny th' allegiance due,
Thou might'ſt to thee think me diſloyal too.
DIANA.
No, no, Sireno, now too late I find
How fond ſhe is that can believe mankind;
Who ſuch excuſes for himſelf pretends,
Will eaſily bear the abſence he defends.
A little time, I fear, will quite deface
Thy thoughts of me, to give another place:
Fool that I was my weakneſs to betray
To one not mov'd with all that I can ſay.
Go, cruel man, embark whene'er you pleaſe,
But take this with you as you paſs the ſeas;
Though with the fierceſt winds the waves ſhould roar,
That tempeſt will be leſs than mine on ſhore.
SIRENO.
'Tis hard unjuſt ſuſpicions to abide:
But who can ſuch obliging anger chide?
Fair as thou art, that charm could never move
My heart to this degree, without thy love:
[14]For 'tis thy tender ſenſe of my ſad fate,
That does my ſharpeſt, deadlieſt pain create.
Ah fear not, to what place ſoe'er I go,
That I ſhall ever break my ſacred vow:
When for another I abandon thee,
May heaven, for ſuch a crime, abandon me!
DIANA.
If ever I my deareſt ſwain deceive,
Or violate the faith that here I give:
When to their food my hungry flocks I lead,
May the freſh graſs ſtill wither where they tread!
And may this river, when I come to drink,
Dry up as ſoon as I approach the brink!
Take here this bracelet of my virgin hair,
And when for me thou canſt a minute ſpare,
Remember this poor pledge was once a part
Of her, who with it gave thee all her heart.
Where'er thou goeſt, may fortune deal with thee
Better than thou, alas! has dealt with me.
Farewell; my tears will give me leave to ſay
No more than this, to all the Gods I pray,
Theſe weeping eyes may once enjoy thy ſight,
Before they cloſe in death's eternal night.
SIRENO.
Then let Sireno baniſh all his fears,
Heaven cannot long reſiſt ſuch pious tears.
The righteous Gods, from whom our paſſion came,
Will pity (ſure) ſo innocent a flame;
Reverſe the hard decree for which we mourn,
And let Sireno to his joys return.
[15]I ſhall again my charming nymph behold,
And never part, but in her arms grow old:
That hope alone my breaking heart ſuſtains,
And arms my tortur'd ſoul to bear my pains.

PROLOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE.BY THE SAME. 1676.
LIKE dancers on the ropes poor poets fare:
Moſt periſh young; the reſt in danger are.
This (one would think) ſhould make our authors wary;
But, gameſter like, the giddy fools miſcarry.
A lucky hand or two ſo tempts them on,
They cannot leave off play till they 're undone.
With modeſt fears a Muſe does firſt begin,
Like a young wench newly entic'd to ſin:
But, tickled once with praiſe, by her good-will,
The wanton fool would never more lie ſtill.
'Tis an old miſtreſs you 'll meet here to-night,
Whoſe charms you once have look'd on with delight;
But now of late ſuch dirty drabs have known you,
A Muſe o' th' better ſort 's aſham'd to own you.
Nature well drawn, and wit, muſt now give place
To gaudy nonſenſe, and to dull grimace:
Nor is it ſtrange that you ſhould like ſo much
That kind of wit, for moſt of yours is ſuch.
But I 'm afraid that, while to France we go,
To bring you home fine dreſſes, dance, and ſhow,
The ſtage, like you, will but more foppiſh grow.
Of foreign wares why ſhould we fetch the ſcum,
When we can be ſo richly ſerv'd at home?
[16]For, heaven be thank'd, 'tis not ſo wiſe an age,
But your own follies may ſupply the ſtage.
Though often plough'd, there's no great fear the ſoil
Should barren grow by the too frequent toil;
While at your doors are to be daily found
Such loads of dunghill to manure the ground.
'Tis by your follies that we players thrive,
As the phyſicians by diſeaſes live,
And as each year ſome new diſtemper reigns,
Whoſe friendly poiſon helps t' increaſe their gains:
So among you, there ſtarts up every day,
Some new unheard-of fool for us to play.
Then for your own ſakes be not too ſevere;
Nor what you all admire at home, damn here.
Since each is fond of his own ugly face,
Why ſhould you, when we hold it, break the glaſs?

SONG IN THE MAN OF MODE
FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA SUZE.

BY THE SAME.

AS Amoret with Phyllis ſate
One evening on the plain,
And ſaw the charming Strephon wait
To tell the nymph his pain:

The threatening danger to remove,
She whiſper'd in her ear,
Ah, Phyllis, if you would not love,
This ſhepherd do not hear.

[17]

None ever had ſo ſtrange an art,

His paſſion to convey

Into a liſtening virgin's heart,

And ſteal her ſoul away.

Fly, fly betimes, for fear you give
Occaſion for your fate.
In vain, ſaid ſhe, in vain I ſtrive,
Alas! tis now too late.

PROLOGUE TO THE RIVAL QUEENS.BY THE SAME. 1677.
HOW hard the fate is of the ſcribbling drudge,
Who writes to all, when yet ſo few can judge!
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought;
And the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught:
Now each fanatic fool preſumes t' explain
The text, and does the ſacred writ profane;
For, while your wits each other's fall purſue,
The fops uſurp the power belongs to you.
You think y' are challeng'd in each new play-bill,
And here you come for trial of your ſkill;
Where, fencer-like, you one another hurt,
While with your wounds you make the rabble ſport.
Others there are, that have the brutal will
To murder a poor play, but want the ſkill.
They love to fight, but ſeldom have the wit
To ſpy the place where they may thruſt and hit;
[18]And therefore, like ſome bully of the town,
Ne'er ſtand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With theſe, like hogs in gardens, it ſucceeds;
They root up all, and know not flowers from weeds.
As for you, ſparks, that hither come each day,
To act your own, and not to mind our play;
Rehearſe your uſual follies to the pit,
And with loud nonſenſe drown the ſtage's wit;
Talk of your cloaths, your laſt debauches tell,
And witty bargains to each other ſell;
Glout on the ſilly ſhe, who, for your ſake,
Can vanity and noiſe for love miſtake;
Till the coquette, ſung in the next lampoon,
Is by her jealous friends ſent out of town.
For, in this duelling, intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
Y' are ſtill prevented ere you come t' engage.
But 'tis not to ſuch trifling foes as you,
The mighty Alexander deigns to ſue;
The Perſians of the pit he does deſpiſe,
But to the men of ſenſe for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds, if they but prove his friends:
For as he once a little handful choſe,
The numerous armies of the world t' oppoſe;
So, back'd by you, who underſtand the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty hoſt of fools!

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IV.[19]CONQUER'D with ſoft and pleaſing charms,
And never-failing vows of her return,
Winter unlocks his froſty arms
To free the joyful Spring:
Which for freſh loves with youthful heat does burn;
Warm ſouth-winds court her, and with fruitful ſhower
Awake the drowſy flowers,
Who haſte, and all their ſweetneſs bring
To pay their yearly offering.
No nipping white is ſeen.
But all the fields are clad with pleaſant green.
And only fragrant dews now fall:
The ox forſakes his once-warm ſtall
To baſk i' th' ſun's much warmer beams;
The ploughman leaves his fire and his ſleep,
Well pleas'd to whiſtle to his labouring teams;
Whilſt the glad ſhepherd pipes to friſking ſheep.
Nay, tempted by the ſmiling ſky,
Wreck'd merchants quit the ſhore.
Reſolving once again to try
The wind and ſea's almighty power;
Chuſing much rather to be dead than poor.
Upon the flowery plains,
Or under ſhady trees,
The ſhepherdeſſes and their ſwains
Dance to their rural harmonies;
[20]They ſteal in private to the covert groves,
There finiſh their well-heighten'd loves.
The city dame takes this pretence
(Weary of huſband and of innocence)
To quit the ſmoke and buſineſs of the town,
And to her country-houſe retires,
Where ſhe may bribe, then graſp, ſome brawny clown,
Or her appointed gallant come
To feed her looſe deſires;
Whilſt the poor dotard by his ſweat at home
Maintains her luſt and pride,
Bleſt as he thinks in ſuch a beauteous bride.
Since all the world's thus gay and free,
Why ſhould not we?
Let's then accept our mother nature's treat,
And pleaſe ourſelves with all that's ſweet;
Let's to the ſhady bowers,
Where, crown'd with gaudy flowers,
We 'll drink and laugh away the gliding hours.
For, truſt me, Thyrſis, the grim conqueror Death
With the ſame freedom ſnatches a king's breath,
He huddles the poor fetter'd ſlave,
To 's unknown grave.
Though each day we with coſt repair,
He mocks our greateſt ſkill and utmoſt care;
Nor loves the fair, nor fears the ſtrong,
And he that lives the longeſt, dies but young;
And, once depriv'd of light,
We 're wrapt in miſts of endleſs night.
[21]Once come to thoſe dark cells of which we're told
So many ſtrange romantic tales of old,
(In things unknown invention 's juſtly bold);
No more ſhall mirth and wine
Our loves and wits refine;
No more ſhall you your Phyllis have,
Phyllis ſo long you 've priz'd:
Nay ſhe too in the grave
Shall lie like us deſpis'd.

PHARMACEUTRIA;^* OR, THE ENCHANTRESS.
TRANSLATED FROM THEOCRITUS,

BY MR. W. BOWLES, OF KING'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

Simaetha is here introduced by the poet in love with one Delphis; and not having ſeen him in twelve days, and ſuſpecting him to love ſome other woman, ſhe, by the help of her maid Theſtylis, endeavours by charms to reduce him.

THE philtres, Theſtylis, and charms prepare,
I'll try, ſince neither Gods nor Delphis hear,
If the falſe man, by me in vain belov'd,
Be charms, and arts more powerful, can be mov'd,
Twelve days, an age to me, alas! are paſt,
Since at th [...]ſe doors he knock'd, or ſaw me laſt;
Sc [...]rn'd and neglected, if I live, or no,
Inhuman as he is, he does not know.
[22]To ſome new miſtreſs ſure he is inclin'd,
For love has wings, and he a changing mind.
To-morrow I'll to the Palaeſtra go,
And tell him he 's unkind to uſe me ſo.
Now to my charm: but you, bright queen of night,
Shine, and aſſiſt me with your borrow'd light,
You, mighty goddeſs, I invoke; and you
Infernal Hecate—
(When you aſcend from the pale ſhades below
Through gaping tombs, and the divided ground,
A ſudden horror ſeizes all around,
The dogs at your approach affrighted fly),
Aſſiſt, and with your powerful aid be nigh;
Inſpire this charm, and may it prove as ſtrong
As Circe's or the bold Medea's ſong!

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

Throw meal upon the hallow'd flames: d' you ſtand
Inſenſible, you ſot, when I command?
Or am I ſcorn'd, and grown a jeſt to you?
Strew ſalt, and ſay, thus Delphis' bones I ſtrew.

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

As Delphis me, ſo I this laurel burn;
And as that burns, and does to aſhes turn,
And cracks, and in a glorious light expires,
So may falſe Delphis burn in quicker fires!

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

As the wax melts, which in the fire I caſt,
So in love's ſlower flames may Delphis waſte:
[23]And as this wheel, with motion quick turn'd round,
Though ſeeming to go on, and quit its ground,
Returns, and in its magic circle ſtill is found;
So, though averſe, and fled from my embrace,
May he return, and ſtill maintain his place!

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

Hail, Artemis, and aid me from above;
You all the ſtubborn powers below can move,
Th' infernal judges and th' infernal king:
Ring, Theſtylis, the ſounding braſs, haſte, ring.
She comes, the goddeſs comes; the dreadful cry
Of howling dogs gives notice ſhe is nigh.

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

See! ſilent are the winds; a peaceful ſleep
Has calm'd the raging ſeas, and ſmooth'd the deep:
But the rough tempeſt, that diſtracts my breaſt.
No calm can find, and will admit no reſt.
O chaſtity, and violated ſame!
I burn for him whoſe love's my only ſhame.

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms.

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

Thus thrice I ſacrifice, and thrice I pray
You execute, great goddeſs, what I ſay.
Whoe'er ſhe be that ſhares his envied bed,
Proud by her conqueſt, and my ruin, made,
Her honour loſt, and ſhe und [...]ne, as I,
Deſerted and abandon'd may ſhe lie,
[24]As did on Dia's ſhore the royal maid
By perjur'd Theſeus' cruelty betray'd.

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

Hippomanes, but taſted, rage inſpires,
And with new heat the winged courſers fires,
O'er fields and woods and mountains tops they go,
Their rage no bounds, and they no ſtop can know;
Such is the plant: and oh! that I might ſee
My Delphis with like rage run home to me!

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

This fringe, which my lov'd Delphis once did wear,
This once dear relick thus enrag'd I tear:
How cruel is the love that leach-like drains
From my pale limbs the blood and empty veins!

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

To-morrow a dire potion I'll compound;
Now, Theſtylis, this philtre ſpread around
His fatal door—
(There all my thoughts and my loſt ſenſes dwell,
There, though ill us'd, my ſoul continues ſtill)
And ſpit, and the ingrateful man de [...]ove,
That ſlights my paſſion, and neglects my love.

Bring back, ye ſacred herbs, and powerful charms,

Bring back the perjur'd Delphis to my arms!

She's gone; and ſince I now am left alone,
What ſhall I ſay? what firſt ſhall I bemoan?
What was the cauſe? whence ſprung my ill-plac'd love?
Diana's rites can tell, and fatal grove;
[25]When fair Anaxo, to the temple led,
Her nuptial-vow to the chaſte goddeſs paid,
With ſavage beaſts the glorious pomp was grac'd,
And a fierce lioneſs amidſt them plac'd.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

Theucharila, my nurſe, would ſee the ſhow,
She near us dwelt, and begg'd of me to go;
Her prayers and my ill fate at laſt prevail'd,
There my kind ſtars and better genius fail'd.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

There all my ills began; for there, alas!
I Delphis ſaw and Eudamippus paſs:
Their golden hair in careleſs curls hung down,
And brighter, Cynthia, far than you they ſhone.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

I ſaw, and was undone! a ſubtle fire
Ran through my veins, and kindled hot deſire;
The ſhining pomp could now no more ſurprize,
A nobler object now employ'd my eyes.
When that was ended, I forgot to go,
How I return'd, or when, I did not know;
Ten days, as many reſtleſs nights I lay,
My beauty to the fierce diſeaſe a prey.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

My fleſh all waſted, and my limbs all pale,
And all my hair with the ſtrong poiſon fell:
[26]Ah, cruel love, to what doſt thou inforce?
To what enchantreſs had I not recourſe.
For ſkill in herbs and magick arts renown'd?
No remedy in their vain arts I found.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

With ſickneſs waſted, and with grief oppreſt,
Thus to my ſervant I at laſt confeſt:
Haſte, Theſtylis, thy dying miſtreſs ſends,
My health on Delphis, and my life depends,
Delphis, who gave, alone can cure the wound;
No remedy for love but love is found:
In active ſports and wreſtling he delights,
And in the bright Palaeſtra often ſits.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

There watch your time, and ſoftly let him know
Simaetha ſent you; then my lodgings ſhow.
She did, and ſtraight his ſounding feet I heard,
Gods! but when lovely Delphis firſt appear'd!

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

A death-like cold ſeiz'd on me; from my brow,
Like ſouthern dew, the liquid drops did flow.
Stiff and unmov'd I lay, and on my tongue
My dying words, when I would ſpeak them, hung:
As when imperfect ſounds from children fall,
When in their dreams they on their mother call.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

[27]

The cruel man ſat down upon my bed,

And then with eyes caſt downward thus he ſaid:

In love you are as far before me gone,

As young Philinus lately I out-run.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

Had not your kinder meſſage call'd me home,
By love's ſweet joys at night I would have come;
Arm'd with my friends I had beſet you round,
And my victorious head with poplar crown'd.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

Had you admitted me, it had been well,
For I in ſwiftneſs and in form excel,
But that my vanquiſh'd equals beſt may tell;
Some ſmaller favour then I had deſir'd;
And modeſtly, but with a kiſs, retir'd:
Had you been cruel, and your doors been barr'd,
With bars and torches for the ſtorm I was prepar'd.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

Now thanks to you, great queen of love, I owe,
And next, my fair preſerver, next to you;
She ſaw the burning pain which I endure,
And recommends to you the mighty cure;
For cool and gentle are all other fires
Compar'd with thoſe which cruel Love inſpires.

Tell, ſilver Phoebe, tell whence ſprung my flame,

Tell, for you know whence the dire paſſion came.

Love, tender maids can from their beds excite,
Nor darkneſs them, nor danger can affright,
[28]Love's mighty power can the young wife compel
From her warm ſleeping huſband's arms to ſteal.
He ſaid: and I, a fond, believing maid,
Preſs'd and reclin'd him gently on my bed;
Now a new heat return'd with his embrace,
Warmth to my blood, and colour to my face,
And, to be ſhort, with mutual kiſſes fir'd,
To the laſt bliſs we eagerly aſpir'd,
And both attain'd what both alike deſir'd.
Now ſwift the hours and wing'd with pleaſure flew,
Calm were our paſſions, and no tempeſt knew;
No quarrel could diſturb our peaceful bed:
But all thoſe joys this fatal morning fled.
Aurora ſcarce had chac'd away the night,
And o'er the world diffus'd her roſy light,
Philiſta's mother came, and as ſhe ſtill
The love and news o' th' town delights to tell;
She told me firſt that Delphis lov'd, but who
She could not tell, but that he lov'd ſhe knew;
All ſigns of ſome new love, ſhe ſaid, ſhe found,
His houſe adorn'd and doors with garlands crown'd.
She tells me true; oh my ill-boding fears!
And Delphis' treachery too plain appears:
His viſits were more frequent, now at laſt
Since he was here twelve tedious days are paſt.
'Tis ſo; and can he then ſo cruel prove,
And I ſo ſoon forgotten, and my love;
Now I 'm content to ſee what charms can do,
But if he dares go on to uſe me ſo,
Provok'd at laſt a potion I'll prepare,
That by his death ſhall eaſe me of my care,
[29]So ſure the poiſon, and ſo ſtrong the draught;
The ſecret was by an Aſſyrian taught.
You, Cynthia, now may to the ſea decline,
And to the riſing ſun your light reſign;
My charm 's now done, and has no longer force
To fix your chariot, or retard your courſe;
I, what I can't redreſs, muſt learn to bear,
And a ſad cure attend from my deſpair.
Adieu, O moon, and every glimmering light;
Adieu, ye gay attendants on the night.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XV. IMITATED.

BY MR. KNIGHTLEY CHETWOOD^*.

THEN this unwieldy factious town
To ſuch prodigious bulk is grown,
It on whole counties ſtands, and now
Land will be wanting for the plough,
[30]Thoſe remnants too the Boors forſake;
Frith muſt the nation undertake.
As in a plague the fields ſhall deſart lie,
Whilſt all men to the mighty peſthouſe fly.

II.If any tree is to be ſeen,
'Tis myrtle, bays, and ever-green;
Lime-trees, and plane, for pleaſure made,
Which for their fruit bear only ſhade.
Such as do female men content,
With uſeleſs ſhew and barren ſcent.
The Britiſh oak will ſhortly be as rare,
As orange-trees here once, or cedar were.

III.Not by theſe arts, my maſters, ſure
Your fathers did thoſe lands procure.
They preferr'd uſe to empty ſhew,
No ſoftening French refinements knew.
Themſelves, their houſe, their table, plain,
Noble and richly clad their train.
Temperance did health without phyſicians keep,
And labour crown'd hard beds with eaſy ſleep.

IV.To th' publick rich, in private poor,
The exchequer held their greateſt ſtore.
They did adorn their native place
With ſtructures, which their heirs deface.
They in large palaces did dwell,
Which we to undertakers ſell.
[31]Stately cathedrals they did found,
Whoſe ruins now deform the ground;
Churches and colleges endow'd with lands,
Whoſe poor remains fear ſacrilegious hands.

THE EIGHTH ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL.

BY THE SAME.

I Damon and Alpheus' loves recite,
The ſhepherds envy, and the fields delight:
Whom as they ſtrove, the liſtening heifers ſtood,
Greedy to hear, forgetful of their food;
They charm'd the rage of hungry wolves, and led
The wandering rivers from their wonted bed.

I Damon and Alpheus' loves recite,

The ſhepherds envy, and the fields delight.

And you, great prince, whoſe empire unconfin'd,
As earth, as ſeas, yet narrower than your mind,
Whether you with victorious troops paſs o'er
Timavus' rocks, or coaſt th' Illyrian ſhore!
Shall I, beginning with theſe rural lays,
Ever my Muſe to ſuch perfection raiſe,
As without raſhneſs to attempt your praiſe,
And through the ſubject world your deeds rehearſe?
Deeds worthy of the majeſty of verſe!
My firſt fruits now I to your altar bring;
You, with a riper Muſe, I laſt will ſing.
Mean-while among your laurel wreaths allow
This ivy branch to ſhade your conquering brow.

[32]

Scarce had the ſun diſpell'd the ſhades of night,

Whilſt dewy browze the cattle does invite;

When in a mournful poſture, pale and wan,

The luckleſs Damon thus his plaints began:

Thou drowſy ſtar of morning, come away,
Come and lead forth the ſacred lamp of day;
Whilſt I, by Niſa baff [...]ed and betray'd,
Dying, to heaven accuſe the perjur'd maid:
But prayers are all loſt breath; the powers above
Give diſpenſations for falſe oaths in love.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains,

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

'Tis a moſt bleſſed place, that Arcady!
And ſhepherds bleſs'd, who in thoſe coverts lie!
Muſick and love is all their buſineſs there,
Pan doth himſelf part in thoſe concerts bear:
The vocal pines with claſping arms conſpire,
To cool the ſun's, and fan their amorous fire.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains,

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

Mopſus does Niſa a cheap conqueſt gain,
Preſented, woo'd, betroth'd to me in vain.
What hour ſecure, what reſpite to his mind
In this falſe world can a poor lover find?
Let griffins mares, and eagles turtles woo,
And tender fawns the ravening dogs purſue:
Theſe may indeed ſubject of wonder prove,
But nothing to this prodigy of love.
Mopſus, buy torches: Hymen, you muſt join;
Beſpeak our bride-cake, Heſperus; all is thine.

[33]

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

A worthy match, and juſt reward of pride!
Whilſt you both Damon and his pipe deride!
Too long my beard, nor ſmooth enough my face:
And with my perſon you my flocks diſgrace.
There are revenging gods, proud nymphs there are,
And injur'd love is heaven's peculiar care.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

Early I walk'd one morn with careleſs thought,
Your mother you into our garden brought,
And ruddy wildings round the hedges ſought;
The faireſt fruit, and glittering all with dew,
(The boughs were high, but yet) I reach'd for you:
I came, I ſaw, I gaz'd my heart away,
Me, and my flocks, and all my life that minute led aſtray.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

Now, Love, I know you, for myſelf too late:
But, ſhepherds, take ye warning by my fate.
Truſt not this flattering voice, or ſmiling face
A Canibal, or born in rocky Thrace,
Not one of us, nor like the Britiſh race.
She-wolves gave ſuck to the pernicious boy;
The ſhepherds he, they do the flocks deſtroy.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

Miſchief is all his ſport; at his commands,
In her ſon's blood Medea bath'd her hands;
[34]A ſad unnatural mother ſhe, 'tis true;
But, Love, that cruelty ſhe learn'd of you.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

Nature, which with this dotage hath begun,
Now into all extravagance will run:
The tamariſk bright amber ſhall diſtil,
And the coarſe elder bear ſoft daffodil.
Shortly the ſcreech-owl, with her boding throat,
The ſwans ſhall rival in their dying note,
S— and O— the bays ſhall claim,
And equal Dryden's and Roſcommon's fame.

Begin with me, my flute, begin ſuch ſtrains

As Pan our patron taught th' Arcadian ſwains.

May the work ſink with me! farewell, ye groves,
Haunts of my youth, and conſcious of my loves:
Down from the precipice myſelf I'll caſt,
Accept this preſent, Niſa—'tis my laſt.

Then ceaſe, my flute, for ever ceaſe thy ſtrains,

Bid a ſad ſilence through th' Arcadian plains.

THE PRAISES OF ITALY,
FROM VIRGIL'S SECOND GEORGIC.BY THE SAME.
BUT neither Median groves, whoſe happy ſoil
With choiceſt fruits prevents the labourer's toil,
Nor Ganges' ſtreams bleſſing his fertile land,
Nor He [...]mus' ſelf rolling on golden ſand,
[35]Can with fair Italy the prize conteſt;
Leſs gay the glorious kingdoms of the eaſt,
Nor Araby, with all her gums and ſpice, is half ſo bleſt.
No Hydras ſhe, or monſtrous bulls does bear,
Who with their flaming noſtrils blaſt the air;
Nor dragons teeth ſown in the wonde ringfield
Do ſhort-liv'd harveſts of arm'd brethren yield:
But vital fruit ſhe brings wine, oil, and corn,
And faireſt cattle do her meads adorn.
Her warlike horſe is of the nobleſt race,
Who proudly prances o'er his native place.
And where thy magic ſtreams, Clitumnus, flow,
The flocks are white as the freſh falling ſnow.
Heaven does ſo much thoſe ſacred victims prize,
'Twill give a conqueſt for a ſacrifice.
As in the north 'tis winter makes the year,
The ſpring and autumn are the ſeaſons here,
Cattle breed twice, and twice the reſtleſs furrows bear.
But heaven has baniſh'd hence rough beaſts of prey,
No hungry lions on the mountains ſtray,
Nor monſtrous ſnakes make inſecure the fearful traveler's way.
Nature did this; but induſtry and art
To the rich maſs did nobler forms impart.
 [...]er marble rocks into fair cities riſe,
Which with their pointed turrets pierce the ſkies.
 [...]ere pleaſant ſeats, by which clear ſtreams do paſs,
 [...]aze on their ſhadows in the liquid glaſs:
[36]There, big with ſtory, ancient walls do ſhow
Their reverend heads; beneath, ſam'd rivers flow.
The ſea, which would ſurround the happy place,
Does it on both ſides with his arms embrace:
And ſtately gallies, which the Adria ride,
Bring the world's tribute with each gentle tide.
The ſpacious lakes with level proſpect pleaſe,
Or ſwell, an imitation of the ſeas.
What ſhould I tell how art could undertake
To make a haven in the Lucrine lake?
The roc [...]y mole which bridles in the main,
Whilſt angry ſurges ſpend their rage in vain.
As Caeſar's arms all nations can ſubdue,
So Caeſar's works can conquer nature too.
Her very entrails veins of ſilver hold,
And mountains are all under-arch'd with gold;
But her chief treaſures, without which the reſt are vai [...]
Are men for labour, generals made to reign.
She bred the Marſian who ne'er knew to yield,
And tough Ligurian, fit for either field:
Triumphant cottagers, whoſe frugal hand
Held both the ſpade and truncheon of command:
Decii, devoted for the public good,
Compounding for whole armies with their blood:
Camillus, ſaviour of the ſinking ſtate,
Who reſcued Rome ev'n from the midſt of fate.
Marii, who Roman eagles bore ſo far,
And Scipios, the two thunder-bolts of war.
You laſ [...], great Caeſar, whoſe green years did more
Than generals old in triumphs could before.
[37]You tow'rds the Eaſt your glorious courſe do run,
India forgets now to adore the ſun.
Hail! happy ſoil, learning and empire's ſeat,
Mother of heroes, Saturn's ſoft retreat,
To you I Grceian arts in triumph bring.
And your juſt praiſe in laſting numbers ſing.

UPON DESIRE.

WHAT art thou, oh thou new-found pain?
From what infection doſt thou ſpring?
Tell me, O tell me, thou inchanting thing,
Thy nature and thy name.
Inform me by what ſubtile art,
What powerful influence,
You got ſuch vaſt dominion in a part
Of my unheeded and unguarded heart,
That fame and honour cannot drive you thence?
Oh miſchievous uſurper of my peace!
Oh ſoft intruder of my ſolitude!
Charming diſturber of my eaſe!
That haſt my nobler fate purſued;
And all the glories of my life ſubdued!

Thou haunt'ſt my inconvenient hours;
The buſineſs of the day, nor ſilence of the night,
That ſhould to cares and ſleep invite,
Can bid defiance to thy conquering powers.
Where haſt thou been this live-long age,
That from my birth till now
[38]Thou never didſt one thought engage,
Or charm my ſoul with the uneaſy rage,
That made it all its humbler feebles know?
Where wert thou, O malicious ſprite,
When ſhining glory did invite?
When intereſt call'd, then thou wert ſhy,
Nor one kind aid to my aſſiſtance brought;
Nor would'ſt inſpire one tender thought,
When princes at my feet did lie.
When thou could'ſt mix ambition with my joy,
Then, peeviſh phantom, thou wert nice and coy;
Not beauty would invade thee then,
Nor all the arts of laviſh men;
Not all the powerful rhetorick of the tongue,
No ſacred wit could charm thee on;
Not the ſoft play that lovers make,
Nor ſighs could fan thee to a fire;
No pleading tears or vows could thee awake,
Nor charm'd the unform'd—ſomething—to deſire.

Oft I 've conjur'd thee to appear,
By youth, by love, by all their powers,
Have ſearch'd and ſought thee every where,
In ſilent groves, in lonely bowers,
On flowery beds where lovers wiſhing lie,
In ſheltering woods where ſighing maids
To their aſſigning ſhepherds hie,
And hide their bluſhes in the gloom of ſhades.
Yet there, ev'n there, though youth aſſail'd,
Where beauty proſtrate lay, and fortune woo'd,
[39]My heart (inſenſible) to neither bow'd;
Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.
In courts I ſought thee then, thy proper ſphere,
But thou in crouds wert ſtifled there;
Intereſt did all the  [...]oving buſineſs do,
Invites the youths, and wins the virgins too;
Or if by chance ſome heart thy empire own,
Ah! power ingrate! the ſlave muſt be undone.

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that doſt dilate
Thy mighty force through every part,
What God or human power did thee create
In my (till now) unfacile heart?
Art thou ſome welcome plague ſent from above,
In this dear form, this kind diſguiſe?
Or the falſe offspring of miſtaken love,
Begot by ſome ſoft thought, that feeble ſtrove
With the bright-piercing beauties of Lyſander's eyes?
Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now,
And found to whom thou doſt thy being owe:
'Tis thou the bluſhes doſt impart,
'Tis thou that trembleſt in my heart.
When the dear ſhepherd does appear,
I faint and die with pleaſing pain;
My words intruding ſighings break,
Whene'er I touch the charming ſwain;
Whene'er I gaze, whene'er I ſpeak,
Thy conſcious ſire is mingled with my love;
As in the ſanctified abodes
Miſguided worſhipers approve
The mixing idols with their Gods.
[40]In vain, alas! in vain I ſtrive
With errors, which my ſoul do pleaſe and vex;
For ſuperſtition will ſurvive,
Purer religion to perplex.

Oh tell me, ye philoſophers in love,
What can theſe burning feveriſh fits control,
By what ſtrange arts you cure the ſoul,
And all the fiery calenture remove.

Tell me, ye fair-ones, you that give deſire,
How 'tis you hide the kindling fire.
Oh, would you but confeſs the truth,
It is not real virtue makes you nice:
But, when you do reſiſt the preſſing youth,
'Twas want of dear deſire to thaw the virgin-ice:
And, while your young adorers lie,
All languiſhing and hopeleſs at your feet;
Raiſing new trophies to your chaſtity,
Oh, tell me how you do remain diſcreet;
And not the paſſion to the throng make known,
Which Cupid in revenge has now confin'd to one:
How you ſuppreſs the riſing ſighs,
And the ſoft yielding ſoul that wiſhes in your eyes!
While to th' admiring crowd you nice are found,
Some dear, ſome ſecret youth, who gives the wound,
Informs you, all your virtue's but a cheat,
And honour but a falſe diſguiſe,
Your modeſty a neceſſary ſlight
To gain the dull repute of being wiſe.
[41]Deceive the fooliſh world, deceive it on,
And veil your paſſion in your pride;
But now I 've found your weakneſs by my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide;
For, though with virtue I the world perplex,
Lyſander finds the feeble of my ſex:
So Helen, though from Theſeus' arms ſhe fled,
To charming Paris yields her heart and bed.

A SONG.

I.AT dead of night, when rapt in ſleep
The peaceful cottage lay,
Paſtora left her folded ſheep,
Her garland, crook, and uſeleſs ſcrip;
Love led the nymph aſtray.

II.Looſe and undreſt ſhe takes her flight
To a near myrtle-ſhade;
The conſcious moon gave all her light,
To bleſs her raviſh'd lover's ſight,
And guide the loving maid.

III.His eager arms the nymph embrace,
And, to aſſuage his pain,
His reſtleſs paſſion he obeys:
At ſuch an hour, in ſuch a place,
What lover could contain?

[42]IV.In vain ſhe call'd the conſcious moon,
The moon no ſuccour gave;
The cruel ſtars unmov [...]d look'd on,
And ſeem'd to ſmile at what was done,
Nor would her honour ſave.

V.Vanquiſh'd at laſt by powerful love,
The nymph expi [...]ing lay:
No more ſhe ſigh'd, no more ſhe ſtrove,
Since no kind ſtars were found above,
She bluſh'd, and dy'd away.

VI.Yet bleſt the grove, her conſcious ſlight,
And youth that did betray;
And, panting, dying with delight,
She bleſt the kind tranſporting night,
And curſt approaching day.

ON MR. WALLER.

BY SIR THOMAS HIGGONS^*.

THOUGH I can add but little to his name,
Whoſe Muſe hath given him ſuch immortal fame;
Yet, in the crowd of thoſe who dreſs his hearſe,
I come to pay the tribute of a verſe.

[43]Athens and Rome, when learning flouriſh'd moſt,
Could never ſuch a finiſh'd poet boaſt:
[44]Whoſe matchleſs ſoftneſs in the Engliſh tongue
Out-does what Horace, or Anacreon, ſung.
[45]Judgment does ſome to reputation raiſe;
And for invention others wear the bays:
He poſſeſs'd both, with ſuch a talent ſtill,
As ſhew'd, not only force of wit, but ſkill.
So faultleſs was his Muſe, 'tis hard to know
If he did more to art or nature owe.
Read where you will, he's muſick all along,
And his ſenſe eaſy, as his thought is ſtrong.
Some, ſtriving to be clear, fall flat and low;
And, when they think to mount, obſcure they grow.
He is not darker for his lofty flight;
Nor does his eaſineſs depreſs his height;
But ſtill perſpicuous, where-ſoe'er he fly,
And, like the ſun, is brighteſt when he's high.
Ladies admire, and taſte his gentle vein,
Which does the greateſt ſtateſmen entertain.
His verſes do all ſorts of readers warm,
Philoſophers inſtruct, and women charm.
Nor did he all men in his verſe out-do,
But gave the law in converſation too:
He tun'd the company where-e'er he came,
Still leaving with them ſomething of his flame.
He ſeem'd by nature made for every thing,
And could harangue, and talk, as well as ſing;
Perſuade in council, and aſſemblies lead;
Now make them bold, and then as much afraid:
Give them his paſſions, make them of his mind;
And their opinion change, as he inclin'd.
The Engliſh he hath to perfection brought;
And we to ſpeak are by his meaſures taught.
[46]Thoſe very words which are in faſhion now,
He brought in credit half an age ago.
Thus Petrarch mended the Italian tongue;
And now they ſpeak the language which he ſung.
They both like honour to their countries do;
Their ſaints they both inimitably woo.
They both alike eternity do give:
And Sachariſſa ſhall with Laura live.

TO THE DUKE, ON HIS RETURN. 1682.BY NATHANAEL LEE*.
COME then at laſt, while anxious nations weep,
Three kingdoms ſtak'd! too precious for the deep.
Too precious ſure, for when the trump of fame
Did with a direful ſound your wreck proclaim,
Your danger and your doubtful ſafety ſhown,
It dampt the genius, and it ſhook the throne.
[47]Your helm may now the ſea-born goddeſs take,
And ſoft Fa [...]onius ſafe your paſſage make!
Strong, and auſpicious, be the ſtars that reign,
The day you launch, and Nereus ſweep the main!
[48]Neptune aloft ſcour all the ſtorms before,
And following Tritons wind you to the ſhore;
While on the beach, like billows of the land,
In bending crowds the loyal Engliſh ſtand!
[49]Come then, though late, your right receive at laſt;
Which heaven preſerv'd in ſpite of fortune's blaſt.
Accept thoſe hearts that offer on the ſtrand;
The better half of this divided land.
Venting their honeſt ſouls in tears of joy,
They rave, and beg you would their lives employ.
Shouting your ſacred name, they drive the air,
And fill your canvas wings with gales of prayer.
Come then, I hear three nations ſhout again,
And, next our Charles, in every boſom reign;
Heaven's darling charge, the care of regal ſtars,
Pledge of our peace, and triumph of our wars.
Heaven echoes, come! but come not, ſir, alone,
Bring the bright pregnant bleſſing of the throne.
And if in poets charms be force or ſkill,
We charge you, O ye waves and winds, be ſtill.
Soft as a ſailing goddeſs bring her home,
With the expected prince that loads her womb,
Joy of this age, and heir of that to come.
Next her the virgin princeſs ſhines from far,
Aurora that, and this the Morning-ſtar.
Hail then, all hail! they land in Charles's arms,
While his large breaſt the nation's angel warms.
Tears from his cheeks with manly mildneſs roll,
Then dearly graſps the treaſure of his ſoul;
Hangs on his neck, and feeds upon his form,
Calls him his calm after a tedious ſtorm.
O brother! he could ſay no more, and then
With heaving paſſion claſp'd him cloſe again.
How oft, he cried, have I thy abſence mourn'd!
But 'tis enough thou art at laſt return'd:
[50]Said I return'd! O never more to part,
Nor draw the vital warmth from Charles's heart.
Once more, O heaven, I ſhall his virtue prove,
His counſel, conduct, and unſhaken love.
My people too at laſt their error ſee,
And make their ſovereign bleſt in loving thee.
Not but there is a ſtiff-neck'd harden'd crew,
That give not Caeſar, no nor God, his due.
Reprobate traitors, tyrants of their own,
Yet grudge to ſee their monarch on his throne;
Their ſtubborn ſouls, with braſs rebellion barr'd,
Deſert the laws, and crimes with treaſon guard,
Whom I—But there he ſtopt, and cried, 'Tis paſt,
Pity's no more, this warning be their laſt!
Then ſighing ſaid, My ſoul's dear-purchas'd reſt,
Welcome, O welcome, to my longing breaſt:
Why ſhould I waſte a tear while thou art by?
To all extremes of friendſhip let us fly,
Diſdain the factious croud that would rebel,
And mourn the men that durſt in death excel:
Their fates were glorious, ſince for thee they fell.
And as a prince has right his arms to wield,
When ſtubborn rebels force him to the field;
So for the loyal, who their lives lay down,
He dares to hazard both his life and crown.

ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE; MADE IN SICKNESS.

[51]

BY MRS. WHARTON^*.

SEE there the taper's dim and doleful light,
In gloomy waves ſilently rolls about,
And repreſents to my dim weary ſight
My light of life almoſt as near burnt out.

Ah, health! beſt part and ſubſtance of our joy,
(For without thee 'tis nothing but a ſhade)
Why doſt thou partially thyſelf employ,
Whilſt thy proud foes as partially invade?

What we, who ne'er enjoy, ſo fondly ſeek,
Thoſe who poſſeſs thee ſtill, almoſt deſpiſe;
To gain immortal glory, raiſe the weak,
Taught by their former want thy worth to prize.

[52]

Dear melancholy Muſe, my conſtant guide,

Charm this coy health back to my fainting heart,

Or I'll accuſe thee of vain-glorious pride,

And ſwear thou doſt but feign the moving art.

But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Muſe;
Who for all ſorrows mak'ſt me ſome amends?
Alas! our ſickly minds ſometimes abuſe
Our beſt phyſicians, and our deareſt friends.

SONG.

BY THE SAME.

HOW hardly I conceal'd my tears,
How oft did I complain,
When many tedious days my fears
Told me I lov'd in vain!

But now my joys as wild are grown,
And hard to be conceal'd;
Sorrow may make a ſilent moan,
But joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,
To every ſtream and tree,
And bleſs the hollow murmuring rocks
For echoing back to me.

Thus you may ſee with how much joy
We want, we wiſh, believe;
'Tis hard ſuch paſſion to deſtroy,
But eaſy to deceive.

THE LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH.

[53]

BY THE SAME.

1. HOW doth the mournful widow'd city bow!
She that was once ſo great: alas, how low!
Once fill'd with joy, with deſolation now!

2. Tears on her cheeks, and ſables on her head,
She mourns her lovers loſt, and comforts dead:
Alas! alas! loſt city, where are thoſe,
So proud once to be friends, now turn'd her foes?

3. Judah is gone; alas! to bondage gone;
Amongſt the Heathen, Judah mourns alone;
Griev'd, and in ſervitude, ſhe finds no reſt,
Follow'd by none but thoſe by whom oppreſt.

4. The feaſts of Zion no one now attends,
Unhappy Zion! deſtitute of friends:
Her prieſts ſtill ſigh, and all her virgins mourn,
Becauſe her gladneſs now finds no return.

5. Her enemies are great, and ever nigh,
Still fortunate becauſe her crimes were high:
Her captiv'd children ſtill her guilt upbraid,
Who mourn whilſt their inſulting foes invade.

6. Her beauty, which excell'd, is now no more,
That brightneſs which all nations did adore;
Her princes are like hunted harts become,
Breathleſs and faint, whilſt the purſuit goes on:
Alas! for Zion, all their ſtrength is gone.

[54]7. Jeruſalem then thought upon the hour
When ſhe was crown'd with peace, delight, and power;
Thoughts once ſo joyful, mournful now and vain,
The foe inſults, whilſt ſhe no helps ſuſtain,
Mocking both at her ſabbaths and her pain.

8. Her crimes have caus'd her to be far remov'd,
Jeruſalem, who was ſo well belov'd.
All thoſe, who in her pride admir'd her fame,
Deſpiſe her now, becauſe they've ſeen her ſhame:
Sighing ſhe turns away, with ſhame diſtreſs'd,
Amaz'd, deſpis'd, deſerted, and oppreſs'd.

9. Circled with guilt and ſhame ſhe cannot fly,
Her comfort's far remov'd, her end too nigh:
She vainly thinks on that 'tis now too late,
Behold thoſe griefs which no one can repeat,
Her fall is ſteep, and all her foes are great.

10. Her ſanctuary is by them betray'd,
All her delights they careleſsly invade;
Even the heathen, of whom God had ſaid,
They ſhould not in her holy temple tread.

11. Her hungry people ſigh and give away,
For bread, their treaſures, leſt their lives decay.
Conſider, Lord, ſee her with cares bow'd down,
For I am vile, and Zion left alone.

12. All you who paſs this way, behold and ſee,
Are my griefs ſmall? Do others grieve like me?
Are not theſe ſorrows, under which I bow,
With which the Lord hath brought my ſoul ſo low?
Turn back, and mourn with me, becauſe my Lord
In his fierce anger doth no peace afford.

[55]13. He from above hath flames and horror ſent,
Circling my ſoul with pain and diſcontent:
His ſnares, alas! my weary feet betray,
Whilſt, deſolate and faint, I mourn all day
For Zion loſt, her glory thrown away.

14. Our ſins have brought thoſe chains which his command
Hath faſten'd now (who can his power withſtand?)
Now they are link'd by his Almighty hand.
The Lord forſakes, and I am now the ſcorn
Of enemies, becauſe of God forlorn:
He was my ſtrength, and now, alas! 'tis gone.

15. My mighty men are all by him caſt down,
They're cruſh'd by numbers, and I'm left alone;
Whilſt ſilently thy virgin daughters mourn,
Unhappy mournful Judah left forlorn.

16. For this I weep, and waſte myſelf in tears,
Becauſe her help's far off, and ſorrow's near:
Ah, wretched Judah! where is now thy hope?
Thy foes ſtill triumph, whilſt thy children droop.

17. Zion ſpreads forth her arms to be reliev'd;
But who can comfort whom the Lord hath griev'd?
Her enemies increaſe and flouriſh ſtill,
By his command, by his all-powerful will:
Ah, wretched city, ſcorn'd and ſham'd by all,
Who can enough lament thy dreadful fall?

18. Yet he is juſt, for I am guilty found,
The Lord with righteouſneſs is always crown'd.
Ye that paſs by, ſee me with ſorrows drown'd,
My weight of ſin hath preſs'd me to the ground:
[56]Who is it now my freedom can reſtore?
My youth and captive virgins are no more.

19. I call'd for all my friends, but they were gone,
Friendſhip grows cold when miſery comes on:
With hunger pin'd, my prieſts and rulers died,
Within my walls periſh'd my ſtrength and guide.

20. My crimes were great, ſo are my ſorrows now,
Behold, my Lord, ſee the afflicted bow;
Abroad th' unwearied ſword bereaves of breath,
And grief at home is a more cruel death.

21. All round me hear my ſighs, and ſee my tears,
Whilſt there is none that can relieve my cares:
My foes hear, and rejoice at what is done;
But thou wilt ſurely, Lord, at laſt return,
And then the enemy, like me, will mourn.

22. Their crimes are great; turn, mighty Lord, and ſee
Afflict them then as thou afflicted me:
My griefs are great, turn therefore and relent;
My ſighs are many, and my heart is faint.

SONG TO A LADY, WHO DISCOVERED A NEW STAR IN CASSIOPEIA.

BY MR. CHARLES DRYDEN^*.

AS Ariana, young and fair,
By night the ſtarry quire did tell,
She found in Caſſiopeia's chair
One beauteous light the reſt excel:
[57]This happy ſtar, unſeen before,
Perhaps was kindled from her eyes,
And made for mortals to adore
A new-born glory in the ſkies.

II.Or if within the ſphere it grew,
Before ſhe gaz'd the lamp was dim;
But from her eyes the ſparkles flew
That gave new luſtre to the gem.
Bright omen! what doſt thou portend,
Thou threatening beauty of the ſky?
What great, what happy monarch's end?
For ſure by thee 'tis ſweet to die.

III.Whether to thy fore-boding fire
We owe the creſcent in decay?
Or muſt the mighty Gaul expire
A victim to thy fatal ray?
Such a preſage will late be ſhown
Before the world in aſhes lies;
But if leſs ruin will atone,
Let Strephon's only fate ſuffice.

ARIADNE'S COMPLAINT, UPON A ROCK IN THE ISLAND OF NAXOS ON BEING DESERTED BY THESEUS.

[58]

BY WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT^*.

THESEUS! O Theſeus, hark! but yet in vain
Alas, deſerted, I complain!
It was ſome neighbouring rock, more ſoft than he,
Whoſe hollow bowels pitied me,
And, beating back that falſe and cruel name,
Did comfort and revenge my flame.
[59]Tell me, ye Gods, whoe'er ye are,
Why, O why made ye him ſo fair?
[60]And tell me, wretch, why thou
Mad'ſt not thy ſelf more true?
Beauty from him may copies take,
And more majeſtic heroes make,
And Falſehood learn a-while,
From him, too, to beguile.
Reſtore my clew,
'Tis here moſt due;
For 'tis a labyrinth of more ſubtle art,
To have ſo fair a face, ſo foul a heart.
[61]The ravenous vulture tear his breaſt!
The rolling ſtone diſturb his reſt!
Let him next feel Ixion's wheel,
And add one fable more
To curſing poets ſtore!
And then—yet rather let him live, and twine
His woof of days with ſome thread ſtol'n from mine;
But, if you'll torture him, howe'er,
Torture my heart, you'll find him there.

Till my eyes drank up his,
And his drank mine,
I ne'er thought ſouls might kiſs,
And ſpirits join:
Pictures till then
Took me as much as men,
Nature and art
Moving alike my heart.
But his fair viſage made me find
Pleaſures and fears,
Hopes, ſighs, and tears,
As ſeveral ſeaſons of the mind.
Should thine eye, Venus, on his dwell,
Thou would'ſt invite him to thy ſhell,
And, caught by that live jet,
Venture the ſecond net,
And after all thy dangers, faithleſs he,
Should'ſt thou but ſlumber, would forſake ev'n thee.
The ſtreams ſo court the yielding banks,
And gliding thence ne'er pay their thanks.
The winds ſo woo the flowers,
Whiſpering among freſh bowers,
[62]And, having robb'd them of their ſmells,
Fly thence perfum'd to other cells.
This is familiar hate, to ſmile and kill;
Though nothing pleaſe thee, yet my ruin will.
Death, hover, hover o'er me then!
Waves, let your cryſtal womb
Be both my fate and tomb!
I'll ſooner truſt the ſea, than men.
And yet, O nymphs below who ſit,
In whoſe ſwift floods his vows he writ,
Snatch a ſharp diamond from the richer mines,
And in ſome mirrour grave theſe ſadder lines,
Which let ſome God convey
To him, that ſo he may
In that both read at once, and ſee
Thoſe looks that caus'd my deſtiny.
In Thetis' arms I Ariadne ſleep,
Drown'd firſt by my own tears, then in the deep;
Twice baniſh'd, firſt by love, and then by hate,
The life that I preſerv'd became my fate;
Who, leaving all, was by him left alone,
That, from a monſter freed, himſelf prov'd one.

That then I—But look! O mine eyes
Be now true ſpies,
Yonder, yonder
Comes my dear,
Now my wonder,
Once my fear.
See ſatyrs dance along
In a confuſed throng,
[63]While horns and pipes rude noiſe
Do mad their luſty joys.
Roſes his forehead crown,
And that re-crowns the flowers.
Where he walks up and down
He makes the deſarts bowers:
The ivy and the grape
Hide, not adorn, his ſhape,
And green leaves cloath his waving rod:
'Tis either Theſeus, or ſome God.

IN MEMORY OF THE MOST WORTHY BEN JONSON.

BY THE SAME.

FATHER of poets, though thine own great day,
Struck from thyſelf, ſcorns that a weaker ray
Should twine in luſtre with it; yet my flame,
Kindled from thine, flies upwards tow'rds thy name.
For in the acclamation of the leſs
There's piety, though from it no acceſs.
And though my ruder thoughts make me of thoſe,
Who hide and cover what they ſhould diſcloſe:
Yet, where the luſtre 's ſuch, he makes it ſeen
Better to ſome, that draws the veil between.

And what can more be hop'd, ſince that divine
Free-filling ſpirit took its flight with thine?
Men may have fury, but no raptures now;
Like witches, charm, yet not know whence, nor how.
[64]And, through diſtemper, grown not ſtrong but fierce,
Inſtead of writing, only rave in verſe:
Which when by thy laws judg'd, 'twill be confeſs'd,
'Twas not to be inſpir'd, but be poſſeſs'd.

Where ſhall we find a Muſe like thine, that can
So well preſent and ſhew man unto man,
That each one finds his twin, and thinks thy art
Extends not to the geſtures, but the heart?
Where one ſo ſhewing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'ſt cuſtom, and not cuſtom thee?
Manners, that were themes to thy ſcenes, ſtill flow
In the ſame ſtream, and are their comments now:
Theſe times thus living o'er thy models, we
Think them not ſo much wit, as propheſy:
And, though we know the character, may ſwear
A Sibyl's finger hath been buſy there.

Things common thou ſpeak'ſt proper; which, though known
For public, ſtampt by thee grow thence thine own:
Thy thoughts ſo order'd, ſo expreſs'd, that we
Conclude that thou didſt not diſcourſe, but ſee
Language ſo maſter'd, that thy numerous feet,
Laden with genuine words, do always meet
Each in his art; nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the poet, like the wiſe-man, all:
Thine equal ſkill thus wreſtling nothing, made
Thy pen ſeem not ſo much to write as trade.

That life, that Venus of all things, which we
Conceive or ſhew, proportion'd decency,
Is not found ſcatter'd in thee here and there,
But, like the ſoul, is wholly every where.
[65]No ſtrange perplexed maze doth paſs for plot;
Thou always doſt untie, not cut the knot.
Thy labyrinth's doors are open'd by one thread,
That ties, and runs through all that's done or ſaid.
No power comes down with learned hat and rod;
Wit only, and contrivance, is thy God.

'Tis eaſy to gild gold: there's ſmall ſkill ſpent
Where ev'n the firſt rude maſs is ornament:
Thy Muſe took harder metals, purg'd and boil'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat and toil'd,
Sifted the droſs, fil'd roughneſs, then gave dreſs,
Vexing rude ſubjects into comelineſs.
Be it thy glory, then, that we may ſay,
Thou run'ſt where th' foot was hinder'd by the way.

Nor doſt thou pour out, but diſpenſe thy vein,
Skill'd when to ſpare, and when to entertain:
Not like our wits, who into one piece do
Throw all that they can ſay, and their friends too,
Pumping themſelves, for one term's noiſe, ſo dry,
As if they made their wills in poetry;
And ſuch ſpruce compoſitions preſs the ſtage,
When men tranſcribe themſelves, and not the age.
Both ſorts of plays are thus like pictures ſhown,
Thine of the common life, theirs of their own.

Thy models yet are not ſo fram'd, as we
May call them libels, and not imagery:
No name on any baſis: 'tis thy ſkill
To ſtrike the vice, but ſpare the perſon ſtill:
As he, who when he ſaw the ſerpent wreath'd
About his ſleeping ſon, and, as he breath'd,
[66]Drink-in his ſoul, did ſo the ſhoot contrive,
To kill the beaſt, but keep the child alive:
So doſt thou aim thy darts, which, even when
They kill the poiſons, do but wake the men.
Thy thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy launcings better than another's cure;
And juſtly too: for th' age grows more unſound
From the fool's balſam, than the wiſe man's wound.

No rotten talk breaks for a laugh; no page
Commenc'd man by th' inſtructions of thy ſtage;
No bargaining line there; no provoc'tive verſe;
Nothing but what Lucretius might rehearſe;
No need to make good countenance ill, and uſe
The plea of ſtrict life for a looſer Muſe:
No woman rul'd thy quill: we can deſcry
No verſe born under any Cynthia's eye:
Thy ſtar was judgement only, and right ſenſe,
Thy ſelf being to thy ſelf an influence.
Stout beauty is thy grace: ſtern pleaſures do
Preſent delights, but mingle horrors too:
Thy Muſe doth thus like Jove's fierce girl appear,
With a fair hand, but graſping of a ſpear.

Where are they now that cry, thy lamp did drink
More oil than th' author wine, while he did think?
We do embrace their ſlander: thou haſt writ
Not for diſpatch, but fame; no market-wit:
'Twas not thy care, that it might paſs and ſell,
But that it might endure, and be done well:
Nor would'ſt thou venture it unto the ear,
Until the file would not make ſmooth, but wear:
[67]Thy verſe came ſeaſon'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer judges roſe a ſtrife,
To make thee read as claſſic in thy life.
Thoſe that do hence applauſe and ſuffrage beg,
'Cauſe they can poems form upon one leg,
Write not to time, but to the poet's day:
There's difference between fame and ſudden pay.
Theſe men ſing kingdoms fall, as if that fate
Us'd the ſame force t' a village and a ſtate:
Theſe ſerve Thyeſtes' bloody ſupper in,
As if it had only a ſallad been:
Their Catilines are but fencers, whoſe fights riſe
Not to the fame of battle, but of prize.
But thou ſtill putt'ſt true paſſions on; doſt write
With the ſame courage that tried captains fight;
Giv'ſt the right bluſh and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loſs of wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and, by a thorough care,
Big without ſwelling, without painting fair:
They wretches, while they cannot ſtand to fit,
Are not wits, but materials of wit.
What though thy ſearching wit did rake the duſt
Of time, and purge old metals of their ruſt;
Is it no labour, no art, think they, to
Snatch ſhipwrecks from the deep, as divers do?
And reſcue jewels from the covetous ſand,
Making the ſea's hid wealth adorn the land?
What though thy culling Muſe did rob the ſtore
Of Greek and Latin gardens, to bring o'er
[68]Plants to thy native ſoil; their virtues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here.
If thy ſtill to their eſſence doth refine
So many drugs, is not the water thine?
Thefts thus become juſt works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine: thus doth the ſtamp and face
Make that the king's, that 's raviſh'd from the mine:
In others then 'tis ore; in thee 'tis coin.

Bleſt life of authors, unto whom we owe
Thoſe that we have, and thoſe that we want too:
Thou'rt all ſo good, that reading makes thee worſe,
And to have writ ſo well's thine only curſe.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didſt hate
That ſervile baſe dependance upon fate:
Succeſs thou ne'er thought'ſt virtue, nor that fit,
Which chance and th' age's faſhion did make hit;
Excluding thoſe from life in after-time,
Who into poetry firſt brought luck and rhyme:
Who thought the people's breath good air; ſtyl'd name
What was but noiſe; and, getting briefs for fame,
Gather'd the many's ſuffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:
Thy thoughts were their own laurel, and did win
That beſt applauſe of being crown'd within.

And though th' exacting age, when deeper years
Had interwoven ſnow among thy hairs,
Would not permit thou ſhould'ſt grow old, 'cauſe they
Ne'er by thy writings knew thee young; we may
Say juſtly, they're ungrateful, when they more
Condemn'd thee, 'cauſe thou wert ſo good before:
[69]Thine art was thine art's blur, and they 'll confeſs
Thy ſtrong perfumes made them not ſmell thee leſs.
But, though to err with thee be no ſmall ſkill,
And we adore the laſt draughts of thy quill:
Though th [...]ſe thy thoughts, which the now queaſy age
Doth count but clods, and refuſe of the ſtage,
Will come up porcelain-wit ſome hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners, and more ſenſe;
'Twas judgement yet to yield, and we afford
Thy ſilence as much fame, as once thy word:
Who, like an aged oak, the leaves being gone,
Waſt food before, art now religion;
Thought ſtill more rich, though not ſo richly ſtor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.

Great ſoul of numbers, whom we want and boaſt;
Like curing gold, moſt valued now thou ' [...]t loſt;
When we ſhall feed on refuſe offals, when
We ſhall from corn to acorns turn again;
Then ſhall we ſee that theſe two names are one,
Jonſon and Poetry, which now are gone.

A NEW CATCH.WOULD you know how we meet o'er our jolly full bowls?
As we mingle our liquors, we mingle our ſouls;
The ſweet melts the ſharp, the kind ſooths the ſtrong,
And nothing but friendſhip grows all the night long.
We drink, laugh, and celebrate every deſire;
Love only remains, our unquenchable fire.

THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

[70]

BY DR. CHETWOOD^*.

HECTOR, though warn'd by an approaching cry,
That to Troy walls the conquering Greeks drew nigh,
T' his princeſs one ſhort viſit pays in haſte,
Some daemon told him this would be his laſt:
Her (ſwiftly paſſing through the ſpacious ſtreets)
He nor at home nor in the circle meets,
Nor at Minerva's†, where the beauteous train
Made prayers and vows to angry powers in vain.
[71]She, half diſtracted with the loud alarms,
(The prince was carry'd in his nurſe's arms)
Runs to a turret, whoſe commanding height
Preſented all the battle to her ſight,
Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans flight.
Here Hector finds her; with a lover's pace
She ſpeeds, and breathleſs ſinks in his embrace;
The nurſe came after with her princely care,
As Heſperus, freſh, promiſing, and fair;
Hector in little, with paternal joy,
He bleſt in ſilent ſmiles the lovely boy.
The princeſs, at his ſight compos'd again,
Preſſing his hand, does gently thus complain:

My deareſt lord, believe a careful wife,
You are too laviſh of your precious life;
You foremoſt into every danger run,
Of me regardleſs, and your little ſon.
Shortly the Greeks, what none can ſingly do,
Will compaſs, pointing all the war at you.
But before that day comes, heavens! may I have
The mournful privilege of an early grave!
For I, of your dear company bereft,
Have no reſerve, no ſecond comfort left.
My father, who did in Cilicia reign,
By fierce Achilles was in battle ſlain:
His arms that ſavage conqueror durſt not ſpoil,
But paid juſt honours to his funeral pile;
Wood-nymphs about his grave have planted ſince
A rural monument to a mighty prince.
Seven brothers, who ſeven legions did command,
Had the ſame fate, from the ſame murdering hand.
[72]My mother too, who their ſad heir did reign,
With a vaſt treaſure was redeem'd in vain,
For ſhe ſoon clos'd her empire and her breath,
By wretches' laſt good fortune—ſudden death.
Thus father, mother, brethren, all are gone;
But they ſeem all alive in you alone.
To gain you, thoſe endearments I have ſold,
And like the purchaſe—if the title hold.
Have pity then, here in this tower abide,
And round the walls and works your troops divide.
But row the Greeks, by both their generals led,
Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomede,
With all their moſt experienc'd chiefs and brave,
Three fierce attacks upon the out-works gave;
Some god their courage to this pitch did raiſe,
Or this is one of Troy's unlucky days.

Hector replied: This you have ſaid, and more,
I have revolv'd in ſerious thoughts before.
But I not half ſo much thoſe Grecians fear,
As carpet-knights, ſtate-dames, and flatterers here.
For they, if ever I decline the fight,
Miſcall wiſe conduct, cowardice and flight;
Others may methods chuſe the moſt ſecure,
My life no middle courſes can endure.
Urg'd by my own and my great father's name,
I muſt add ſomething to our ancient fame:
Embark'd in Ilium's cauſe, I cannot fly,
Will conquer with it, or muſt for it die.
But ſtill ſom [...] boding genius does po [...]tend
To all my toils an unſucceſsful end;
For how can man with heavenly powers contend?
[73]The day advances with the ſwifteſt pace,
Which Troy and all her glories ſhall deface,
Which Aſia's ſacred empire ſhall confound,
And theſe proud towers lay level with the ground.
But all compar'd with you does ſcarce appear,
When I preſage your caſe, I learn to fear:
When you by ſome proud conqueror ſhall be led
A mournful captive to a maſter's bed:
Perhaps ſome haughty dame your hands ſhall doom,
To weave Troy's downfal in a Grecian loom:
Or, lower yet, you may be forc'd to bring
Water to Argos from Hiperia's ſpring;
And, as you meaſure out the tedious way,
Some one ſhall, pointing to his neighbour, ſay,
See to what fortune Hector's wife is brought,
That famous general, that for Ilium fought!
This will renew your ſorrows without end,
Depriv'd in ſuch a day of ſuch a friend.
But this is fancy, or before it I
Low in the duſt will with my country lie.

Then to his infant he his arms addreſs'd,
The child clung, crying, to his nurſe's breaſt,
Scar'd at the burniſh'd arms and threatening creſt.
This made them ſmile, whilſt Hector did unbrace
His ſhining helmet, and diſclos'd his face:
Then, dancing the pleas'd infant in the air,
Kiſs'd him, and to the gods conceiv'd this prayer:

Jove, and ye heavenly powers, whoever hear
Hector's requeſt with a propitious ear,
Grant this my child in honour and renown
May equal me, wear and deſerve the crown!
[74]And when from ſome great action he ſhall come
Laden with hoſtile ſpoils in triumph home,
May Trojans ſay, Hector great things hath done,
But is ſurpaſs'd by his illuſtrious ſon!
This will rejoice his tender mother's heart,
And ſenſe of joy to my pale ghoſt impart.

Then in the mother's arms he puts the child;
With troubled joy, in flowing tears ſhe ſmil'd:
Beauty and grief ſhew'd all their pomp and pride,
Whilſt thoſe ſoft paſſions did her looks divide.
This ſcene ev'n Hector's courage melted down,
But ſoon recovering, with a lover's frown,

Madam, ſays he, theſe fancies put away,
I cannot die before my fatal day:
Heaven, when we firſt take-in our vital breath,
Decrees the way and moment of our death.
Women ſhould fill their heads with womens' cares,
And leave to men, unqueſtion'd, mens' affairs.
A truncheon ſuits not with a lady's hand;
War is my province, that in chief command.

The beauteous princeſs ſilently withdrew,
Turns oft, and with ſad wiſhing eyes does her lord's ſteps purſue.
Penſive to her apartment ſhe returns,
And with prophetic tears approaching evils mourns:
Then tells all to her maids; officious they
His funeral rites to living Hector pay,
Whilſt forth he ruſhes through the * Scaean gate,
Does his own part, and leaves the reſt to fate.

ODE, IN IMITATION OF PINDAR, ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS EARL OF OSSORY^*.

[75]

BY THE SAME.

I.WHAT ſtrains at ſacred Piſa's ſpring,
The ſwan that often ſung with tuneful breath.
To his inchanting lyre did ſing,
Of God, of hero, or of heaven-born king,
With verſes cheaply purchas'd, though by death;
Or rather (ſince to a pious hero we
Juſt though late oblations bring)
What tears the Muſe's prophet royal ſhed
On Saul's anointed head,
And thought a crown poor recompence for a friend:
When, by a power miraculous, he
(The power of faith and poetry)
Upon the clouds an interdict did lay,
And bid Mount Gilboa
To rear his naked back parch'd to the angry ſky:
[76]Such numbers prieſteſſes of fame inſpire,
Such Oſſory does deſerve, and Ormond ſuch deſire;
Such Flanders' bloody plains, and Mons, and Britiſh ſeas require.
And ye poetic candidates of fame,
If ye would build a laſting name,
This ſubject chuſe: as the dark womb
Of the old prophet's vital tomb
Could life reſtore, ſo Oſſory's life can give,
And by his genius many an age ev'n this dead verſe ſhall live.

II.Then tell, ye heavenly ſiſters, ye can tell,
(For we below
In the dark vale of hearſay dwell,
And nothing know)
Tell when great Oſſory's enlarged ſhade
Through heaven's arch his triumphant entry made,
How noble Brutus' ancient race
(To ſhew peculiar worth peculiar grace)
Roſe up and offer'd the firſt place.
Tell how the ſainted hero (whom
The pious tales of fabulous Rome,
Greater to make, have almoſt nothing made)
Embrac'd his ſucceſſor; and ſware
None worthier did his myſtic enſigns wear.
Tell how the nymphs that with ſoft ſilver oars
Ply round the Ebude's, and cold Mona's ſhores,
Or the ſea's oracle, the mouth of Thames,
The noble Shannon's, or ſoft Liſty's ſtreams,
[77]Their guardian did lament, and tear
Their ſea-green hair,
This ſecond grief to great Pan's death th' afflicted nymphs did hear.
Bid ſad Juverna raiſe a monument
As Teneriff high, wide as her iſle's extent.
Bid her be ſure her title prove,
Left her pretence as fabulous ſeem as lying Crete's to Jove.

III.Nature, with her commiſſion briſk and gay,
When the bleſs'd earth ſaluted new-born day,
And the world's eye, the youthful ſun,
Unſpotted with ill ſights, the race did run,
Profuſe, in birds and flowers her art did ſhew,
She painted then the gaudy bow:
But moſt in man (whom we her abſtract call)
She of the precious ſtuff was prodigal:
Her kings but few removes from Jove, her princes heroes all.
But now (ſo ſparingly that ſeed is ſown,
The ſoil ſpent, or ſhe covetous grown,
Or vice hath ſpoil'd the ſtrain, or fate
Hath given the world for deſperate)
She hath ſhrunk the ſhort dimenſions of a man,
And to an inch reduc'd our ſpan,
A number, an inglorious rout,
Faint ſhadows of our anceſtors, alas! we ſtalk about.
If by ſome mighty effort ſhe
Produce at laſt one Oſſory;
(Like ſtars, which in our hemiſphere
Gaz'd at, half known, ſtrait diſappear)
[78]So late he enters, ſo ſoon quits the ſtage,
He leaves a nation deſolate, and quite undoes the age.

IV.Early young Oſſory enter'd virtue's race,
Swiftly began, yet ſtill increas'd his pace;
And, when no other rival he could find,
Strove with himſelf, and left himſelf behind.
With confirm'd ſteps to his prince he went
Into a noble baniſhment,
The country then of all was excellent.
But ſure the ſtars and fortune have
Small influence on the virtuous and the brave;
Ev'n poiſon turns to wholeſome meat
By virtue's ſtrong digeſtive heat.
The more with Hercules' ſtepdame Juno ſtrove,
The more ſhe prov'd the mighty ſeed of Jove.
The policy of * Tiber and the* Arne,
The courtſhip of the † Seine and † Marne;
What ſolid ſerious the ſage ‡ Hebre hath,
And Germany of antient faith,
With Britiſh gallantry conjoin'd,
Did in the chemic furnace of his mind
A high elixir make, than each more precious and refin'd.

V.As when that annual chaos Winter ſlies,
Whilſt the ſoft Pleiades do mount the ſkies,
And Philomel to weſtern gales does ſing
The advent of the heaven-born ſpring;
Such joy bleſs'd Charles did to his ſubjects bring.
[79]Then many a hero, whom no ſtorms could ſhake,
Who from his ſufferings did new courage take,
Diſſolv'd in the ſoft lap of pleaſure lay,
As ice, the winter's child, in ſummer's day
Is by the amorous ſunbeams kiſs'd away.
But not ſo Oſſory, cryſtalliz'd his mind,
Fortune adverſe did brave, diſdain'd her kind.
Not Amoret to th' alcove,
Or park, the conſcious mart of love,
Not ſo t' a prince's levee with firſt light
Haſtes an aſpiring favourite;
As you where honourable danger lay,
And to the temple of high fame did mark the craggy way.

VI. [...], thy wing'd chariot quickly, Muſe, prepare,
Lo, a vaſt fleet conſumes the Eaſtern air:
Baſe Hollanders Great Britain's rights invade;
See what returns for liberty they made!
Viperous blood! but vipers we do find
Bely'd; ingratitude is proper to mankind.
Embark i' th' ſhip where Oſſory goes,
To check the parricidal foes:
Not as the grave Venetian takes his way,
With many a barge, and many a gondola;
Whilſt painted Bucentore in ſtate does move,
And to the Adriatic maid makes love.
As Jove he comes to th' Theban dame,
Dreadfully gay with lightning's pointed flame:
Unhappy they who to his embraces came,
One would have thought, t' have heard his cannon roar,
Aetna were torn from the Trinacrian ſhore;
[80]And freed Typh [...]eus a new war did move
Againſt the upper and the nether Jove.
The Nereids trembled in their watery bed,
In the iſles roots they hid their head,
And (like the Hollanders) aghaſt from their own guardian fled.

VII.But narrow is one element,
Compar'd to a well-form'd ſoul's extent;
Narrow the ſtarry firmament.
Fate brings (to keep the balance of the age)
With monſters equal heroes on the ſtage:
The weſtern Sultan powerful grows,
A torrent all things overflows;
But Mons in bloody characters his fatal limits ſhows.
You check'd the monarch in his full career,
Fierce Luxemburgh wondered, and learnt to fear;
Alas! he knew not Oſſory was there.
Sad the ripe harveſt of his fame he yields,
The harveſt of ſo many bloody fields.
To merit ſuch a conqueror long he grew,
And gather'd laurels to be worn by you;
Curſing juſt heaven, dropping with bloody ſweat,
The ſad remains withdraws of his defeat,
And more than all his victories he values this retreat.

VIII.Great excellence oft proves dangerous to the ſtate;
A comet virtue, when hung out by fate,
To itſelf and others ruin does create.
But ſilent he, yet active as the day,
Born to command, and willing to obey.
[81]Nature to him the happy temper gave,
All kind he was as proſperous Love,
Gentle as Venus' gentleſt dove,
In fight beyond a fancy'd hero brave.
Thou Virgin Mother-church*, which now doſt ride
The ſwelling ſurges of a double tide,
Safe only becauſe daſh'd on either ſide;
O what a friend now in thy day
Hath fate in Oſſory ſnatch'd away!
And ye who holy friendſhip do adore,
His equal you will never ſee, before
You Oſſory ſhall in heaven rejoin, ne'er to be parted more.

IX.Accurſed fever, death's ſharp-poiſon'd dart,
Accurſed fruit, accurſed earth,
Which to the fatal tree gave birth:
Which to mine of ſtrange confuſion have you laid
In the moſt regular breaſt that e'er was made!
Thoſe eyes, from which ſwift lightning once did part,
To melt the temper'd ſteel, or harder heart,
Like wafting meteors now portend,
With blood-ſhot beams his own approaching end.
The ſeat where honour's records lay†,
Where was deſign'd the fall of Africa‡,
Scarce Heaven's decrees more firmly ſet than they)
Like parchments in the fire now ſhrunk away.
[82]Thoſe * purple waves, which, like the Nile,
From his undiſcover'd head,
Health and freſh honours on its ſoil did ſhed,
And bid all Egypt ſmile;
Now with Veſuvian waves ſcorch all their way,
And to the king † o' th' little world a mortal tribute pay.

X.Unjuſtly we accuſe the ſovereign law,
Which all things to their proper place does draw:
Full ripe for heaven, he ſpurn'd the earth,
The monumental ſeat of miſcall'd birth.
No art, no violence, can control
(Though on it Oſſa you, and Pelion roll)
Th' aſcending motion of a heaven-born ſoul.
His fever, like Elias' fiery carr,
(Whilſt the ſad prophets mourn him from afar)
Kindled his funeral pile into a ſtar.
Others may praiſe the feats of mortal breath,
But I the opportunity of death.
He ſaw not popular fury threat the ſtage,
Nor epidemic madneſs ſeize the age:
He liv'd not till his wreaths did grow
Wither'd and pale upon his brow,
As Pompey and great Scipio.
Few, heaven's choice favourites, the privilege have
To bring their fame untainted to their grave.
Who the wild paſſions knows of human-kind,
Fortune and falſe mortality,
This truth will find,
When wanted moſt and beſt belov'd, 'tis happieſt the [...] to die

ON THE DEATH OF JAMES DUKE OF ORMOND^*.

[83]

BY THE SAME.

RELIGIOUS diſcord, fury of this iſle,
A little truce, ceaſe your harſh notes a while!
Honour, religion, virtue, learning, all
Demand our tears at their great patron's fall.

Whilſt ſlight court-meteors, ſoon advancing high,
Short-liv'd too long, once ſeen, neglected die;
At eighty years Ormond's propitious light
Seems immaturely raviſh'd from our ſight:
Some proſperous ſtar, torn from his native ſphere,
Would cauſe ſuch wonder and confuſion there.

The virtues of four reigns he kept entire,
Fin'd from the droſs, as gold by chemic fire.
Exalted virtues, which here want a name,
Too weighty for the labouring wings of fame!
Of ancient honour, loyalty, and truth,
The nobleſt ſtandard for our wandering youth.
Thus, whilſt the patriarch liv'd who paſs'd the ſtood,
The Jewiſh ſtate by ancient maxims ſtood;
But, he once gone, the baſe degenerate age
Sunk to its old apoſtacy and rage.

Some have in courts, others in camps been great,
In buſineſs ſome, ſome in a wiſe retreat;
Ormond in all, his vaſt imperious mind
Excell'd in each, as if to one confin'd:
[84]All times of life, all ſtations he could grace,
The diſtant poles of goodneſs did embrace,
With crouding lights fill'd all the glorious ſpace.

Through ſeveral climes be a bright courſe did run,
Kind as th' enlivening progreſs of the ſun.
Warm'd by his beams, ev'n ſad Hibernia's iſle
Look'd up, and cheer'd her viſage with a ſmile;
Mov'd Britain's envy: but, her patron dead,
Deep in his fens, her Genius ſinks his head

Oxford, which, during this Apollo's reign,
Rival'd your ſiſter, and improv'd your vein,
If you juſt tribute to his hearſe deny,
Your ſwans fall ſpeechleſs, and your ſtreams be dry:
Some grateful voice his glorious life ſhall ſing,
More above ſubjects than beneath a king.

TO THE PRESENT DUKE^*.

THIS Atlas gone, what hero does remain,
The ponderous maſs of honour to ſuſtain?
'Tis you, great ſir; his rights, his virtues too,
(That beſt ſucceſſion!) are devolv'd on you:
Your mind, well-ballaſt, bears the proſperous gales;
They cannot over-ſet, ſcarce fill your ſails.
[85]What a fair ſteady courſe you ſteer along
Through Sev [...]la's ba [...]kings, and falſe Syren's ſong!
Your friendſhip not debas'd by treacherous art,
Your actions ſpeak the language of your heart.
Fortune deſpairs, or flattering, or unkind,
To daunt your courage, or corrupt your mind

Some, plac'd in fooliſh pride's new tottering ſeat,
Grow leſs from little, labouring to look great:
Such do not riſe, but weigh great titles down,
Their miſp [...]ac'd coronets but eclipſe the crown:
Whilſt your digeſted honour eaſy lies,
Came as a debt, not taken by ſurprize.

Thus torrents, creatures of the winter ſky,
O'er flow whilſt hurtful, in the heats grow dry:
But ſacred Nile, warm'd by the riſing ſun,
With him a thouſand leagues from his high ſource does run;
With a rich deluge all the plains does bleſs:
Egypt were ruin'd, if his ſtreams were leſs.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WALLER.

BY MRS. APHARA BEHN^*.

HOW, to thy ſacred memory, ſhall I bring
(Worthy thy fame) a grateful offering?
I, who by toils of ſickneſs am become
Almoſt as near as thou art to a tomb;
[86]While every ſoft, and every tender ſtrain
Is ruffled, and ill-natur'd grown with pain?
But, at thy name, my languiſh'd Muſe revives,
And a new ſpark in the dull aſhes ſtrives.
I hear thy tuneful verſe, thy ſong divine;
And am inſpir'd by every charming line.
But, oh!—
[87]What inſpiration, at the ſecond hand,
Can an immortal elegy command;
Unleſs, like pious offerings, mine ſhould be
Made ſacred, being conſecrate to thee?
Eternal, as thy own almighty verſe,
Should be thoſe trophies that adorn thy hearſe;
The thought illuſtrious, and the fancy young;
The wit ſublime, the judgement fine and ſtrong;
Soft as thy notes to Sachariſſa ſung.
[88]Whilſt mine, like tranſitory flowers, decay,
That come to deck thy tomb a ſhort-liv'd day.
Such tributes are, like tenures, only ſit
To ſhew from whom we hold our right to wit.

Hail, wondrous bard, whoſe heaven-born genius firſt
My infant Muſe and blooming fancy nurſt.
With thy ſoft food of love I firſt began,
Then fed on nobler panegyric ſtrain,
Numbers ſeraphic! and at every view
My ſoul extended, and much larger grew:
Where-e'er I read, new raptures ſeiz'd my blood;
Methought I heard the language of a god.

Long did the untun'd world in ignorance ſtray,
Producing nothing that was great and gay,
Till taught by thee the true poetic way.
Rough were the tracks before, dull and obſcure;
Nor pleaſure nor inſtruction could procure.
Their thoughtleſs labour could no paſſion move;
Sure, in that age, the poets knew not love:
That charming god, like apparitions, then,
Was only talk'd-of, but ne'er ſeen by men:
Darkneſs was o'er the Muſe's land diſplay'd,
And ev'n the choſen tribe unguided ſtray'd.
Till, by thee reſcued from th' Egyptian night,
They now look up, and view the god of light,
That taught them how to love, and how to write;
And to enhance the bleſſing heaven lent,
When for our great inſtructor thou wert ſent,
Large was thy life, but yet thy glories more;
And, like the ſun, didſt ſtill diſpenſe thy power,
Producing ſomething wondrous every hour:
[89]And in thy circulary courſe didſt ſee
The very life and death of poetry.
Thou ſaw'ſt the generous Nine neglected lie,
None liſtening to their heavenly harmony;
The world being grown to that low ebb of ſenſe
To diſ-eſteem the nobleſt excellence;
And no encouragement to prophets ſhown,
Who in paſt ages got ſo great renown.
Though fortune elevated thee above
Its  [...]eauty gratitude, or fickle love;
Yet, ſullen with the world, untir'd by age,
Scorning th' unthinking crowd, thou quitt'ſt the ſtage.

A PROLOGUE.BY SIR CHARLES SEDLEY*.
ENVY and faction rule the grumbling age,
The ſtate they cannot, but they ſhake the ſtage:
This barren trade ſome would engroſs, ſtill hoping
From our poor port to baniſh interloping;
And, like the plodding lawyers, take great care
To elbow blooming merit from the bar.
In every age there were a ſort of men,
A [...] you do now, damn'd all was written then;
[90]Thouſands before them leſs provoke their pride,
Than one poor rival ſtraining by their ſide.
Such vermin-criticks we expect to find,
For nature knows not how to loſe a kind,
The ſtinking pole-cat, or the mole that's blind.
But againſt old as well as new to rage,
Is the peculiar frenzy of this age.
Shakeſpeare muſt down, and you muſt praiſe no more
Soft Deſdemona, nor the jealous Moor.
Shakeſpeare, whoſe fruitful genius, happy wit,
Was fram'd and finiſh'd at a lucky hit;
[91]The pride of nature, and the ſhame of ſchools,
Born to create, and not to learn from rules,
Muſt pleaſe no more: his baſtards now deride
Their father's nakedneſs they ought to hide.
But when on ſpurs their Pegaſus they force,
Their jaded Muſe is diſtanc'd in the courſe.
All that is now hath been before, 'tis true;
But yet the art, the faſhion, may be new:
Though old materials the large palace raiſe,
The ſkilful architect deſerves his praiſe.
If nothing pleaſe, you are not nice, but ſick,
'Tis want of ſtomach ever to diſlike:
On our paſt poets petty juries ſit,
The living ſink beneath your preſent ſpite,
As if this were the doomſday of all wit.
[92]But, beaux and ladies, be you not too nice,
You'll break our lottery if none draw a prize,
Then down go half th' arti [...]lery of your eyes.
For this one night do as kind lovers uſe,
Tie up ſtrict judgement, and let fancy looſe.

ON THE DEATH OF KING CHARLES II.

BY MR. WILLIAM BOWLES^*.

AH! where, protecting Providence! ah! where
Thoſe guardian angels, and that watchful care,
That through arm'd troops the royal charge un⯑touch'd did bear?
From civil fury and inteſtine rage,
Which exercis'd his youth, and vex'd his age,
So often guarded; by a fierce diſeaſe
He falls ſurpriz'd in the fallacious calm of peace.

Ah! mighty prince! thy mercy, virtue ſuch,
That heaven ſure thought our happineſs too much;
Inherent goodneſs in thy ſoul did ſhine,
Thou bright reſemblance of the power divine;
[93]For ſure the great Original is beſt
B [...] mercy join'd with mighty power expreſt.
In thy bleſt reign how juſtly mixt appear
The father's kindneſs, and the prince's care!
[94]Nor war, nor exile, nor a father's blood,
Nor juſt revenge for injur'd virtue, could
The native ſweetneſs of his mind control,
Or change the godlike temper of his ſoul.
Contending rebels ſeem'd in vain to ſtrive;
They could not more offend, than he forgive;
A nobler triumph, and more glorious far,
Than all the trophies of deſtructive war:
For mercy does a bloodleſs conqueſt find,
And with ſweet force the rudeſt paſſions bind.

The gaping wounds of civil rage he mourn'd,
And ſav'd his country firſt, and then adorn'd.
Our dreadful navy does in triumph ride,
And the world's riches flow with every tide:
And, as thoſe flying towers the ſea command,
His caſtles grace at once, and guard, the land.
To his protection improv'd arts we owe,
And ſolid knowledge does from trial grow;
(All ſubject nature ours) new worlds are found,
And ſciences diſdain their antient bound.
Auguſtus ſo, the ſtorms of war o'er-blown,
Aegypt ſubdued, and all the world his own,
His ſofter hours in arts of peace employ'd,
And Rome adorn'd, by civil fire deſtroy'd.
Nor was he made only to bleſs our iſle,
But, born for peace, did Europe reconcile;
Contending princes heard from him their fate:
And the world's motion on his will did wait.

The threatening cloud we ſaw at laſt withdrawn,
And a new morn of triumphs ſeem'd to dawn,
[95]Th' auſpicious proſpect did bright years foreſhow,
And golden times in long ſucceſſion ſeem'd to flow:
Once more he did our civil jars compoſe,
And gain'd new glories from his pardon'd foes;
No private paſſion to revenge could draw,
But juſtice govern'd, and impartial law.
So juſt, yet ſo indulgently ſevere,
Like heaven, he pitied thoſe he could not ſpare.
And, forc'd to draw the neceſſary ſword,
The ſad effects of their own crimes abhorr'd.
Now juſt ſucceſs the royal conduct crown'd,
And ſtubborn factions their great ſovereign own'd,
But ah! black ſhades his ſacred head ſurround.
Nor doſt thou fall unwept: three kingdoms groan,
And in their ruler's fate bewail their own.
Juſtice and equal government are things
That ſubjects make more happy than their kings.
Thy fame, beſt prince, if poets can divine,
Shall the great troublers of the world outſhine:
Succeſsful robberies their titles ſwell,
But thine from juſtice riſe, and doing well.
Thy deathleſs cares beyond ſhort life extend,
And nobly to ſucceeding times deſcend,
And, that falſe claims and riſing wars might ceaſe,
Secur'd ſucceſſion, and ſecur'd our peace,
Thy lateſt toil! how barbarous was the rage,
That of ſuch heroes would deprive our age!
What wonders may we from that prince expect,
Whoſe private valour could our iſle protect!
Whom ſuch amazing virtues recommend,
The kindeſt brother, and the braveſt friend!

THE REAPERS^*,
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. X.

[96]

BY THE SAME.

MILO.

ARE you grown lazy, or does ſome diſeaſe,

O Battus, bind your hands, and ſinews ſeize,

That, like a ſheep prickt by a pointed thorn,

Still you're behind, and lag at every turn?

What in the heat and evening will you do,

Who early in the morning loiter ſo?

BATTUS.

Milo, thou piece of flint, thou all of ſtone,

Didſt never yet an abſent friend bemoan?

MILO.

Who, but ſuch fools as thou the abſent mind?

Sure what concerns you more, you here may find.

BATTUS.

Did Love ne'er yet thy ſenſes waking keep,

Trouble thy dreams, or interrupt thy ſleep?

MILO.

The gods preſerve me from that reſtleſs care!

O reapers all, the gilded bait beware!

BATTUS.

But I nine days the paſſion Love have felt,
With inward fires conſume, and ſlowly melt.
[97]See all neglected lies before my door,
While I run mad for a confounded whore.

She who pip'd lately at Hippocoon's feaſt,

Charm'd every [...]ar, and wounded every gueſt!

MILO.

The Gods for ſome old ſins have ſent this evil,

And ſhame, long due, has reach'd thee from the devil.

BATTUS.

Beware; inſulting Cupid has a dart,

And it may one day reach thy ſtubborn heart.

MILO.

Come, you're a poet, ſing ſome amorous ſong;

'Twill eaſe your toil, and make the day leſs long.

BATTUS.

Oh, Muſe! aſſiſt my ſong, and make it ſlow;

For you freſh charms on all you ſing beſtow.

Bombycé (oh, my deareſt) do not frown,
They call thee tawny, but I call thee brown.
Yet bluſh not, dear: * black is the violet,
And hyacinth with letters all o'erwrit;
Yet both are ſweet, and both for garlands ſir.
Kids the green leaves, wolves the young kids purſue,
And Battus, ſweet Bombycé, follows you.
Oh! had the envious Gods not made me poor,
Had I rich Croeſus' wealth and mighty ſtore,
In Venus' temple ſhould our ſtatues ſtand;
Thou with thy pipe and tabor in thy hand,
I, in a dancer's poſture, gay, new-ſhod,
Form'd of pure gold, and glorious as a God!
[98]Thy voice, Bombycé, is moſt ſoft and ſweet;
But who can praiſe enough thy humour, and thy ſilver feet?

MILO.

Battus deceiv'd us, a great poet grown,
What verſe is here! but are they, friend, thy own?
How juſt the rhymes, how equally they meet,
The numbers how harmonious, and how ſweet!
Yet mark, and this diviner ſong attend,
'Twas by immortal Lytierſes* penn'd.

Smile on the corn, O Ceres! bleſs the field;
May the full ears a plenteous harveſt yield!
Gather your ſheaves (oh friends!) and better bind,
See how they're blown, and ſcatter'd by the wind:
Haſte, leſt ſome jeering paſſenger ſhould ſay,
Oh. lazy rogues! their hire is thrown away.
Reapers, obſerve, and to the ſouth-weſt turn
Your ſheaves; 't will fill the ears, and ſwell the corn.
Threſhers at noon, and in the burning heat,
(Then the light chaff flies out) ſhould toil and ſweat;
But reapers ſhould with the ſweet wood-lark riſe,
And ſleep when Phoebus mounts the ſouthern ſkies.
Happy the frogs who in the waters dwell!
They ſuck-in drink for air, and proudly ſwell.
Oh niggard bailiff! we could dine on beans,
And ſpare your windy cabbage, and your pains.

Such ſongs at once delight us, and improve;
But thy ſad ditty, and thy tale of love,
Keep for thy mother, Battus, I adviſe,
When ſtretch'd and yawning in her bed ſhe lies.

THE HONEY-STEALER*.[99]CUPID, the flyeſt rogue alive,
One day was plundering of a hive:
But, as with too eager haſte
He ſtrove the liquid ſweets to taſte,
A bee ſurpriz'd the heedleſs boy;
Prick'd him, and daſh'd th' expected joy.
The urchin when he felt the ſmart
Of the envenom'd angry dart,
He kick'd, he flung, he ſpurn'd the ground;
He blow'd, and then he chaff'd the wound:
The blow'd and chaff'd the wound in vain;
The rubbing ſtill increas'd the pain.
Straight to his mother's lap he hies,
With ſwelling cheeks, and blubber'd eyes.
Cries ſhe—What does my Cupid all?
When thus he told his mournful tale:
" A little bird they call a bee,
With yellow wings; ſee, mother, ſee
How it has gor'd, and wounded me!"
" And are not you, reply'd his mother,
For all the world juſt ſuch another?
 [...]uſt ſuch another angry thing,
 [...]ike in bulk, and like in ſting?
 [...]or, when you aim a poiſonous dart,
 [...]gainſt ſome poor unwary heart,
 [...]w little is the archer found!
 [...] yet how wide, how deep the wound!"

THE COMPLAINT OF ARIADNE.
FROM CATULLUS.

[100]

BY MR. W. BOWLES.

The poet, in the epithalamium of Peleus and Thetis, deſcribes the genial bed, on which was wrought the ſtory of Theſeus and Ariadne; and on that occaſion makes a long digreſſion, part of which is the ſubject of the following poem.

THERE, on th' extremeſt beach and fartheſt ſand,
Deſerted Ariadne ſeem'd to ſtand,
New-wak'd, and raving with her love, ſhe flew
To the dire ſhore, from whence ſhe might purſue
With longing eyes, but all alas in vain!
The winged bark o'er the tempeſtuous main;
For buried in fallacious ſleep ſhe lay,
While through the waves falſe Theſeus cut his way,
Regardleſs of her fate who ſav'd his youth;
Winds bore away his promiſe and his truth.
Like ſome wild Bacchanal unmov'd ſhe ſtood,
And with fix'd eyes ſurvey'd the raging flood.
There with alternate waves the ſea does roll,
Nor leſs the tempeſts that diſtract her ſoul;
Abandon'd to the winds her flowing hair,
Rage in her ſoul expreſt, and wild deſpair:
Her riſing breaſts with indignation ſwell,
And her looſe robes diſdainfully repel.
[101]The ſhining ornaments that dreſt her head,
When with the glorious raviſher ſhe fled,
Now at her miſtreſs' feet neglected lay,
Sport of the wanton waves that with them play.
But ſhe nor them regards, nor waves that beat
Her ſnowy legs, and wound her tender feet:
On Theſeus her loſt ſenſes all attend,
And all the paſſions of her ſoul depend.
Long did her weaker ſenſe contend in vain.
She ſunk at laſt beneath the mighty pain:
With various ills beſet, and ſtupid grown,
She loſt the power thoſe ills ev'n to bemoan:
But when the firſt aſſault and fierce ſurprize
Were paſt, and grief had found a paſſage at her eyes,
With cruel hands her ſnowy breaſt ſhe wounds,
Theſeus in vain through all the ſhore reſounds.
Now, urg'd by love, ſhe plunges in the main,
And now draws back her tender feet again:
Thrice ſhe repeats the vain attempt to wade,
Thrice fear and cold her ſhivering limbs invade.
Fainting at laſt ſhe hung her beauteous head,
And, fixing on the ſhore her eyes, ſhe ſaid:

Ah, cruel man! and did I leave for thee
My parents, friends, (for thou waſt all to me)
And is my love, and is my faith thus paid?
Oh cruelty unheard! a wretched maid
Here on a naked ſhore abandon'd and betray'd!
Betray'd to miſchiefs of which death 's the leaſt,
And plung'd in ills too great to be expreſt.
Yet the Gods will, the Gods contemn'd by you,
With vengeance thy devoted ſhip purſue,
[102]O'ertake thy ſails, and rack thy guilty breaſt,
And with new plagues th' ill-omen'd flight infeſt.
But though no pity thy ſtern breaſt could move,
Nor angry Gods, nor ill-required love;
Yet ſenſe of honour ſure ſhould touch thy heart,
And ſhame from low, unmanly flight divert.
With other hopes my eaſy faith you fed,
A glorious triumph, and a nuptial bed;
But all thoſe joys with thee, alas! are fled.
Let no vain woman vows and oaths believe,
They only with more form and pomp deceive:
To compaſs their lewd ends the wretches ſwear,
Of oaths profuſe, nor Gods nor temples ſpare;
But when enjoy'd—
Nor broken vows, nor angry heaven they fear.
But, O ye women! warn'd by me, be wiſe,
Turn their falſe oaths on them, their arts, their lies;
Diſſemble, fawn, weep, ſwear, when you betray,
Defeat the gameſters at their own foul play.
Oh baniſh'd faith! but now from certain death
I ſnatch'd the wretch, and ſav'd his perjur'd breath;
His life with my own brother's blood I bought,
And love by ſuch a cruel ſervice ſought;
By me preſerv'd, yet me he does betray,
And to wild beaſts expoſe an eaſy prey!
Nor thou of royal race nor human ſtock
Waſt born, but nurs'd by bears, and iſſued from a rock;
Too plain thou doſt thy dire extraction prove,
Who death for life return'ſt, and hate for love,
Yet he ſecurely ſails! and I in vain
Recal the fled, and to deaf rocks complain.
[103]Unmov'd they ſtand; yet, could they ſee and hear,
More human would than cruel man appear.
But I—
Muſt the ſad pleaſure of compaſſion want,
And die unheard, and loſe my laſt complaint.
Happy, ye gods! too happy had I liv'd,
Hadſt thou, O charming ſtranger, ne'er arriv'd;
Diſſembled ſweetneſs in thy look does ſhine,
But ah! th' inhuman monſters lurk within.
What now remains? or whom ſhall I implore,
In a wild iſle, on a deſerted ſhore?
Shall I return, and beg my father's aid?
My father's! whom ingrateful I betray'd.
And with my brother's cruel murderer fled!
But Theſeus, Ariadne, 's conſtant, kind,
Kind as the ſeas, and conſtant as the wind.
See! wretched maid, vaſt ſeas around thee roar,
And angry waves beat the reſounding ſhore,
Cut off thy hopes, and intercept thy flight,
No ſhip appears to bleſs thy longing ſight.
The diſmal iſle no human footſtep bears,
But a ſad ſilence doubles all my fears,
And fate in all its dreadful ſhapes appears.
Ev'n fainting nature ſcarce maintains the ſtrife
Betwixt prevailing death and yielding life.
Yet, ere I die, revenging gods I'll call,
And curſe him firſt, and then contented fall.
Aſcend, ye furies then, aſcend, and hear
My laſt complaints, and grant my dying prayer,
Which grief and rage for ill-rewarded love,
And the deep ſenſe of his injuſtice, move:
[104]Oh, ſuffer not my lateſt words to fly
Like common air, and unregarded die!
With vengeance his dire treachery purſue,
For vengeance, goddeſſes, attends on you,
Terror with you, deſpair and death appear,
And all the frightful forms the guilty fear.
May his proud ſhip, by furious billows toſt,
On rocks, or ſome wild ſhore like this, be loſt!
There may he fall, or late returning ſee
(If ſo the Gods and ſo the Fates decree)
A mournful houſe, polluted by the dead,
And furies ever wait on his * inceſtuous bed!

Jove heard, and did the juſt requeſt approve,

And, nodding, ſhook earth, ſeas, and all the radiant lights above.

EUNICA, OR THE NEATHERD^†.
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XX.

BY THE SAME.

PROUD Eunica, when I advanc'd to kiſs,
Laugh'd loud, and cried, How ignorant he is!
Alas, poor man! dare you, a wretched ſwain,
Lips ſuch as theſe, and ſuch a mouth prophane?
No: to prevent your ruſtic freedom, know
They 're unacquainted yet with ſuch as you:
But your ſoft lip, your beard, your horny fiſt,
All charming, and all ſuing to be kiſt,
[105]Your matted hair and your ſmooth chin invite,
Conſpire to make you lovely to the ſight,
Oh, how you look, how prettily you play,
How ſoft your words, and what fine things you ſay!
Yet, to prevent infection, pray be gone,
Your neighbourhood, methinks, is dangerous grown;
Vaniſh, nor dare to touch me—oh the ſhame!
He ſmells of the rank goats from which he came!

This ſaid, with indignation thrice ſhe ſpit,
Survey'd me with diſdain from head to feet;
Then was fierce rage and conſcious beauty ſeen
In all her motions, and her haughty mien.
She pray'd, as if ſhe ſome contagion fear'd,
Caſt a diſdainful ſmile, and diſappear'd.
My boiling blood ſprang with my rage, and ſpread
O'er all my burning face a fiery red;
So roſes bluſh when night her kindly dew has ſhed.
I rage, I curſe the haughty jilt, that jeer'd
My graceful perſon, and my comely beard.

Ye ſhepherds, I conjure you, tell me true,
Has any god caſt my old form anew?
How am I chang'd? for once a matchleſs grace
Shone in the charming features of my face,
Like creeping ivy did my beard o'ergrow,
And my long hair in untaught curls did flow;
My brows were black, and my large forehead white,
My ſparkling eyes ſhot forth a radiant light;
In ſweeteſt words did my ſoft language flow,
As honey ſweet, and ſoft as falling ſnow;
When with loud notes I the ſhrill pipe inſpir'd,
The liſtening ſhepherds all my ſkill admir'd;
[106]Me all the virgins on our mountains love,
They praiſe my beauty, and my flames approve.
Such though I am, yet me, becauſe a ſwain,
(How nice theſe town-bred women are, how vain!)
Gay Eunica rejected with diſdain.
And ſhe, it ſeems, has never heard or read
How Bacchus, now a god, a flock once fed.
Venus herſelf did the profeſſion grace,
By love transform'd into a country laſs:
The Phrygian fields and woods her flames can tell,
And how her much-bewail'd Adonis fell.
How oft on Latmos did the moon deſcend
From her bright chariot to her Carian friend,
And abſent from the ſky whole nights with him did ſpend!
To ſhining in her orb prefer her love,
Stoop and deſert her glorious ſeat above?
And was not he a ſhepherd? ſure he was;
Yet did not ſhe diſdain his low embrace.
The gods' great mother too, and greater Jove,
Their majeſty laid by, could ſhepherds love:
The Phrygian groves and conſcious Ida know
What ſhe for Atys, he for Ganymede could do.

But prouder Eunica diſdains alone
What gods and greateſt goddeſſes have done:
Fairer it ſeems by much, and greater ſhe,
Than Venus, Cynthia, or than Cybele.
Oh, my fair Venus, may you ne'er find one
Worthy your love in country or in town,
But, to a virgin bed condemn'd, for ever lie alone!

CYNISCA'S LOVE.
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XIV.[107]BY THE SAME.
THYONICUS.
OH, how does my dear Aeſchines! Oh how!
Some care, my friend, ſits heavy on thy brow.
AESCHINES.
Cyniſca, friend, has ſhewn the fiend confeſt,
And peace and joy are baniſh'd from my breaſt.
THYONICUS.
Hence this wild look, and this diſtracted air,
Staring your eyes, your face o'ergrown with hair.
Juſt ſuch a Roſicruſian here arriv'd,
Some new enthuſiaſt ſure, or flood reviv'd;
With ſuch a mien he came, with ſuch a grace.
So long his beard, ſo dry, ſo pale his face!
AESCHINES.
You, Sir, are merry; but, alas! I find
No cure, no eaſe, to my diſtemper'd mind.
I  [...]ave, am by a thouſand furies toſt,
And call in vain my reaſon in my paſſion loſt.
THYONICUS.
I always knew you jealous and ſevere;
But does Cyniſca's falſehood plain appear?
AESCHINES.
'Twas my ill fate, or chance, ſome friends to treat
With richeſt wines, the board was crown'd with choiceſt meat;
But fair Cyniſca moſt adorn'd the feaſt,
In all the charms of art and nature dreſt.
[108]Cyniſca all our raviſh'd ſenſes fed,
We gaz'd, and we ador'd the lovely maid:
With wine and beauty all our hearts were fir'd,
And fair Cyniſca ſtill new joys inſpir'd,
Now healths we drank, and as the glaſſes came
(Such was the law) each did his miſtreſs name:
Charming Cyniſca too at laſt was preſt
To name the lover in her favour bleſt.
A woman, ſure, ſhe hop'd might be excus'd!
The more they urg'd her, ſhe the more refus'd.
Refus'd, oh friend, and I her lover by!
Gueſs if my rage, with wine inflam'd, grew high.
Silent ſhe ſat, and with her eyes deny'd;
Lycus is handſome, tall, and young, they cry'd!
When Lycus' name but touch'd her guilty ſoul,
How down her cheeks the liquid globes did roll!
Confus'd her look, while ſhame and guilt apace
Shifted the whole complexion of her face.
Gods! with what rage was my rack'd ſoul ſurpriz'd!
My curſe, my ruin, am I then deſpis'd?
Ingrateful and inhuman thou! be gone,
Go hug the man whoſe abſence you bemoan:
No more will I, deluded by your charms,
Cheriſh an abſent miſtreſs in my arms.
Swiftly, as ſwallows to their neſt, ſhe fled,
When unfletch'd young lie gaping and unfed.
Swiftly ſhe fled, with my embraces cloy'd;
Lycus* ſhe long had lov'd, and long enjoy'd.
[109]A public jeſt, and known to all alas!
(The cuckold laſt perceives his own diſgrace.)
Yet once a friend accus'd the guilty maid,
And to my ears th' unheard-of news convey'd:
For I, a much-abus'd, deluded ſot,
The matter ne'er examin'd or forgot.
Now, undiſturb'd, unrival'd, Lycus reigns,
Enjoys his conqueſt, and derides my pains.
Two months are paſt, ſince unregarded I
In a deſerted bed and hopeleſs lie.
Long, with the mighty pain oppreſt, I ſtrove;
But ah! what remedy for injur'd love!
In vain I ſtruggle with the fierce diſeaſe,
The fatal poiſon does my vitals ſeize.
Yet Damon did from travel find relief,
And abſence ſoon remov'd the raging grief.
In fires like mine ſucceſsful Damon burn'd,
Diſeas'd he parted, and he ſound return'd;
I too th' uncertain remedy will try,
And to leſs cruel ſeas and rocks will fly.
THYONICUS.
* For Flanders, then, ſince you're reſolv'd, prepare;
Flanders, the ſcene of glory and of war!
Or, if a better choice and nobler fire
Does greater arms and greater thoughts inſpire,
[110]Hungarian rebels and unchriſtian foes
('Tis a vaſt field of honour, friend!) oppoſe.
By God-like Poland borne, and Lorrain, ſoon
The Croſs ſhall triumph o'er the waning Moon.
There you the cruel ravage may admire;
And Auſtria, deſolate by barbarous fire,
May curſe the dire effects of civil rage;
Oh, in what ills religion can engage!
There ſure with horror your diverted mind
Some truce may with this ſmaller paſſion find.
AESCHINES.
Cyniſca, oh unkind! farewell, I go,
By thee condemn'd to diſtant countries; know,
I go, where honour and where dangers call,
From a leſs barbarous foe to tempt a nobler fall.

PROTEUS:
FROM SANNAZARIUS, ECL. IV.
TO FERDINAND OF ARRAGON, DUKE OF CALABRIA.

BY THE SAME.

NOW firſt with bolder ſails I tempt the main,
Parthenope deſerves a loftier ſtrain;
To fair Parthenope, O nymphs, we muſt,
And our dear country's honour, now be juſt.
O then, ye nymphs who in theſe floods delight,
Indulge one labour, and direct my flight.
But thou, great hope of thy illuſtrious line,
Thy country's pride, ſprung from a race divine,
Whether o'er Pyrenean froſts thou go,
And mountains cover'd with eternal ſnow,
[111]And the wild tempeſts of the warring ſky
Prefer to the beſt plains of Italy,
Or envious Iber does our hopes oppoſe,
Return, and happy make thy people's vows:
Though Arragon, thy Arragon, with-hold,
And Tagus rolling o'er a bed of gold
With all his liquid wealth would buy thy ſtay,
Return, and our wiſh'd happineſs no more delay!
For, if the god that fills my breaſt foreknow,
Parthenope ſhall to thy ſcepter bow;
Parthenope, uſurp'd by foreign ſway,
Shall with new joy her rightful prince obey.
Oh! may ſwift time the happy period bring,
And I loud Paeans to thy triumph ſing!
Mean-while a lower Muſe indulgent view,
Which I, the firſt, with bold deſign and new,
Leaving th' Arcadian fields, and vocal plain,
In triumph bring down to thy ſubject main;
And on the neighbouring rocks and ſounding ſhore
A newer ſcene preſent, and untry'd ſeas explore.

What port, what ſea, ſo diſtant can be found,
Which Proteus has not bleſs'd with heavenly ſound?
Him Praſidamus and Melanthius knew,
For all the God appear'd to mortal view;
On great Minerva's rock the God appear'd,
And charm'd with verſe divine his monſtrous herd.
While Phoebus ſunk with the declining day,
And all around delighted dolphins play.
For lo! he ſung—
How Earth's bold ſons, by wild ambition fir'd,
Defy'd the Gods, and to celeſtial thrones aſpir'd,
[112]Typhoeus firſt, with lifted mountains arm'd,
Led on the furious van, and heav'n itſelf alarm'd.
Now Prochytè among the ſtars he threw,
And from their baſes torn huge iſlands flew,
And ſhook th' aetherial orbs: the powers above
Then firſt knew fear; not ſo almighty Jove:
He with'red lightning arm'd, and winged fire,
Replung'd the rebels in their native mire.
All nature with the dreadful rout reſounds,
They fled, and bath'd in Baian ſprings their burning wounds.
On the ſcorch'd earth the footſteps ſtill remain,
And ſulphurous ſprings a fiery taſte retain.

He ſung Alcides, and his noble toil,
His glorious triumph, and his wondrous * pile,
Which does the fury of the waves ſuſtain,
Confine the Lucrine, and repel the main.
Next the Cumaean cave and grove relates,
Where anxious mortals throng'd to learn their fates:
The raving virgin†, and her fatal page,
Her more than mortal ſounds, and ſacred rage;
And that ſad vale, unviſited by day,
Where burry'd in eternal night ‡ Cimmerians lay.
But thee, Pauſilypus§, he gently blames,
And ſweetly mourns thy inauſpicious flames,
[113]Concern'd for lovely Neſis, ah! too late!
Oh, ſtay, raſh man! why doſt thou urge her fate?
She, wretched maid, thy loath'd embrace to ſhun,
Does to ſteep rocks and waves leſs cruel run:
Not the dire proſpect can retard her flight,
Or gaping monſters from beneath affright.
Oh, ſtay! and reach no more with greedy hands!
See! to a rock transform'd thy Neſis ſtands,
She, who ſo ſwift, with the firſt dawn of day,
Rang'd o'er the woods, and chac'd the flying prey:
See! her wing'd feet their wonted ſpeed refuſe,
And her ſtiff joints their nimble motion loſe.
O Panope, and all the nymphs below,
To ſo much beauty juſt compaſſion ſhow!
If pity can affect your happy ſtate,
Oh, viſit Neſis, and lament her fate!

He ſung how once the beauteous Syren* ſway'd,
And mighty kingdoms the fair nymph obey'd;
Deſcribes the lofty tomb, which all adore:
Then tells how, looſing from their native ſhore,
By all the Gods conducted, and their fate,
Euboeans† founded that auſpicious ſtate.
Then ſung the riſing walls and towers, whoſe height
Is loſt in clouds, and tires the fainting ſight.
What mighty piles from the capacious bay,
And hidden pipes th' obedient ſprings convey:
And that proud Pharos, whoſe auſpicious light
Informs glad ſailors, and directs their ſight.
[114]And how beneath the gentle Sarno flows,
In verſe as ſmooth as that, and high as thoſe.
He told, and ſweetly rais'd his voice divine,
How Meliſaeus*, lov'd by all the Nine,
Immortal Virgil ſaw; the God-like ſhade
Bequeath'd that pipe, which ſo divinely play'd.
Lycoris flying from her lover's arms,
And Daphne's fate, and young Alexis' charms.
Led by the Muſe†, he mounts the ſtarry ſkies,
And all the ſhining orbs above deſcries.
Why ſhould I ſpeak of Syrens, or relate
Their treacherous ſongs, and the pleas'd ſailor's fate?
Or how in mournful ſtrains he did recount
The dire eruptions of the Burning Mount‡,
When, with ſwift ruin and a dreadful ſound,
Vaſt floods of liquid fire o'erwhelm'd the country round.
Laſt, battles, and their various chance, he ſings,
The great events of war, and fate of kings;
And thee‖, whom Italy bewails, the beſt,
By Fortune's rage and angry Gods oppreſt,
Stript of thy kingdoms, and compell'd to fly,
And on uncertain hope and Gallic faith rely.
[115]Oh treachery of human power! forlorn,
And laſt by death condemn'd to a precarious urn.

How vain is man! and in what depth of night
The dark decrees of fate are hid from mortal ſight!
Could'ſt thou, who potent kingdoms didſt command,
Not find a tomb, but in a foreign land!
Yet mourn not, happy ſhade! thy cruel fate;
The loſs is light of that ſuperfluous ſtate.
Nature provides for all a common grave,
The laſt retreat of the diſtreſs'd and brave.

Thus he,
From the firſt ages and heroic times,
Deduc'd in order his myſterious rhymes.
Charm'd by his ſong, the billows ceas'd to roar,
And loud applauſes rung along the ſhore:
Till the pale moon advanc'd her beauteous head,
And all the Gods ſunk to their watery bed.

SAPPHO'S ODE,
FROM LONGINUS.

BY THE SAME.

THE Gods are not more bleſt than he,
Who, fixing his glad eyes on thee,
With thy bright rays his ſenſes chears,
And drinks with ever-thirſty ears
The charming muſick of thy tongue;
Does ever hear, and ever long;
That ſees with more than human grace
Sweet ſmiles adorn thy angel face.

[116]II.But when with kinder beams you ſhine,
And ſo appear much more divine,
My feeble ſenſe and dazzled ſight
No more ſupport the glorious light,
And the fierce torrent of delight.
Oh! then I feel my life decay,
My raviſh'd ſoul then flies away,
Then faintneſs does my limbs ſurprize,
And darkneſs ſwims before my eyes.

III.Then my tongue fails, and from my brow
The liquid drops in ſilence flow;
Then wandering fires run through my blood,
And cold binds up the ſtupid flood;
All pale and breathleſs then I lie,
I ſigh, I tremble, and I die.

ON THE PROTECTOR'S DEATH*.BY MR. GODOLPHIN†.
'TIS well he's gone, (O! had he never been!)
Hurry'd in ſtorms loud as his crying ſin.
The pine, the oak, fell proſtrate for his urn,
That with his ſoul his body too might burn.
[117]Winds pluckt-up roots, and fixed cedars move,
Roaring for vengeance to the heavens above.
From guilt like his great Romulus did grow,
And in like tempeſts to the ſhades did go.
Strange! that the lofty trees themſelves ſhould fell,
Without the axe; ſo Orpheus went to hell.
At his deſcent the ſtouteſt oaks were cleft,
And this whole wood its wonted ſtation left.
On Charles's throne the proud uſurper's dead,
With ruin'd England's tears about him ſpread;
Thoſe from our eyes his wrath and madneſs rent,
And thoſe alone upon his hearſe are ſpent;
[118]Which, mixt with ſighs, do weeping clouds outvie,
And leſſer ſtorms of wind and rain ſupply.
In battle Hercules wore the lion's ſkin,
But our fierce tyrant wore the beaſt within:
Whoſe heart was brutiſh more than face, or eyes,
And in the ſhape of man was in diſguiſe.
In civil broils he did us firſt engage,
And made three kingdoms periſh by his rage;
Houſes from widows, bread from orphans reft,
And his laſt legacy to Richard left.
One fatal ſtroke ſlew juſtice, and the cauſe
Of truth, religion, and the ſacred laws:
So fell Achilles by the Trojan band,
Though he ſtill ſought with heaven itſelf in 's hand.
[119]Nor could domeſtic ſpoils confine his mind,
No limits to his fury but mankind.
The Britiſh youth to foreign coaſts are ſent,
Towns to deſtroy, but more to baniſhment;
Who, ſince they cannot in this iſle abide,
Are confin'd priſoners to the world beſide.
The rocks which from the world do Britain part
Were but weak bars againſt his harder heart;
Whoſe thoughts, nor laws, nor could the ocean bind;
Mad as the ſea, and lawleſs as the wind.
Wherever men, wherever pillage lies,
Like ravenous vultures our wing'd navy flies.
Under the Tropic we are underſtood,
And bring home rapine through a purple flood.
New circulations form'd, our blood is hurl'd,
As round the leſſer, ſo the greater world.
Thus has the rebel to his country ſhow'd,
How to be ſlaves at home, and thieves abroad.
Such circuits makes the ſun, but not ſuch harms;
This burns the places, that the other warms.
Bad Phaeton a liker courſe did run,
Spoil'd equally, but leſs uſurp'd the throne.
No wonder then, if we do tears allow
To him that gave us wars, and ruin too.
Tyrants, that lov'd him, grieve, concern'd to ſee
There muſt be puniſhment for cruelty.
Nature herſelf rejoiced at his death,
And on the waters ſung with ſuch a breath,
As made the ſea dance higher than before,
While her glad news came leaping to the ſhore.

ON MR. WALLER.

[120]

BY MR. THOMAS RYMER^*.

WALLER is dead; and lofty number's loſt.
Now Engliſh verſe (with nothing left to boaſt)
May hobble on, and vex good Pindar's ghoſt.
What was it three and eighty years to live?
Short is this boon to what the Muſes give:
They ſo inſur'd his immortality,
That ſcarce he knew, in any kind, to die.
Two ages he the ſacred garland bore;
Peerleſs in this, and prince of that before.
Ra [...]e genius, his; alike their glory made,
In glittering courts, and in the country ſhade.
There, by four kings belov'd, how high he ſhone!
Inſeparable jewel of the crown;
[121]Yet thence no borrow'd heat or luſtre got,
Warm of himſelf; and ſun he wanted not.
And if the diamond ſtood hard fortune's ſhock,
Thanks to his old hereditary rock.
For all the court, for all the Muſe's ſnares;
Our journals alſo tell his public cares.
From James to James, they count him o'er and o'er,
In four ſucceſſive reigns, a ſenator.
On him, amidſt the legiſlative throng,
Their eyes, and ears, and every heart, they hung.
Within thoſe walls if we Apollo knew,
Leſs could he warm, nor throw a ſhaft ſo true.
What life, what lightning, blanch'd around the chair?
(It was no houſe if Waller was not there:)
And that reſpect ſtill to his ſpeech, or nods,
As he had come from councils of the Gods.
How would he tune their contradicting notes!
With ready wit facilitate the votes!
And in his verſe, ſo every where diſplay
An air of ſomething great, and ſomething gay?
And, like Amphion, when he form'd a town,
Put life in every ſtock, and every ſtone?
Oh! had he liv'd one meeting more to ſit,
How would the times his generous mind have hit!
What he ſo long conteſted for, in vain,
Set looſe from all eccleſiaſtic chain,
With tranſport he would find religion free,
And now no longer a monopoly.

" Watch home, and harbour; nay, ſhut up the ſea:
But who ſhall e'er with heaven our traffic ſtay,
Or there erect a block-houſe in the way?
[122]Our ſtubborn body is not us'd ſo ill;
It muſt no rack (that foreign engine) feel;
And yet they bring poor conſcience to the wheel.
Error they ſcourge; ſo children whip their top:
The certain only means to keep it up."

Thus would he play, and many a pointed jeſt
Still fling againſt the perſecuting beaſt.
Eaſy to run in endleſs hiſtories;
Tracing a life of one who never dies.
How he the orbs of courts and councils mov'd:
But, Muſes, how he ſung, and how he lov'd!
What ſpirit fills his verſe, your care defines;
Amongſt the ſtars how Sachariſſa ſhines:
How ſtill her altars fume with ſacrifice,
When gone are all the goddeſſes of Greece.
Language and wit he rais'd to ſuch an height,
We ſhould ſuſpect, with him, the empire's fate,
Did not auſpicious James ſupport the weight.
This northern ſpeech refin'd to that degree,
Soft France we ſcorn, nor envy Italy:
But for a fit compariſon muſt ſeek
In Virgil's Latin, or in Homer's Greek.

Anger is mad; and choler mere diſeaſe:
His Muſe ſaw what was ſweet, and what would pleaſe:
Still led where Nature's beauteous rays entice;
Not touching vile deformities, or vice.
Here no chimaera ſkips, no goblin frights;
No Satyr's here, nor monſter elſe, that bites.
Sweetneſs his very vinegar allay'd;
And all his ſnakes in ladies boſoms play'd.
[123]Nature rejoic'd beneath his charming power;
His lucky hand made every thing a flower.
So every ſhrub to jeſſamin improves;
And rudeſt holts to goodly myrtle groves.
Some, from a ſprig he careleſsly had thrown,
Have furniſh'd a whole garden of their own.
Some, by a ſpark that from his chariot came,
Take fire, and blaze, and raiſe a deathleſs name.
Others a luckleſs imitation try;
And, whilſt they ſoar, and whilſt they venture high,
Flutter and flounce, but have not wing to fly.
Some in looſe words their empty fancies bind,
Which whirl about, with chaff, before the wind.
Here brave conceits in the expreſſion fail:
There, big the words, but with no ſenſe at all.
Still Waller's ſenſe might Waller's language truſt;
Both pois'd, and always bold, and always juſt.
None e'er may reach that ſtrange felicity,
Where thoughts are eaſy, verſe ſo ſweet and free,
Yet not deſcend one ſtep from majeſty.

VERSES

BY M. ST. EVREMONT.^* 1684.

WALLER, qui ne ſent rien des maux de la vieilleſſe,

Dont la vivacité fait honte aux jeuns gens,

S' attache à la beauté pour vivre plus long temps;

Et ce qu'on nommeroit dans une autre foibleſſe,

Eſt en ce rare eſprit une ſage tendreſſe,

Qui le fait reſiſter à l'injure des ans.

IN ENGLISH,

[124]

BY MR. RYMER.

VAIN gallants, look on Waller, and deſpair:

He, only he, may boaſt the grand receipt;

Of fourſcore years he never feels the weight:

Still in his element, when with the fair;

There, gay and freſh, drinks-in the roſy air:

There, happy he enjoys his leiſure hours;

Nor thinks of winter, whilſt amidſt the flowers.

TO MR. RILEY,
ON DRAWING MR. WALLER'S PICTURE.BY THE SAME.
NOT fleſh and flood can Riley's* pride confine,
He muſt be adding ſtill ſome ray divine:
Nor is content when he true likeneſs ſhews,
Unleſs that glory alſo crown the brows.
[125]This ſubject, Riley, this (for long has he
Scour'd the bright roads of immortality)
New rapture wants: no human touch can reach
His laurels, and poetic triumph's pitch.
On face and out-ſide ſtay thy bold deſign;
'Tis ſacred, 'tis Apollo's all within.
Thou may'ſt ſlight ſketches of the ſurface ſhew,
Not vex the mine, whence god-like treaſures flow.
Came twenty nymphs, his Muſe contented all,
None went away without her golden ball;
The Gods of old were not ſo liberal.
How many, free from fate, enjoy his ſong,
Drink nectar, ever gay, and ever young?
Though to thy genius no attempt is vain,
Think not to draw the poet, but the man.
Yet, Riley, thus our endleſs fame muſt ſhare!
His generous pen thy pencil ſhall prefer,
It draw him man, and he make it a ſtar.

THE DESERTED SWAIN.

THE Muſes darling, pride of all the plains,
Daphnis, the ſoft, the ſweeteſt of the ſwains,
Long reign'd in love, for every nymph he view'd
He caught, he only look'd, and he ſubdued:
But now the melancholy youth retires
Through ſhady groves, and wanders through the briars,
Sad and alone: at laſt beneath a ſhade
Of ſpreading elm and beech ſupinely laid
He ſigh'd, he ſhook his head, and thus he ſaid:

[126]" When I ſo long, ſo faithfully did woo,
And did what conſtancy and truth could do,
Why is my ſuit refus'd, my prayers in vain,
And warm endeavours damp'd by cold diſdain?
Muſt ſlights the lean rewards of virtue prove!
Unhappy Daphnis, fatal in thy love!
Long drought the flowers, and ſtorms the labouring bee
And unſucceſsful love hath ruin'd thee.
This heaven (had I obſerv'd the omen well)
As conſcious of my fate, did oft foretell;
It ſhew'd my flattering hope ſhould diſappear,
And wafte like vapours toſt in flitting air.
Laſt night, when, careful of my flocks, I went
To ſee my lambs were fed, and folds were pent,
A flame ſhone round my head; but ſoon the light
Decay'd, and all around ſtood deepeſt night.
But is Urania ſo averſe to love?
Could none of all the rival ſhepherds move?
Ah, Aegon, how I envy thy ſucceſs!
Thy fortune greater, though thy charms were leſs:
Without a long fatigue and tedious ſuit,
The door was open'd, and you reach'd the fruit:
Oh, how I pine at thy ſurprizing joys!
Die Daphnis! ſhe is partial in her choice.
Yet once I hop'd (what cannot love perſuade?)
More kind returns from the obliging maid:
Her looks were ſoft, ſmiles on her cheeks did lie,
No cloudy frowns obſcur'd the pleaſing ſky:
Nor could I think that e'er the time would come
When conſtant love ſhould prove the lover's doom:
[127]The flowers I pluckt, the garlands which I wove,
She took, and wore as badges of my love:
She heard m [...] ſongs, nor did my art contemn,
And ſometimes ſhe would ſtoop to be my theme:
Damaetas envy'd, Colin tun'd my lays,
Whilſt ſhe ſate by, and gladly heard her praiſe:
Sooner ſhall dolphins o'er the mountains ſwim,
Does graze on floods, and bees forget their thyme,
Than I that day, when with a ſmile ſhe led
The joyful Aegon to her promis'd bed,
With what a high diſdain he march'd along,
And proudly look'd on the deſpairing throng!
Yet he ne'er fed the flocks, ne'er pent the fold,
Nor bore the ſummer's heat, nor winter's cold;
But he had wealth, and that alone betray'd
The heedleſs mind of the unthinking maid.
Curſt be the wretch that firſt did gold diſpenſe,
And robd'd the happy plains of innocence!
Am I refus'd becauſe my ſuit was plain,
The artleſs courtſhip of an humble ſwain?
You know me not, nor yet the pains I took,
Whilſt Aegon ſlept, to feed the weary flock;
How often have the nymphs beheld me ſweat
Beneath the fury of the ſummer's heat;
How often ſeen the froſt bind up my hair,
And cry'd, Ah, Daphnis, worn with too much care!
But what avails my care, what boots my pain,
But only yields a larger ſubject to complain?"

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WALLER.

[128]

BY MR. BEVIL HIGGONS^*.

AH! had thy body laſted, as thy name;
Secure of life, as now thou art of fame;
Thou hadſt more ages than old Neſtor ſeen:
Nor had thy Phoebus more immortal been.

[129]To thee alone we are beholden more
Than all the poets of the times before.
Thy Muſe, inſpir'd with a genteeler rage,
Did firſt refine the genius of our age.
In thee a clear and female ſoftneſs ſhin'd,
With maſculine vigour, force, and judgement join'd.
You, in ſoft ſtrains, for courts and ladies ſung;
So natural your thought, ſo ſweet your ſong,
The gentle ſex did ſtill partake your flame,
And all the coyneſs of your miſtreſs blame;
Still mov'd with you, did the ſame paſſions find,
And vow'd that Sachariſſa was unkind.

Oh! may the world ne'er loſe ſo brave a flame;
May one ſucceed in genius, and in fame!
May, from thy urn, ſome Phoenix Waller riſe,
Whom the admiring world like thee may prize!
May he in thy immortal numbers ſing,
And paint the glories of our matchleſs king!
Oh! may his verſe of mighty Waller taſte,
And mend the coming age, as you the laſt!

Within that ſacred pile† where kings do come,
Both to receive their crowns, and find a tomb,
There is a lonely aile; which holy place
The laſting monuments of poets grace.
[130]Thither amongſt th' inſpired train convey,
And in their company his aſhes lay:
Let him with Spenſer and great Cowley be,
He who 's ſo much the greateſt of the three.
Though there ſo many crowns and mitres lie,
(For kings and ſaints, as well as we, muſt die)
Thoſe venerable walls were never bleſt,
Since their foundation, with a nobler gueſt.

With them, great ſoul, thou ſhalt immortal live,
And, in thy deathleſs numbers, fate ſurvive:
Freſh, as thy Sachariſſa's beauty, ſtill
Thy bays ſhall grow, which time can never kill.
Far as our conquering Britiſh lion roars,
Far as the poles, or the remoteſt ſhores,
Where'er is known or heard the Engliſh name,
The diſtant world ſhall hear of Waller's fame.
Thou only ſhalt with nature's ſelf expire,
And all the world in the ſupremeſt fire;
When Horace and fam'd Virgil die, when all
That's great or noble ſhall together fall.

ON SOLITUDE^*.

I.O Solitude! my ſweeteſt choice,
Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult, and from noiſe,
How you my reſtleſs thought delight!
O heavens! what content is mine,
[131]To ſee thoſe trees which have appear'd
From the nativity of time,
And which all ages have rever'd,
To look to-day as freſh and green
As when their beauties firſt were ſeen!

II.A chearful wind does court them ſo,
And with ſuch amorous breath enfold,
That we by nothing elſe can know
But by their height that they are old.
Hither the demi-gods did fly
To ſeek a ſanctuary; when
Diſpleaſed Jove once pierc'd the ſky,
To pour a deluge upon men,
And on theſe boughs themſelves did ſave,
Whence they could hardly ſee a wave.

III.Sad Philomel upon this thorn,
So curiouſly by Flora dreſt,
In melting notes, her caſe forlorn,
To entertain me, hath confeſs'd.
Oh! how agreeable a ſight
Theſe hanging mountains do appear,
Which the unhappy would invite
To finiſh all their ſorrows here,
When their hard fate makes them endure
Such woes as only death can cure!

IV.What pretty deſolations make
Theſe torrents vagabond and fierce,
[132]Who in vaſt heaps their ſpring forſake
This ſolitary vale to pierce!
Then, ſliding juſt as ſerpents do
Under the foot of every tree,
Themſelves are chang'd to rivers too,
Wherein ſome ſtately Naiade,
As in her native bed, is grown
A que [...]n upon a cryſtal throne.

V.Th [...] den beſet with river-plants,
O! how it does my ſenſes charm:
Nor elders, reeds, nor willows wants,
Which the ſharp ſteel did never harm.
Here nymphs, which come to take the air,
M [...]y with ſuch diſtaffs furniſh'd be
As flags and ruſhes can prepare,
Where we the nimble frogs may ſee;
Who, frighted, to retreat do fly,
If an approaching man they ſpy,

VI.Here water-fowl repoſe enjoy,
Without the interrupting care
Leſt fortune ſhould their bliſs deſtroy
By the malicious fowler's ſ [...]are:
Some, raviſh'd with ſo bright a day,
Their feathers finely prune and deck,
Others their amorous heats allay,
Which yet the waters could not check:
All take their innocent content
In this their lovely element.

[133]VII.Summer's nor winter's bold approach
This ſtream did never entertain;
Nor ever felt a boa [...] or coach
Whilſt either ſeaſon did remain.
No thirſty traveller came near,
And rudely made his hand his cup;
Nor any hunted hind hath here
Her hopeleſs life reſigned up;
Nor ever did the treacherous hook
Intrude, to empty any brook.

VIII.What beauty is there in the ſight
Of theſe old ruin'd caſtle walls,
In which the utmoſt rage and ſpight
Of time's worſt inſurrection falls!
The witches keep their ſabbath here,
And wanton devils make retreat,
Who in malicious ſport appear,
Our ſenſes both t' afflict and cheat.
And here within a thouſand holes
Are neſts of adders and of owls.

IX.The raven with his diſmal cries,
That mortal augury of fate,
Whoſe ghaſtly goblin gratifies,
Which in theſe gloomy places wait.
On a curs'd tree the wind does move
A carcaſs, which did once belong
To one that hang'd himſelf for love
Of a fair nymph that did him wrong:
[134]Who, though ſhe ſaw his love and truth,
With one look would not ſave the youth.

X.But Heaven, which judgeth equally,
And its own laws will ſtill maintain,
Rewarded ſoon her cruelty
With a deſerv'd and mighty pain:
About his ſqualid heap of bones,
Her wandering and condemning ſhade
Laments in long and piercing groans
The deſtiny her rigour made;
And, farther to augment her fright,
Her crime is ever in her ſight.

XI.There, upon Antick* marble trac'd,
Devices of paſtimes we ſee;
Here age has almoſt quite defac'd
What lovers carv'd on every tree.
The cellar, here, the higheſt room
Receives whene'er its rafters fail,
Soil'd with the venom and the foam
Of the ſly ſpider and the ſnail:
And th' ivy in the chimney we
Find ſhaded by a wallnut-tree.

XII.Below there does a cave extend,
Wherein there is ſo dark a grot,
That ſhould the ſun himſelf deſcend,
I think he could not ſee a jot.
[135]Here ſleep within a heavy lid
In quiet ſadneſs locks up ſenſe,
And every care he does forbid,
Whilſt in the arms of negligence
Lazily on his back he 's ſpread,
And ſheaves of poppey are his bed.

XIII.Within this cool and hollow cave,
Where Love itſelf might turn to ice,
Poor Echo ceaſes not to rave
On her Narciſſus, wild and nice:
Hither I ſoftly ſteal a thought,
And by the ſofter muſick made,
With a ſweet lute in charms well-taught,
Sometimes I ſlatter her ſad ſhade;
Whilſt of my chords I make ſuch choice,
To ſerve as body to her voice.

XIV.When from theſe ruins I retire,
This horrid rock I do invade,
Whoſe lofty brow ſeems to enquire
Of what materials miſts are made:
From thence deſcending leiſurely,
Under the brow of this ſteep hill,
It with great pleaſure I deſcry
By waters undermin'd, until
They to Palaemon's ſeat did climb,
Compos'd of ſpunges and of ſlime.

XV.How highly is the fancy pleas'd,
To be upon the ocean's ſhore.
[136]When ſhe begins to be appeas'd,
And her fierce billows ceaſe to roar!
And when the hairy Tritons are
Riding upon the ſhaken wave,
With what ſtrange ſound they ſtrike the air,
Of their trumpets hoarſe and brave,
Whoſe ſhrill report does every wind
Unto his due ſubmiſſion bind!

XVI.Sometimes the ſea diſpels the ſand,
Trembling and murmuring in the bay,
And rolls itſelf upon the ſhells,
Which it both brings and takes away.
Sometimes expoſes on the ſtrand
Th' effects of Neptune's rage and ſcorn,
Drown'd men, dead monſters caſt on land,
And ſhips that were in tempeſts torn,
With diamonds and amber-greaſe,
And many more ſuch things as theſe.

XVII.Sometimes ſo ſweetly ſhe does ſmile,
A floating mirror ſhe might be,
And you would fancy all that while
New heavens in her face to ſee:
The ſun himſelf is drawn ſo well,
When there he would his picture view,
That our eyes can hardly tell
Which is the falſe ſun, which the true;
And, l [...]ſt we give our ſenſe the lye,
We think he 's fallen from the ſky.

[137]XVIII. [...]ernieres! for whoſe beloved ſake,
My thoughts are at a noble ſtrife;
This my fantaſtic landſkip take,
Which I have copied to the life.
I only ſeek the deſarts rough,
Where all alone I love to walk,
And, with diſcourſe refin'd enough,
My genius and the Muſes talk;
But the converſe moſt truly mine
Is the dear memory of thine.

XIX.Thou may'ſt in this poem find,
So full of liberty and heat,
What illuſtrious rays have ſhin'd,
To enlighten my conceit:
Sometimes penſive, ſometimes gay,
Juſt as that fury does control;
And as the object I ſurvey,
The notions grow up in my ſoul,
And are as unconfin'd and free
As the flame which tranſported me.

XX.Oh! how I ſolitude adore,
That element of nobleſt wit,
Where I have learn'd Apollo's lore,
With [...]ut the pains to ſtudy it!
For thy ſake I in love am grown,
With what thy fancy does purſue;
But when I think upon my own,
I hate it for that reaſon too,
[138]Becauſe it needs muſt hinder me
From ſeeing and from ſerving thee.

A CHARACTER OF THE ENGLISH.BY ROBERT WOLSELEY, ESQ.*
THE free-born Engliſh, generous and wiſe,
Hate chains, but do not government deſpiſe:
Rights of the crown, tribute and taxes, they,
When lawfully exacted, freely pay.
Force they abhor, and wrong they ſcorn to bear;
More guided by their judgement than their fear;
Juſtice with them is never held ſevere.
Here power by tyranny was never got;
Laws may perhaps enſnare them, force cannot:
Raſh councils here have ſtill the ſame effect;
The ſureſt way to reign, is to protect.
Kings are leaſt ſafe in their unbounded will,
Join'd with the wretched power of doing ill;
[139]Forſaken moſt when they 're moſt abſolute:
Laws guard the man, and only bind the brute.
To force that guard, and with the worſt to join,
Can never be a prudent king's deſign;
What king would chuſe to be a Catiline
Break his own laws, ſtake an unqueſtion'd throne,
Conſpire with vaſſals to uſurp his own?
'Tis rather ſome baſe favourite's vile pretence,
To tyrannize at the wrong'd king's expence.
Let France grow proud beneath the tyrant's luſt,
While the rackt people crawl and lick the duſt.
The mighty Genius of this iſle diſdains
Ambitious ſlavery and golden chains.
England to ſervile yoke did never bow:
What conquerors ne'er preſum'd, who dares do now?
Roman nor Norman ever could pretend
To have enſlav'd, but made this iſle their friend.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. WALLER▪

BY SIR JOHN COTTON, BART.^*

NOT ſleep, beneath the ſhade in flowery fields,
To th' weary traveller more pleaſure yields;
Nor, to aſſuage his thirſt, the living ſpring,
I' th' heat of ſummer, more delight does bring;
Than unto me thy well-tun'd numbers do,
In which thou doſt both pleaſe and profit too.
[140]Born in a clime where ſtorms and tempeſts grow;
Far from the place where Helicon does flow:
The Muſes travel'd far to bleſs thy ſight,
And taught thee how to think, and how to write.
Th' Aſcraean* ſhepherd tells us, he indeed
Had ſeen them dancing, while his flocks did feed.
Not Petrarch's Laura, nor bright Stella's fame,
Shall longer live than Sachariſſa's name,
Thou do'ſt not write like thoſe, who brand the times,
And themſelves moſt, with ſharp ſatyric rhymes:
Nor does thy Muſe, with ſmutty verſes, tear
The modeſt virgin's chaſte and tender ear;
Free from their faults, whate'er thy Muſe indites,
Not Ovid, nor Tibullus, ſofter writes.
The choice of tuneful words t' expreſs our thought,
By thy example we have firſt been taught.
Our Engliſh Virgil†, and our Pindar too,
In this ('tis ſaid) ſome negligence did ſhew.
I'll add but this, leſt, while I think to raiſe
Thy worth, I kindly injure thee with praiſe:

Thy verſes have a genius, and muſt

Live until all things crumble into duſt.

NEWS FROM HELL.

[141]

BY CAPTAIN RADCLIFF^*.

SO dark the night was, that old Charon
Could not carry ghoſtly fare on;
But was forc'd to leave his ſouls,
Stark ſtript of bodies, 'mongſt the ſhoals
Of black ſea-toads, and other fry,
Which on the Stygian ſhore do lie:
Th' amazed ſpirits deſire receſs
To their old batter'd carcaſes;
But, as they turn about, they find
The night more diſmal is behind.

Pluto began to fret and fume,
Becauſe the tilt-boat did not come.
To the ſhore's ſide he ſtraitway trudges
With his three ſoul-cenſuring judges,
Standing on Acherontic ſtrand,
 [...] thrice three times did waft his wand:
From gloomy lake did ſtraight ariſe
A meagre fiend, with broad blue eyes;
Approaching Pluto, as he bow'd,
From's head there dropt infernal mud;
[142]Quoth he, "A tenebris & luto
" I come."—"'Tis well, quoth ſurly Pluto.
" Go you to t'other ſide of Styx,
" And know why Charon's ſo prolix:
" Surely on earth there cannot be
" A grant of immortality!"
Away the wriggling fiend ſoon ſcuds
Through liquids thick as ſoap and ſuds.

In the mean-while old Aeacus,
Craftier far than any of us,
(For mortal men to him are ſilly;
Beſides, he held a league with Lilly*;
And what is acted here does know
As well as t'other does below)
Thus ſpake, "Thou mighty king of Orcus,
" Who into any ſhape canſt work us;
" I to your greatneſs ſhall declare
" My ſentiments of this affair.
" Charon, you know, did uſe to come
" With ſome elucid ſpirit home;
" Some poet bright, whoſe glowing ſoul
" Like torch did light him croſs the pool:
" Old Charon then was blithe and merry,
" With flame and rhapſody in ferry.
" Should he groſs ſouls alone take in,
" Laden with heavy rubbiſh ſin;
" Sin that is nothing but allay;
" 'Tis ten to one he 'd loſe his way.
" But now ſuch wights with ſouls ſo clear
" Muſt not have damnation here;
[143]" Nor can we hope they 'll hither move,
" For know, grim Sir! they 're damn'd above;
" They 're damn'd on earth by th' preſent age,
" Damn'd in cabals, and damn'd o' th' ſtage.
" Laureat*, who was both learn'd and florid,
" Was damn'd long ſince for ſilence horrid:
" Nor had there been ſuch clutter made,
" But that this ſilence did invade†:
" Invade! and ſo 't might well, that 's clear:
" But what did it invade:—an ear.
" And for ſome other things, 'tis true,
" We follow fate that does purſue‡."

A lord, who was in metre wont
To talk of privy-member blunt,
Whoſe verſe, by women termed lewd,
Is ſtill preſerv'd, not underſtood:
[144]But that which made them curſe and ban,
Was for his "Satire againſt Man*."

A third† was damn'd, 'cauſe in his plays
He thruſts old jeſts in Archee's days:
Nor, as they ſay, can make a chorus
Without a tavern or a whore-houſe;
Which he, to puzzle vulgar thinking,
Does call by th' name of love and drinking.

A fourth‡ for writing ſuperfine,
With words correct in every line:
And one that does preſume to ſay,
A plot's too groſs for any play:
Comedy ſhould be clean and neat,
As gentlemen do talk and eat.
So what he writes is but tranſlation,
From dog and partridge converſation.

A fifth§, who does in's laſt prefer
'Bove all, his own dear character:
And fain would ſeem upon the ſtage,
Too manly for this flippant age.

A ſixth‖, whoſe lofty fancy towers
'Bove fate, eternity, and powers,
[145]Rumbles i' th' ſky, and makes a buſtle;
So, "Gods meet Gods i' th' dark, and juſtle."

A ſeventh*, becauſe he'd rather chuſe
To ſpoil his verſe than tire his Muſe:
Nor will he let heroics chime;
Fancy (quoth he) is loſt by rhyme;
And he that's us'd to claſhing ſwords
Should not delight in ſounds of words:
Mars with Mercury ſhould not mingle;
Great warriors ſhould ſpeak big, not jingle.
Amongſt this heptarchy of wit,
The cenſuring age have thought it fit
To damn a woman†, 'cauſe 'tis ſaid,
The plays ſhe vends ſhe never made;
But that a Grays-Inn lawyer‡ does 'em,
Who unto her was friend in boſom.
[146]So, not preſenting ſcarf and hood,
New plays and ſongs are full as good.

Theſe are the better ſort, I grant,
Damn'd only by the ignorant:
But ſtill there are a ſcribbling fry
Ought to be damn'd eternally:
An unlearn'd tribe, o' th' lower rate,
Who will be poets ſpite of fate;
Whoſe character's not worth reciting,
They ſcarce can read, yet will be writing:
As t' other day a ſilly oaf
Inſtead of Jove did call on Joſe;
Whoſe humble Muſe deſcends to cellars,
Or at the beſt to Hercules' pillars.
Now Charon I preſume does ſtop,
Expecting one of theſe would drop;
For any ſuch poetic damn'd-boy
Will light him home as well as flambeau.
Aeacus juſt had made an end,
When did arrive the dripping fiend,
Who did confirm the judge's ſpeech,
That Charon did a light beſeech.
They fell to conſultation grave,
To find ſome ſtrange enlighten'd knave.
Faux had like t' have been the ſpark,
But that his lantern was too dark.
At laſt th' agreed a ſullen Quaker
Should be this buſineſs-undertaker;
The fitteſt ſoul for this exploit,
Becauſe he had the neweſt light:
[147]Him ſoon from ſable den they drag,
Who of his ſufferings doth brag;
And, unto heel of fiend being ty'd,
To Charon's veſſel was convey'd.
Charon came home, all things were well:
This is the only News from Hell!

NATURE'S CHANGES,
LUCRET. BOOK V.

BY THE HON. SIR ROBERT HOWARD^*.

SINCE Earth and Water, more dilated Air,
And active Fire, mixt Nature's parts appear;
Theſe all new form'd, and to deſtruction brought;
Why of the World may not the like be thought?
[148]Reaſon preſents this maxim to our view,
What in each part, that in the whole is true:
And therefore, when you ſee ſpring up and fall
Nature's great parts, conclude the like of all:
Know, heaven and earth on the ſame laws depend,
In time they both began, in time ſhall end.
But, Memmius, not t' aſſume what ſome deny,
The proof on plain experience ſhall rely:
I'll ſhew, theſe elements to change are prone;
Riſe in new ſhapes, continue long in none.

Then firſt of Earth: conclude that all muſt fail,
Which differing parts, fermenting, can exhale:
Much the reflected rays extract from thence;
And from their burning heat no leſs th' expence.
The duſt and ſmoke in flying clouds appear,
Which boiſterous winds diſperſe through liquid air.
Some parts diſſolve and flow away in rain,
And from their banks the rapid rivers gain.
A diminution nothing e'er eſcapes;
Which new exiſtence gives to other ſhapes:
Plants, minerals, and concretes, owe their birth,
And animals their growth, in part to earth:
Then, ſince from this their beings firſt did ſpring,
Time all to this, their common grave, does bring.
In theſe examples, not to mention more,
Nature does earth conſume, and earth reſtore.
The ſprings, the rivers, and the ſeas are found,
For earth's ſupply, with waters to abound;
Renew'd, and flowing in continual round.
Leſt theſe, increaſing, ſhould at laſt prevail;
The mighty ocean fiercer winds aſſail:
[149]Vaſt ſhoals of atoms thence away they bear,
And, raiſing them aloft, transform to air.
Much is extracted from the powerful ſun,
More does in ſubterranean channels run:
In earth it firſt exceſſive ſaltneſs ſpends,
Then to our ſprings' and rivers' heads aſcends;
Theſe in the fruitful valleys turn and wind,
And ſtill to new productions are inclin'd.

And next of Air: which, in its vaſt extent,
In changes infinite, each hour is ſpent:
For air's wide ocean ſtill requiring more,
Fill'd with effluvia, ſhould it not reſtore
The periſh'd ſhapes, time's ruins to repair,
Long ſince had all things been diſſolv'd to air.
From others loſs its being it receives;
To theſe again its changing ſubſtance leaves:
So true it is, that nature ebbs and flows;
And, one part periſhing, another grows.

The Sun, the fountain of the glorious rays,
Inſtead of vaniſh'd light, new light diſplays.
The brightneſs of the flying minute paſt,
Is now obſcur'd, and to new forms does haſte.
From hence it comes that, when black clouds draw near,
And baniſh'd ſun-ſhine ſtrait does diſappear,
The earth 's o'erſhadow'd, as the ſtorms are driven,
And rays new darted are requir'd from heaven.
Viſion would ceaſe (ſo ſoon would light expire)
Without recruits of bright etherial fire.
In our inferior and ſulphureous light,
Of lamps and tapers chacing ſhades of night,
[150]Continued fuel feeds the trembling flame
Which gives the light, nor is that light the ſame
Of ſun, of moon, of ſtars; ne'er think it ſtrange
That they are not ſecure from final change.
When what ſo late did ſmile this inſtant dies,
And new-born light ſtill ſhines to mortal eyes.
Thus we obſerve hard rocks in time decay'd;
The marble monuments for heroes made,
And ſtately towers, in humble ruins laid.
Do Gods their images from age ſecure?
Or force their temples always to endure?
Thus when you ſee old rocks from mountains fall,
By this conclude their ſure original;
For, were they from eternity ſo plac'd,
No chance could ruin them, no time could waſte.
Next raiſe your eyes to earth-ſurrounding ſpheres,
From which (ſay ſome) ſprings all that now appears,
To which at laſt their vaniſh'd parts aſcend;
Theſe, as they 're form'd, to diſſolution tend:
For all things muſt in ſuch proportion ceaſe,
As they to other beings give increaſe.

But then, if no beginning does appear
Of heaven and earth, but both eternal were;
Before the Theban war was e'er proclaim'd,
Or fatal ſiege of Troy by Homer fam'd,
Why did not far more antient poets ſing
What revolutions elder times did bring?
Such men, ſuch acts, how in oblivion drown'd,
As with immortal fame might well be crown'd?
No great antiquity the world has prov'd;
Eternity from this ſeems far remov'd:
[151]All arts and ſcience elſe would long ago
Have reach'd perfection, not now daily grow.
No ancient ſailors e'er like ours did ſteer:
No ſuch harmonious muſick charm'd the ear.
This nature of the world not ages paſt
Was brought to light, retarded for the laſt.
And theſe diſcoveries ordain'd by fate
To foreign climes, I with the firſt tranſlate.

But ſtill, if no beginning you believe,
And ſay, 'tis eaſier for us to conceive
Such conflagrations from ſulphureous power,
As totally did human race devour:
Or general earthquakes did the world confound,
Or all in mighty deluges were drown'd;
This force of argument you then increaſe,
That heaven and earth in future time muſt ceaſe.
For which ſuch dreadful danger threaten'd all,
Though nature then eſcap'd a total fall,
Grant but the cauſe increas'd, and 'twill not fail,
As did the leſs, o'er all things to prevail.
What ſhews we cannot endleſs life enjoy,
B [...] ſenſe of ills which others did deſtroy?

If you the world's duration would extend
To all eternity, you muſt defend,
Its ſolid ſubſtance is ſo firmly bound,
No penetration can it ever wound
(Minuteſt atoms, 'tis confeſs'd, are ſo,
But not the compound which from theſe did grow):
Or that 'tis immaterial you muſt prove,
And what no forcing agent can remove:
[152]Or elſe you muſt all ambient ſpace deny,
To which it may diſſolv'd and ruin'd fly:
(Thus, Univerſal claims Eternal's place,
Becauſe it ne'er can paſs t' external ſpace):
But neither is this various globe ſo fix'd
(For much vacuity is intermix'd),
Nor is it void of matter, nor can be
From threatening power of penetration free;
And powers unknown, from boundleſs ambient ſpace,
This preſent ſtate of nature may deface:
With dreadful hurricanes they may invade,
And turn to chaos all that e'er was made;
Or by ſome other means, beyond the reach
Of man's conception, make the fatal breach.
Nor wants there ſpace beyond the ſpheres of heaven,
To which the ruin'd parts may then be driven:
Whene'er theſe elements their manſions leave,
That vaſt abyſs lies open to receive.
From hence to their beginning you 're directed,
What magic charms have always ſo protected,
That, when the finite parts expiring lye,
The whole eternal ages ſhould defy?
Then, ſince the world's great parts at once engage,
And civil wars in its dominions rage,
We may foreſee their ſtrife, ſo long depending,
At laſt in general ſubverſion ending;
Rivers and ſeas conſum'd, fierce fires may burn,
Till all their aſhes meet in earth's great urn.
Ev'n now they ſtrive the victory to gain;
But ſtill the ocean does the fight maintain,
[153]And, ſwell'd with rivers, hopes, by forces try'd,
To drown the reſt, and ſole in triumph ride
This to prevent, the ſwift exhauſting wind
And radiant ſun 'gainſt liquid force are join'd.
Thus equal in appearance long they mov'd,
Each other's ſtrength in mighty wars they prov'd.
At laſt the fire, 'tis ſaid, did win the field:
And earth did once, o'erwhelm'd with waters, yield.
Long ſince when Phaeton, led by vain deſire,
To drive the ſun's great chariot did aſpire,
'Twas then the world was hazarded by fire.
With head-ſtrong force the winged horſes flew;
O'er earth and heaven the burning planet drew.
What then had been the fate of all things here,
If angry Jove the daring charioteer
Had not diſmounted by ſwift lightning's ſtroke,
And ſo at once the flaming progreſs broke?
Thus Phaeton ſlain was falling to the ground,
And furious horſes dragg'd the chariot round,
When great Apollo reaſſum'd the chair;
Reſtor'd the ſun that rov'd throughout the air;
With dextrous force reclaim'd his raging ſteeds,
And to this hour in annual courſe proceeds.
Greek poets thus the truth with lies confound;
To waking men like wandering dreams they ſound;
But though, to grace their morals, they romance,
True fires did then from eaſt to weſt advance.
Such magazines of ſulphur earth contains,
That, if ſome ſtronger agent not reſtrains,
The fuel all inflam'd, and raging high,
Will ne'er be quench'd till all in ruins lie.
[154]The water too did, as our authors tell,
In ages paſt, to ſuch proportion ſwell,
That ſpacious empires wholly were deſtroy'd;
The ocean then had ſovereign right enjoy'd;
But that ſome greater being ſoon aroſe
From infinite ſpace t' o'ercome th' invading foes.
Bright heavens then triumph'd o'er the vanquiſh'd ſhowers,
And falling floods proclaim'd prevailing powers.

THE DUEL OF THE STAGS.
TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM^†.

BY THE SAME^*.

MY LORD, I ſhould beg your pardon, could I ap⯑prehend it were an error to preſent any thing to your grace which comes from me, to whom I have made ſo entire a dedication of myſelf. But this advantage ap⯑pears [155] in all real eſteems and friendſhips; they are as much above the ceremonies of the world, as the uſual practice of it; but your grace has a farther title to this, being more yours than mine; as much as an image well ſhaped and poliſhed is more properly due to him that gave it that perfection, than to him that firſt digged the ſtone out of the quarry. It was an ill-contrived houſe within, full of entries and unuſeful paſſages, till your grace was pleaſed to take them away, and make it habitable for any candid opinion. At the ſame time when your grace made this your own, you made me more juſtly yours; it was in your confinement, [156] where, after ſome concealment of yourſelf, to weigh the circumſtances and cauſes of your perſecution, you ge⯑nerouſly expoſed yourſelf to ſtand all hazards and trials, from the aſſurance of your courage, and advice of your innocence; and as your grace in your adverſity has found the advantage of an unſhaken honour, I doubt not but your prince and nation will find an equal benefit in your better fortunes, by your counſel and ſervice, which will always be directed by ſuch a ſteady virtue. And may all advantages that you encreaſe in, and all the nation re⯑ceives by you, be equalled by nothing but the content of, my lord, your grace's

Moſt humble and faithful ſervant, ROBERT HOWARD.

IN Windſor foreſt, before war deſtroy'd
The harmleſs pleaſure which ſoft peace enjoy'd;
A mighty ſtag grew monarch of the herd,
By all his ſavage ſlaves obey'd and fear'd;
And, while the troops about their ſovereign fed,
They watch'd the awful nodding of his head.
Still as he paſſeth by, they all remove,
Proud in dominion, prouder in his love:
And while with pride and appetite he ſwells,
He courts no choſen object, but compels:
No ſubject his lov'd miſtreſs dares deny,
But yields his hopes up to his tyranny.

Long had this prince imperiouſly thus ſway'd,
By no ſet laws, but by his will obey'd;
His fearful ſlaves, to full obedience grown,
Admire his ſtrength, and dare not uſe their own.

[157]One ſubject moſt did his ſuſpicion move,
That ſhew'd leaſt fear, and counterfeited love;
In the beſt paſtures by his ſide he fed,
Arm'd with two large militias on his head:
As if he practis'd majeſty, he walk'd,
And at his nod, he made not haſte, but ſtalk'd.
By his large ſhade, he ſaw how great he was,
And his vaſt layers on the bended graſs.
His thoughts as large as his proportion grew,
And judg'd himſelf as fit for empire too.
Thus to rebellious hopes he ſwell'd at length,
Love and ambition growing with his ſtrength.
This hid ambition his bold paſſion ſhows,
And from a ſubject to a rival grows;
Solicits all his prince's fearful dames,
And in his ſight courts with rebellious flames.

The prince ſees this with an inflamed eye,
But looks are only ſigns of majeſty:
When once a prince's will meets a reſtraint,
His power is then eſteem'd but his complaint.
His head then ſhakes, at which th' affrighted herd
Start to each ſide; his rival, not afear'd,
Stands by his miſtreſs' ſide, and ſtirs not thence,
But bids her own his love, and his defence.

The quarrel now to a vaſt height is grown,
Both urg'd to fight by paſſion, and a throne;
But love has moſt excuſe; for all, we find,
Have paſſions, though not thrones alike aſſign'd.
The ſovereign ſtag, ſhaking his loadedhead,
On which his ſcepters with his arms were ſpread,
[158]Wiſely by nature there together fix'd,
Where with the title the defence was mixt.
The pace which he advanc'd with to engage
Became at once his majeſty and rage:
T' other ſtands ſtill with as much confidence,
To make his part ſeem only his defence.

Their heads now meet, and at one blow each ſtrikes
As many ſtrokes as if a rank of pikes
Grew on his brows, as thick their antlers ſtand,
Which every year kind nature does di [...]band.
Wild beaſts ſometimes in peace and quiet are,
But man no ſeaſon frees from love or war.

With equal ſtrength they met, as if two oaks
Had fell, and mingled with a thouſand ſtrokes.
One by ambition urg'd, t'other diſdain.
One to preſerve, the other fought to gain:
The ſubjects and the miſtreſſes ſtood by,
With love and duty to crown victory:
For all affections wait on proſperous fame,
Not he that climbs, but he that falls, meets ſhame.

While thus with equal courages they meet,
The wounded earth yields to their ſtruggling feet;
And while one ſlides, t'other purſues the fight:
And thinks that forc'd retreat looks like a flight:
But then, aſham'd of his retreat, at length
Drives his foe back, his rage renews his ſtrength.

As even weights into a motion thrown,
By equal turns, drive themſelves up and down;
So ſometimes one, then t' other ſtag prevails,
And victory, yet doubtful, holds the ſcales.

[159]The prince, aſham'd to be oppos'd ſo long,
With all his ſtrength united ruſhes on;
The rebel weaker than at firſt appears,
And from his courage ſinks unto his fears.
Not able longer to withſtand his might,
From a retreat at laſt ſteals to a flight.
The mighty ſtag purſues his flying foe,
Till his own pride of conqueſt made him ſlow;
Thought it enough to ſcorn a thing that flies,
And only now purſued him with his eyes.

The vanquiſh'd, as he fled, turn'd back his ſight,
Aſham'd to fly, and yet afraid to fight:
Sometimes his wounds, as his excuſe, ſurvey'd,
Then fled again, and then look'd back and ſtaid:
Bluſh'd that his wounds ſo ſlight ſhould not deny
Strength for a fight, that left him ſtrength to fly.
Calls thoughts of love and empire to his aid,
But fears more powerful than all thoſe perſuade,
And yet in ſpite of them retains his ſhame,
His cool'd ambition, and his half-quench'd flame.
There's none from their own ſenſe of ſhame can fly,
And dregs of paſſions dwell with miſery.

Now to the ſhades he bends his feeble courſe,
Deſpis'd by thoſe that once admir'd his force:
The wretch that to a ſcorn'd condition 's thrown,
With the world's favour, loſes too his own.

While fawning troops their conquering prince inclos'd,
Now render'd abſolute by being oppos'd;
Princes by diſobedience get command,
And by new-quench'd rebellions firmer ſtand;
[160]Till, by the boundleſs offers of ſucceſs,
They meet their fate in ill-us'd happineſs.

The vanquiſh'd ſtag to thickeſt ſhades repairs,
Where he finds ſafety puniſh'd with his cares;
Thorough the woods he ruſhes not, but glides,
And from all ſearches but his own he hides;
Aſham'd to live, unwilling yet to loſe
That wretched life he knew not how to uſe.

In this retirement thus he liv'd conceal'd,
Till with his wounds his fears were almoſt heal'd:
His ancient paſſions now began to move,
He thought again of empire and of love:
Then rous'd himſelf, and, ſtretch'd at his full length,
Took the large meaſure of his mighty ſtrength;
Then ſhook his loaded head; the ſhadow too
Shook like a tree, where leafleſs branches grew.
Stooping to drink, he ſees it in the ſtreams,
And in the woods hears claſhing of its beams:
No accident but does alike proclaim
His growing ſtrength, and his increaſing ſhame.

Now once again reſolves to try his fate
(For envy always is importunate;
And in the mind perpetually does move,
A fit companion for unquiet love)
He thinks upon his mighty enemy
Circled about with power and luxury,
And hop'd his ſtrength might ſink in his deſires;
Remembering he had waſted in ſuch fires:
Yet while he hop'd by them to overcome,
He wiſh'd the other's fatal joys his own.

[161]Thus the unquiet beaſt in ſafety lay,
Where nothing was to fear, nor to obey;
Where he alone commanded, and was lord
Of every bounty nature did afford,
Choſe feaſts for every arbitrary ſenſe,
An empire in the ſtate of innocence.

But all the feaſts nature before him plac'd
Had but faint reliſhes to his loſt taſte.
Sick minds, like bodies in a fever ſpent,
Turn food to the diſeaſe, not nouriſhment.

Sometimes he ſtole abroad, and ſhrinking ſtood
Under the ſhelter of the friendly wood;
Caſting his envious eyes towards thoſe plains,
Where, crown'd with joys, his mighty rival reigns.
He ſaw th' obeying herd marching along,
And weigh'd his rival's greatneſs by the throng.
Want takes falſe meaſures both of power and joys,
And envy'd greatneſs is but croud and noiſe.

Not able to endure this hated ſight,
Back to the ſhades he flies to ſeek out night.
Like exiles from their native ſoils, though ſent
To better countries, think it baniſhment.
Here he enjoy'd what t'other could have there,
The woods as ſhady, and the ſtreams as clear,
The paſtures more untainted where he fed,
And every night choſe out an unpreſs'd bed.

But then his labouring ſoul with dreams was preſt,
And found the greateſt wearineſs in reſt;
His dreadful rival in his ſleep appears,
And in his dreams again he fights and fears:
[162]Shrinks at the ſtrokes of t'other's mighty head,
Feels every wound, and dreams how faſt he fled.
At this he wakes, and with his fearful eyes
Salutes the light, that fleets the Eaſtern ſkies.
Still half amaz'd looks round, and, held by fear,
Scarce can believe no enemy was near.
But when he ſaw his heedleſs fears were brought,
Not by a ſubſtance, but a drowſy thought,
His ample ſides he ſhakes, from whence the dew
In ſcatter'd ſhowers like driven tempeſts flew;
At which through all his breaſt new boldneſs ſpread,
And with his courage rais'd his mighty head;
Then, by his love inſpir'd, reſolves to try
The combat now, and overcome or die.
Every weak paſſion ſometimes is above
The fear of death, much more the nobleſt love.
By hope 'tis ſcorn'd, and by deſpair 'tis ſought,
Purſued by honour, and by ſorrow brought.

Reſolv'd the paths of danger now to tread,
From his ſcorn'd ſhelter and his fears he fled;
With a brave haſte now ſeeks a ſecond fight,
Redeems the baſe one by a noble flight.

In the mean time, the conqueror enjoy'd
That power by which he was to be deſtroy'd.
How hard 'tis for the proſperous to ſee
That fate which waits on power and victory!

Thus he ſecurely reign'd, when in a rout
He ſaw th' affrighted herd flying about;
As if ſome huntſmen did their chace purſue,
About themſelves in ſcatter'd rings they flew.
[163]He, like a careful monarch, rais'd his head,
To ſee what cauſe that ſtrange diſturbance bred.

But when the ſearch'd-out cauſe appear'd no more
Than from a ſlave he had o'ercome before,
A bold diſdain did in his looks appear,
And ſhook his awful head to chide their fear.
The herd, afraid of friend and enemy,
S [...]ink from the one, and from the other fly;
They ſcarce know which they ſhould obey or truſt,
Since fortune only makes it ſafe and juſt.

Yet, in deſpite of all his pride, he ſtaid,

And this unlook'd-for chance with trouble weigh'd.

His rage and his contempt alike ſwell'd high,
And only fear'd his enemy ſhould fly;
He thought of former conqueſt, and from thence
C [...]'d himſelf into a confidence.

T other, that ſaw his conqueror ſo near,
S [...]d ſtill, and liſten'd to a whiſpering fear;
From whence he heard his conqueſt and his ſhame;
But new-born hopes his ancient fears o'ercame.

The mighty enemies now meet at length,
With equal fury, though not equal ſtrength;
For now, too late, the conqueror did find,
That all was waſted in him but his mind.
His courage in his weakneſs yet prevails,
As a b [...]ld pilot ſteers with tatter'd ſails;
And, cordage crackt, directs no ſteady courſe,
C [...]d by reſolution more than force.
Before his once-ſcorn'd enemy he reels,
His wounds increaſing with his ſhame he feels.
[164]The other's ſtrength more from his weakneſs grows,
And with one furious puſh his rival throws.

So a tall oak, the pride of all the wood,
That long th' aſſault of ſeveral ſtorms had ſtood,
Till, by a mighty blaſt more ſtrongly puſh'd,
His root's torn up, and to the earth he ruſh'd.

Yet then he rais'd his head, on which there grew,
Once, all his power, and all his title too;
Unable now to riſe, and leſs to fight,
He rais'd thoſe ſcepters to demand his right:
But ſuch weak arguments prevail with none,
To plead their titles, when their power is gone.

His head now ſinks, and with it all defence,
Not only robb'd of power, but pretence.
Wounds upon wounds the conqueror ſtill gives,
And thinks himſelf unſafe while t'other lives:
Unhappy ſtate of ſuch as wear a crown,
Fortune can never lay them gently down!

Now to the moſt ſcorn'd remedy he flies,
And for ſome pity ſeems to move his eyes;
Pity, by which the beſt of virtue's try'd,
To wretched princes ever is deny'd.
There is a debt to fortune, which they pay
For all their greatneſs, by no common way.

The flattering troops unto the victor fly,
And own his title to his victory;
The faith of moſt with fortune does decline,
Duty's but fear, and conſcience but deſign.

The victor now, proud in his great ſucceſs,
Haſtes to enjoy his fatal happineſs;
[165]Forgot his mighty rival was deſtroy'd
By that which he ſo fondly now enjoy'd.

In paſſions thus nature herſelf enjoys,
Sometimes preſerves, and then again deſtroys;
Yet all deſtruction which revenge can move,
Time or ambition, is ſupply'd by love.

TO COUNT MONTECUCCOLI; AGAINST PRIDE UPON SUDDEN ADVANCEMENT.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI.

BY AN UNKNOWN WRITER,

I.PROUD and fooliſh noiſy ſtream!
Who to ſome muddy plaſh thy birth do'ſt owe,
Which caſually a brook became,
Aſſiſted by the rain and melting ſnow:
Though now thou boaſt thy ſwelling tide,
Auguſt will ſoon be here, and end thy ſhort-liv'd pride.

II.The Thames, great king of floods! the Thames
With peaceful courſe haſtes gently to the main;
Yet he upon his ſilent ſtreams
The talleſt veſſels does with eaſe ſuſtain:
And, while one ſummer thee devours,
His flood ſhall ne'er decreaſe, nor time contract his ſhores.

III.Thou foam'ſt, and boil'ſt along the plain,
The flocks and ſhepherds threatening by the way;
Through borrow'd waters, baſely vain,
Lift'ſt up thy head, and do'ſt regardleſs ſtray;
[166]Troubled, oblique, and this alone,
Thy noiſy pride is all which thou canſt call thy own.

IV.I know, Sir, you may well admire
To hear me reaſon with a deafening ſtream;
But thus the Muſe oft ſtrikes the lyre,
When ſhe'd moſt lofty and majeſtic ſeem,
And in myſterious numbers ſhrowd
Deep oracles, too deep for the unthinking croud.

V.While thus I ſpake, there did appear
Phoebus, the God of every tuneful lay;
A laurel crown'd his beamy hair,
Which with a brighter light improv'd the day;
And thus he, what I ſaw, apply'd;
" Short is th' uncertain reign and pomp of mortal pride:

VI.New turns and changes every day
Are of inconſtant chance the conſtant arts;
Soon ſhe gives, ſoon takes away,
She comes, embraces, nauſeates you, and parts:
But, if ſhe ſtays, or if ſhe goes,
The wiſe man little joy or little ſorrow ſhows.

VII.Good is the pilot, who preſerves
His ſhatter'd veſſel on the ſtormy main;
But he no leſs applauſe deſerves,
Who fears the flattery of the watery plain;
Who never truſts the faireſt gale,
But dreads to be o'erſet, and ſpreads but little ſail.

[167]VIII.Of all the heroes known of old,
I honour moſt * Agathocles's name;
Who, though he made the ſparkling gold
In poliſh'd goblets on his table flame;
To temper and rebate its ray,
He mixt his father's trade, the good old potter's clay."

IX.While thus the charming God went on,
And fix'd in wonder and delight I ſtood;
Behold! the upſtart ſtream was gone,
No drop remain'd of it's inſulting flood;
But the worſt cattle of the plain
Trod o'er the thirſty ſand, and ſpurn'd it with diſdain.

CATULLUS, EPIG. XIX.

BY THE SAME.

SUFFENUS, whom you know, the witty,
The gay, the talkative, and pretty;
And, all his wonders to rehearſe,
The thing which makes a world of verſe;
I'm certain I ſhould not bely him,
To ſay he 'as ſeveral thouſands by him,
Yet none deform'd with critic blot,
Or wrote on vellum to rub out.
Royal paper! ſcarlet ſtrings!
Gilded backs! and ſuch fine things!
But—When you read them, then the witty,
The Suffenus, and the pretty,
Is the dulleſt, heavieſt clown,
So alter'd, he can ſcarce be known.
[168]This is ſtrange! that he who now
Could ſo flatter, laugh, and bow,
So much wit, ſuch breeding ſhow,
Should be ſo ungenteel a wight,
Whenever he attempts to write.
And yet the wretch is ne'er ſo pleas'd,
As when he's with this madneſs ſeiz'd.

Faith, Sir, we're all deceiv'd alike,
All labour in the ſame miſtake;
Nor is the beſt of men ſo clear
From every folly, but ſomewhere
Still the Suffenus will appear.
Quickly we others' errors find,
But ſee not our own load behind.

FROM THE GREEK OF MENAGE^*.

BY THE SAME.

WHILE here for the fair Amaryllis I die,

She oe'r rocks and o'er ſtreams from my paſſion does fly;

O bring her, kind Venus! bring her here back again,

And the beſt of my heifers on thy altar lies ſlain:

But if ſhe 's appeas'd, if to love ſhe incline,

Take all my whole herd, my little herd is all thine.

INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.[169]BY THE SAME.*
GO—for I'm impatient grown,
Bid him leave the noiſy town.
Charge him, he no longer ſtay,
But with haſte devour the way.
Though a thouſand times he's ſtay'd
By that fond bewitching maid;
Though ſhe ſummon all her charms,
Kiſs him, preſs him in her arms;
Let him not the Syren mind;
Tears are water, ſighs are wind.
Tell him how kind Nature here
Dreſſes up the youthful year,
Strowing on the thoughtleſs hours
Opening buds and new-born flowers:
Tell him, underneath this ſhade
Innocence and Mirth are laid,
[170]Not without forbidden claret,
Books or muſic, if he 'll hear it.
See the laurel and the vine
Round about that arbour twine;
So we wit and pleaſure join;
So Horace and Anacreon meet
The jolly God within that ſeat.
Thus from noiſe and care ſet free,
The ſnares of beauty we defy.
Let him then no longer ſtay,
But with haſte devour the way.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XXIII.

PARAPHRASED BY DR. WALTER POPE^*.

THE wary Gods lock up in cells of night
Future events, and laugh at mortals here.
If they to pry into them take delight,

If they too much preſume, or too much fear;
O man! for thy ſhort time below
Enjoy thyſelf, and what the Gods beſtow:
[171]Unequal fortunes here below are ſhar'd.
Life to a river's courſe may juſtly be compar'd:

Sometimes within its hed,

Without an angry curl or wave,

From the ſpring-head,
It gently glides to the ocean, its grave.
Then unawares, upon a ſudden rain,
It madly overflows the neighbouring plain;
[172]It ploughs up beauteous ranks
Of trees; that ſhaded and adorn'd its banks:
Overturns houſes, bridges, rocks,
Drowns ſhepherds and their flocks:
Horror and death rage all the valley o'er,
The foreſts tremble, and the mountains roar.

THE OLD MAN'S WISH^*.

[173]

BY THE SAME.

IF I live to grow old, as I find I go down,
Let this be my fate in a country town:
May I have a warm houſe, with a ſtone at my gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.
May I govern my paſſion with an abſolute ſway,
And grow wiſer and better as my ſtrength wears away,
Without gout or ſtone, by a gentle decay.

In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With th' ocean at diſtance on which I may look;
With a ſpacious plain without hedge or ſtile,
And an eaſy pad nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the beſt wits that liv'd in the ages before;
With a diſh of roaſt-mutton, not veniſon nor teal,
And clean though coarſe linen at every meal.
May I govern, &c.

[174]With a pudding on Sunday, and ſtout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar;
With a hidden reſerve of Burgundy wine,
To drink the king's health as oft as we dine.
May I govern, &c.

With a courage undaunted may I face my laſt day,
And when I am dead may the better ſort ſay,
" In the morning when ſober, in the evening when mel⯑low,
He is gone, and han't left behind him his fellow:
For he govern'd his paſſion with an abſolute ſway,
And grew wiſer and better as his ſtrength wore away,
Without gout or ſtone, by a gentle decay."

A SONG.

ON the bank of a river cloſe under the ſhade.
Young Cleon and Sylvia one evening were laid;
The youth pleaded ſtrongly for proof of his love,
But honour had won her his flame to reprove.
She cried, "Where's the luſtre, when clouds ſhade the ſun,
Or what is rich nectar, the taſte being gone?
'Mongſt flowers on the ſtalk ſweeteſt odours do dwell;
But, if gather'd, the roſe itſelf loſes the ſmell."

" Thou deareſt of nymphs, the briſk ſhepherd replied,
If e'er thou wilt argue, begin on Love's ſide:
In matters of ſtate let grave reaſon be ſhewn,
But love is a power will be ruled by none;
Nor ſhould a coy beauty be counted ſo rare,
For ſcandal can blaſt both the chaſte and the fair.
Moſt fierce are the joys Love's alembick do fi [...]l,
And the roſes are ſweeteſt when put to the ſtill."

A SONG.

[175]

I.YOU I love, by all that's true,
More than all things here below;
With a paſſion far more great,
Than e'er creature loved yet:
And yet ſtill you cry, "Forbear,
Love no more, or love not here!"

II.Bid the miſer leave his ore,
Bid the wretched ſigh no more;
Bid the old be young again,
Bid the nun not think of man:
Sylvia, this when you can do,
Bid me then not think of you.

III.Love's not a thing of choice, but fate,
That makes me love, that makes you hate:
Sylvia, then, do what you will,
Eaſe or cure, torment or kill,
Be kind or cruel, falſe or true;
Love I muſt, and none but you!

A SONG.[176]FAIN would I, Chloris, ere I die,
Bequeath you ſuch a legacy,
That you might ſay, when I am gone,
None hath the like: my heart alone
Were the beſt gift I could beſtow,
But that 's already yours, you know.
So that 'till you my heart reſign,
Or fill with yours the place of mine,
And by that grace my ſtore renew,
I ſhall have nought worth giving you;
Whoſe breaſt has all the wealth I have,
Save a faint carcaſe and a grave:
But had I as many hearts as hairs.
As many lives as love has fears,
As many lives as years have hours,
They ſhould be all and only yours.

HERO'S COMPLAINT TO LEANDER.NOR com'ſt thou yet, my ſlothful love! nor yet
Leander! Oh my Leander! can'ſt thou forget
Thy Hero? Leander, why doſt thou ſtay,
Who holds thee? cruel! what hath begot delay?
Too ſoon, alas! the roſy-finger'd morn
Will chace the darkſome night. Ah me! I burn
And die in this my languiſhing deſire.
See, ſee! the taper waſtes in his own fire,
[177]Like me; and will be ſpent before thou come:
Make haſte then, my Leander, pr'ythee come.
Behold the winds and ſeas, deaf and enrag'd,
My imprecations have in part aſſuag'd;
Their fury 's paſt; but thou, more deaf than they,
More mercileſs, torment'ſt me with delay.
If, far from hence, upon thy native ſhore,
Such high delight thou tak'ſt, why didſt thou more
Incite my hot deſires with faithleſs lines,
Flattering me with promiſe, that when the winds
Became leſs high, and ſhores had ſome repoſe,
If I did but the friendly torch expoſe
To be thy guide, thou would'ſt not fail to come?
The ſhores have peace, the winds and ſeas are dumb;
Thy Hero here attends thee, and the light
Invades the horror of the ſable night;
Come quickly then, and in theſe arms appear,
That have been oft thy chiefeſt calm, thy ſphere.
Wretch that I am! 'tis ſo, ye Gods! 'tis ſo!
Whilſt here I vent to heaven and ſeas my woe,
He at Abydos in a newer flame
Forgets that e'er he heard poor Hero's name.
Ah! lighter than bloſſoms, or the fleeting air
That ſheds them; how! O how cauſt thou repair
Thy broken faith! is this the dear reſpect
Thou bear'ſt to oaths and vows, thus to neglect
Both Cytherea and her nun! is this
Th' inviolable band of Hymen! this
That knot before the ſacred altar made
Of ſea-born Venus! Heavens, lend your aid,
[178]And arm yourſelves in thunder! Oh! but ſtay:
What vain fear tranſports thee, Hero, away
With jealous fury; Leander 's thine, thou his;
And the poor youth at home lamenting is
The wary eyes of his old parents; now
Steals from them apace unto the ſhore, now
With haſty hand doth fling his robes from him,
And even now, bold boy, attempts to ſwim,
Parting the ſwelling waves with ivory arms,
Borne up alone by Love's all-powerful charms.
Ye gentler peaceful winds, if ever Love
Had power in you, if ever ye did prove
Leaſt ſpark of Cupid's flame, for pity's ſake
With ſofter gales more ſmooth and eaſy make
The troubled flood unto my ſoul's delight.
Ye ſhowers, ye ſtorms and tempeſts black as night,
Retire your fury, till my love appear,
And bleſs theſe ſhores in ſafety, and I here
Within theſe arms enfold my only treaſure;
Then all in rage and horror ſend at pleaſure
The frothy billows high as heaven, that he
May here be ever forc'd to dwell with me.
But hark! O wonder! what ſudden ſtorm is this?
Seas menace heaven, and the winds do hiſs,
In ſcorn of this my juſt requeſt. Retire,
Retire, my too too venturous love, retire,
Tempt not the angry ſeas. Ah me! ah me!
The light, the light 's blown out! O Gods! O deadly
Night! Neptune, Aeolus, ye powerful deities,
Spare, O ſpare my jewel! pity the cries
[179]And tears of wretched Hero! 'tis Leander
Truſts you with his love and life, fair Leander,
Beau [...]y of theſe ſhores. See! ſee the baſhful morn,
For ſorrow of my ſad laments, hath torn
Through cloudy night a paſſage to my aid,
And here beneath amidſt the horrid ſhade,
By her ſaint light ſomething methinks I ſee
Reſembling my ſoul's joy. Woe 's me! 'tis he!
Drown'd by th' impetuous flood. O diſmal hour!
Cu [...]s'd be theſe ſeas, theſe ſhores, this light, this tower!
In ſpite of fates, dear love, to thee I come,
Leander's boſom ſhall be Hero's tomb*.

SONG.

I.WHAT art thou, Love? whence are thoſe charms,
That thus thou bea [...]'ſt an univerſal rule?
For thee the ſoldier quits his arms,
The king turns ſlave, the wiſe man fool.

II.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.

III.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 thy treacherous face.

[180]IV.

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.

V.To get our likeneſs, what is that?
Our likeneſs is but miſery:
Why ſhould I toil to propagate
Another thing as vile as I?

VI.From hands divine our ſpirits came;
And Gods that made us did inſpire
Something more noble in our frame,
Above the dregs of earthly fire.

WRITTEN IN A BOOK*.'TIS true—in theſe well-poliſh'd lines,
The Author's noble genius ſhines:
A happy wit, a thought well weigh'd,
And in a charming dreſs convey'd,
Adorn each curious page—'tis true:
But what 's all this, fair Maid, to you?
Have lovely faces need of paint?
Are Manuals uſeful to a Saint?
Let careleſs nymphs be ply'd with rules,
Let wit be thrown among the fools:
In both of theſe you boaſt a ſtore,
Compar'd with which, our Author's poor.
[181]Alas! as he directs his pen
To Maids, ſhould you adviſe the men;
Should you your eaſy minutes vex,
To make repriſals on the ſex;
We great pretenders then ſhould find
Ourſelves, our darling ſelves, out-ſhin'd
Not more in body than in mind:
She-wit and ſenſe would mount the throne,
And our lov'd Salique law be gone.

J. DRYDEN, OF TRINITY COLLEGE, TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR*, UPON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.THOU haſt inſpir'd me with thy ſoul; and I,
Who ne'er before could ken of poetry,
Am grown ſo good proficient, I can lend
A line in commendation of my friend;
Yet 'tis but of the ſecond hand; if aught
There be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought.
[182]Good thief, who dar'ſt Prometheus-like aſpire,
And fill thy poems with celeſtial fire:
Enliven'd by theſe ſparks divine, their rays
Add a bright luſtre to thy crown of bays,
Young eaglet, who thy neſt thus ſoon forſook,
So lofty and divine a courſe haſt took
As all admire, before the down begin
To peep as yet upon thy ſmoother chin;
And, making heaven thy aim, haſt had the grace
To look the ſun of righteouſneſs i' th' face.
[183]What may we hope, if thou goeſt on thus faſt?
Scriptures at firſt, enthuſiaſms at laſt!
Thou haſt commenc'd, betimes, a ſaint: go on,
Mingling diviner ſtreams with Helicon;
That they who view what Epigrams here be
Ma [...] learn to make like, in juſt praiſe of thee.
Reader, I 've done, nor longer will with-hold
Thy greedy eyes: looking on this pure gold,
Thou ' [...]t know adulterate copper, which, like this,
Will only ſerve to be a foil to his.

PROLOGUE TO THE DUKE OF GUISE.BY THE SAME. 1683.
OUR play 's a parallel: the Holy League
Begot our Covenant: Guiſards got the Whig:
Whate'er our hot-brain'd ſheriffs did advance
Was, like our faſhions, firſt produc'd in France;
And, when worn-out, well ſcourg'd, and baniſh'd there,
Sent over, like their godly beggars, here.
Could the ſame trick, twice play'd, our nation gull?
It looks as if the devil were grown dull,
Or ſerv'd us up, in ſcorn, his broken meat,
And thought we were not worth a better cheat.
The fulſome Covenant, one would think in reaſon,
Had given us all our bellies full of treaſon:
And yet, the name but chang'd, our naſty nation
C [...]ws its own excrement, th' A [...]ſociation.
'Tis true we have not learn'd their poiſoning way,
For that 's a mode but newly come in play;
[184]Beſides, your drug's uncertain to prevail;
But your true Proteſtant can never fail,
With that compendious inſtrument a flail.
Go on; and bite, e'en though the hook lies bare;
Twice in one age expel the lawful heir:
Once more decide religion by the ſword;
And purchaſe for us a new tyrant lord.
Pray for your king; but yet your purſes ſpare:
Make him not two-pence richer by your prayer.
To ſhew you love him much, chaſtiſe him more;
And make him very great, and very poor.
Puſh him to wars, but ſtill no pence advance;
Let him loſe England, to recover France.
Cry freedom up with popular noiſy votes:
And get enough t [...] cut each other's throats.
Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne;
For fear of too much power, pray leave him none.
A noiſe was made of arbitrary ſway;
But, in revenge, you Whigs have found a way,
An arbitrary duty now to pay.
Let his own ſervants turn, to ſave their ſtake;
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forſake.
But let ſome Judas near his perſon ſtay,
To ſwallow the laſt ſop, and then betray.
Make London independent of the crown:
A realm apart; the kingdom of the town.
Let ignoramus juries find no traitors:
And ignoramus poets ſcribble ſatires.
And, that your meaning none may fail to ſcan,
Do what in coffee-houſes you began;
Pull down the maſter, and ſet up the man.

EPILOGUE.[185]BY THE SAME.
MUCH time and trouble this poor play has coſt;
And, faith, I doubted once the cauſe was loſt.
Yet no one man was meant; nor great nor ſmall;
Our poets, like frank gameſters, threw at all.
They took no ſingle aim—
But, like bold boys, true to their prince and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fir'd broadſides at the whole party.
Duels are crimes; but, when the cauſe is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what ſhould hinder me to ſell my ſkin
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a ſin.
'Tis a fine world, my maſters, right or wrong,
The Whigs muſt talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They muſt do all they can—
But we, forſooth, muſt bear a chriſtian mind;
And fight, like boys, with one hand ty'd behind.
Nay, and when one boy 's down, 't were wondrous nice,
To cry box fair, and give him time to riſe.
When fortune favours, none but fools will dally:
Would any of you ſparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipt you th' inviting wink, ſtand ſhall I; ſhall I?
A trimmer cry'd (that heard me tell the ſtory),
Fie, miſtreſs * Cooke! faith, you 're too rank a Tory!
Wiſh not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard caſes;
You women love to ſee men make wry faces.
Pray ſir, ſaid I, don't think me ſuch a Jew;
I ſay no more, but give the devil his due.
[186]Lenitives, ſays he, ſuit beſt with our condition.
Jack Ketch, ſays I, 's an excellent phyſician.
I love no blood—Nor I, Sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.
We Trimmers are for holding all things even:
Yes—juſt like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven.
Have we not had men's lives enough already?
Yes ſure:—but you 're for holding all things ſteady:
Now, ſince the weight hangs all on our ſide, brother,
You Trimmers ſhould, to poize it, hang on t'other.
Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of ſteering,
Are neither f [...]ſh, nor fleſh, nor good red-he [...]ring:
Not Whigs nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;
Not birds, nor beaſts; but juſt a kind of bat,
A twilight animal, true to neither cauſe,
With Tory wings, but Whiggiſh teeth and claws.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN TO THE PLAY, BEFORE IT WAS FORBIDDEN LAST SUMMER.*BY THE SAME:
TWO houſes join'd, two poets to a play?
You noiſy Whigs will ſure be pleas'd to-day;
It looks ſo like two ſhrieves the city way.
But, ſince our diſcords and diviſions ceaſe,
You, Bilboa gallants, learn to keep the peace:
Make here no tilts: let our poor ſtage alone;
Or, if a decent murther muſt be done,
Pray take a civil turn to Marybone.
[187]If not, I ſwear, we 'll pull up all our benches;
Not for your ſakes, but for our orange-wenches:
For you thruſt wide ſometimes; and many a ſpark,
That miſſes one, can hit the other mark.
This makes our boxes full; for men of ſenſe
Pay their four ſhillings in their own defence;
That ſafe behind the ladies they may ſtay,
Peep o'er the fan*, and judge the bloody fray.
But other foes give beauty worſe alarms;
The poſſe poetarum's up in arms:
No woman's fame their libels has eſcap'd;
Their ink runs venom, and their pens are clapt.
When ſighs and prayers their ladies cannot move,
They rail, write treaſon, and turn Whigs to love.
Nay, and I fear they worſe deſigns advance,
There 's a damn'd love-trick now brought o'er from France;
We charm in vain, and dreſs, and keep a pother,
Whilſt thoſe falſe rogues are ogling one another.
All ſins beſides admit ſome expiation;
But this againſt our ſex is plain damnation.
They join for libels too theſe women-haters;
And, as they club for love, they club for ſatires:
The beſt on 't is they hurt not: for they wear
Stings in their tails, their only venom 's there.
'Tis true, ſome ſhot at firſt the ladies hit,
Which able markſmen made, and men of wit:
[188]But now the fools give fire, whoſe bounce is louder:
And yet, like mere train-bands, they ſhoot but powder.
Libels, like plots, ſweep all in their firſt fury;
Then dwindle like an ignoramus jury:
Thus age begins with touzing and with tumbling;
But grunts, and groans, and ends at laſt in fumbling.

HUNTING THE HARE.

SONGS of ſonnets and ruſtical roundelays,
Forms of fancies, are whiſtled on reeds;
Songs to ſolace young nymphs upon holidays
Are too unworthy for wonderful deeds.
Phoebus ingenious,
With witty Silenus,
His haughty Genius taught to declare,
In words better coined,
And verſe better joined,
How ſtars divined the hunting the Hare.

II.Stars enamour'd with paſtimes Olympical,
Stars and Planets yet beautiful ſhone,
Would no longer endure that mortal men only
Should ſwim in pleaſures, while they but look on.
Round about horned
Lucina they  [...]warmed,
And her informed, how minded they were,
Each God and Goddeſs
To take human bodies,
As Lords and Ladies, to follow the Hare.

[189]III.Chaſte Diana applauded the motion,
And pale Proſerpina ſate in her place,
Which guides the welkin and governs the ocean,
Till ſhe conduct her nephews in chace;
Till, by her example,
Their Father, to trample
The Earth old and ample, leave them the Air;
Neptune the Water,
And Wine Liber Pater,
And Mars the Slaughter, to follow the Hare.

IV.Young God Cupid, mounted on Pegaſus,
Beloved of Nymphs, with kiſſes and praiſe;
Strong Alcides, upon cloudy Caucaſus,
Mounted a Centaur, which proudly him bare;
Poſtilion of the Sky,
Swift-footed Mercury,
Makes his courſe fly fleet as the air;
Yellow Apollo
The kennel doth follow,
With whip and hollow, after the Hare.

V.Young Amyntas thought the Gods came to breathe,
After their battle, themſelves on the ground:
Thyrſis did think the Gods came here to dwell beneath,
And that hereafter the world would go round.
Corydon aged,
With Phyllis engaged,
[190]Was much enraged with jealous deſpair:
But Fury was faded,
And he was perſuaded,
When he found they applauded the hunting the Hare.

VI.Cunning Melampus, and fortunate Lelaps,
Trowler, and Tiger, and Harper, the ſkies
Rend with roaring, while hunter-like Hercules
Winds his plentiful horn to their cries.
Till with varieties,
To ſolace their Deities,
Their weary Pieties refreſhed were;
We Shepherds were ſeated,
Whilſt we repeated
How we conceited the hunting the Hare.

VII.Stars but ſhadows were, joys were but ſorrows,
They without motion, theſe wanting delight;
Joys are jovial, delights are the marrows
Of life and motion, the axle of might.
Pleaſure depends.
Upon no other friends,
But ſtill freely lends to each virtue a ſhare:
Alone is Pleaſure
The Meaſure of Treaſure;
Of Pleaſure the Treaſure is hunting the Hare.

VIII.Drown'd Narciſſus from his Metamorphoſis,
Rous'd by Echo new manhood did take;
And ſnoring Somnus up-ſtarted from Cimmeris,
The which this thouſand year was not awake,
[191]To ſee club-footed
Old Mulciber booted,
And Pan promoted on Corydon's mare;
Proud Pallas pouted,
And Aeolus ſhouted,
And Momus  [...]louted, yet follow'd the Hare.

IX.Hymen uſhers the Lady Aſtraea,
The j [...]ſt takes hold of Minerva the old,
Cer [...]s the brown, with bright Cytherea,
With Thetis the wanton, Bellona the bold,
Shamefac'd Aurora,
With witty Pandora,
And Maia with Flora did company bear;
But Juno was ſtated
Too high to be mated,
Although ſhe hated not hunting the Hare.

X.Three broad bowls to th' Olympical Rector,
The Troy-born Eagle preſents on his knee;
Jove to Phoebus carouſes in nectar,
And Phoebus to Hermes, and Hermes to me;
Wherewith infuſed,
I piped and muſed,
In language unuſed, their ſports do declare,
Till the Houſe of Jove
Like the Spheres round do move,
Health to all thoſe who love hunting the Hare.

SONG,

[192]

BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE^*.

I.CEASE, anxious world, your fruitleſs pain,
To graſp forbidden ſtore;
Your ſtudy'd labours ſhall prove vain,
Your alchemy unbleſt;
Whilſt ſeeds of far more precious ore
Are ripen'd in my breaſt:

[193]II.My breaſt, the forge of happier love,
Where my Lucinda lives;
And the rich ſtock does ſo improve,
As ſhe her art employs,
That every ſmile and touch ſhe gives
Turns all to golden joys.

III.Since thence we can ſuch treaſures raiſe,
Let's no expence refuſe;
In love let's lay out all our days;
How can we e'er be poor,
When every bleſſing that we uſe
Begets a thouſand more?

SONG.BY THE SAME.
IN ſome kind dream upon her, Slumber, ſteal,
And to Lucinda all I beg reveal:
Breathe gentleſt words into her ears,
Words full of love, but full of fears;
Such words as may prevail, like prayers
From a poor dying martyr's tongue,
By the ſweet voice of Pity ſung;
Touch, with the voice, the more inchanting lute,
To make the charms ſtrike all repulſes mute:
Theſe may inſenſibly impart
My tender wiſhes to her heart,
And by a ſympathetic force
So tune its ſtrings to Love's diſcourſe,
That, when my griefs compel a groan,
Her ſighs may echo to my moan.

SONG.

[194]

BY THE SAME.

YE happy ſwains, whoſe hearts are free
From Love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me,
T' avoid th' inchanting pain.
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to bloſſoms prove,
To careleſs ſeamen hidden rocks,
To human quiet Love.

Fly the fair ſex, if bliſs you prize,
The ſnake's beneath the flower;
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes,
That taſted quiet more?
How faithleſs is the lover's joy!
How conſtant is their care!
The kind with falſehood do deſtroy,
The cruel with deſpair.

SONG.BY THE SAME.
TELL me no more you love in vain;
Fair Celia, you this paſſion feign.
Can they pretend to love, who do
Refuſe what love perſuades them to?
Who once has felt his active flame,
Dull laws of honour will diſdain.
You will be thought his ſlave, and yet
You will not to his power ſubmit.
More cruel than thoſe beauties are,
Whoſe coyneſs wounds us to deſpair;
[195]For all the kindneſs which you ſhew,
Each ſmile and kiſs which you beſtow,
Are like thoſe cordials which we give
To dying men, to make them live,
And languiſh out an hour in pain:
Be kinder, Celia, or diſdain.

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE^*, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS.

BY THE SAME.

MADAM, with ſo much wonder we are ſtruck,
When we begin to read your matchleſs book;
A while your own exceſs of merit ſtays
Our forward pens, and does ſuſpend your praiſe,
Till time our minds does gently recompoſe,
Allays this wonder, and our duty ſhows;
[196]Inſtructs us how your virtues to proclaim,
And what we ought to pay to your great fame;
Your fame, which in your country has no bounds,
But whereſoever Learning's known reſounds.

Thoſe graces Nature did till now divide,
Your ſex's glory, and our ſex's pride,
Are join'd in you, and all to you ſubmit,
The brighteſt beauty, and the ſharpeſt wit:
No faction here, or fiery envy ſways;
They give you myrtle, while we offer bays.
What mortal dares diſpute thoſe wreaths with you,
Arm'd thus with lightning, and with thunder too?

This made the great Newcaſtle's heart your prize;
Your charming ſoul, and your victorious eyes,
Had only power his martial mind to tame,
And raiſe in his heroic breaſt a flame,
A flame, which with his courage ſtill aſpires,
As if immortal fuel fed thoſe fires.
This mighty chief, and your great ſelf, made one,
Together the ſame race of glory run;
Together in the wings of fame you move,
Like yours his virtue, and like yours his love.

While we, your praiſe endeavouring to rehearſe,
Pay that great duty in our humble verſe;
Such as may juſtly move your anger; you,
Like heaven, forgive them, and accept them too.
But what we cannot, your brave hero pays,
He builds thoſe monuments we ſtrive to raiſe;
Such as to after-ages ſhall make known,
While he records your deathleſs fame, his own.
[197]So when an artiſt ſome rare beauty draws,
Both in our wonder ſhare and our applauſe:
His ſkill from time ſecures the glorious dame,
And makes himſelf immortal in her fame.

THE FORSAKEN MISTRESS.

BY THE SAME.

PHYLLIS.

TELL me, gentle Strephon, why
You from my embraces fly:
Does my love thy love deſtroy?
Tell me, I will yet be coy.

Stay, O ſtay, and I will feign
(Though I break my heart) diſdain;
But leſt I too unkind appear,
For every frown I'll ſhed a tear.
And if in vain I court thy love,
Let mine, at leaſt, thy pity move:
Ah, while I ſcorn, vouchſafe to woo;
Methinks, you may diſſemble too.

STREPHON.

Ah, Phyllis, that you would contrive
A way to keep my love alive!
But all your other charms muſt fail,
When kindneſs ceaſes to prevail.
Alas! no leſs than you I grieve:
My dying flame has no reprieve;
For I can never hope to find,
Should all the nymphs I court be kind,
[198]One beauty able to renew
Thoſe pleaſures I enjoy in you,
When love and youth did both conſpire
To fill our breaſts and veins with fire.

'Tis true, ſome other nymph may gain
That heart which merits your diſdain;
But ſecond love has ſtill allay,
The joys grow aged, and decay:
Then blame me not for loſing more
Than love and beauty can reſtore;
And let this truth thy comfort prove,
I would, but can no longer, love.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.BY THE SAME.
SWEETEST bud of beauty, may
No untimely froſt decay
The early glories which we trace,
Blooming in thy matchleſs face;
But, kindly opening, like the roſe,
Freſh beauties every day diſcloſe,
Such as by nature are not ſhown
In all the bloſſoms ſhe has blown!
And then what conqueſt ſhall you make,
Who hearts already daily take!
Scorch'd in the morning with thy beams,
How ſhall we bear thoſe ſad extremes,
Which muſt attend thy threatening eyes,
When thou ſhalt to thy noon ariſe?

THE DIVIDED HEART.

[199]

BY THE SAME.

AH! Celia, that I were but ſure
Thy love, like mine, could ſtill endure;
That time and abſence, which deſtroy
The cares of lovers, and their joy,
Could never rob me of that part
Which you have given me of your heart;
Others unenvy'd might poſſeſs
Whole hearts, and boaſt that happineſs.

'Twas nobler fortune to divide
The Roman empire in her pride,
Than, on ſome low and barbarous throne,
Obſcurely plac'd, to rule alone.

Love only from thy heart exacts
The ſeveral debts thy face contracts,
And, by that new and juſter way,
Secures thy empire and his ſway:
Favouring but one, he might compel
The hopeleſs lover to rebel.

But ſhould he other hearts thus ſhare,
That in the whole ſo worthleſs are;
Should into ſeveral ſquadrons draw
That ſtrength, which kept intire could awe;
Men would his ſcatter'd powers deride,
And, conquering him, thoſe ſpoils divide.

ON THE TRANSLATIONS OF MR. J. N.* OUT OF THE FRENCH AND ITALIAN.[200]BY THE SAME.
WHILE others toil, our country to ſupply
With what we need only for luxury;
Spices and ſilk, in the rich Eaſt, provide,
To glut our avarice, and feed our pride:
You foreign learning proſperouſly tranſmit,
To raiſe our virtue, and provoke our wit.
Such brave deſigns your generous foul inflame
To be a bold adventurer for fame:
How much oblig'd are Italy and France,
While with your voice their muſick you advance!
Your growing fame with envy can oppoſe,
Who ſing with no leſs art than they compoſe.
In theſe attempts ſo few have had ſucceſs,
Their beauties ſuffer in our Engliſh dreſs;
By artleſs hands ſpoil'd of their native air,
They ſeldom paſs from moderately fair:
As if you meant theſe injuries to atone,
You give them charms more conquering than their own.
Not like the dull laborious flatterer,
With ſecret art thoſe graces you confer:
The ſkilful painters with ſlight ſtrokes impart
That ſubtle beauty which affects the heart.
There are, who publicly profeſs they hate
Tranſlations, and yet all they write tranſlate;
So proud, they ſcorn to drive a lawful trade,
Yet by their wants are ſhameleſs pirates made:
Theſe you incenſe, while you their thefts reveal,
Or elſe prevent in what they meant to ſteal
[201]From all beſides: you are ſecure of praiſe,
But you ſo high our expectation raiſe,
A general diſcontent we ſhall declare,
If ſuch a workman only ſhould repair.
You to the dead your piety have ſhewn,
Adorn'd their monuments, now build your own.
Drawn in the Eaſt, we in your lines may trace
That genius which of old inſpir'd the place:
The baniſh'd Muſes back to Greece you bring,
Where their beſt airs you ſo divinely ſing;
The world muſt own they are by you reſtor'd
To ſacred ſhades, where they were firſt ador'd.

VOITURE'S^* URANIA.

BY THE SAME.

HOPELESS I languiſh out my days,
Struck with Urania's conquering eyes:
The wretch at whom ſhe darts theſe rays,
Muſt feel the wound until he dies.

[202]

Though endleſs be her cruelty,

Calling her beauties to my mind;

I bow beneath her tyranny,

And dare not murmur ſhe's unkind.

Reaſon this tameneſs does upbraid,
Proffering to arm in my defence;
But, when I call her to my aid,
She's more a traitor than my ſenſe.

No ſooner I the war declare,
But ſtrait her ſuccour ſhe denies;
And, joining forces with the fair,
Confirms the conqueſt of her eyes.

TO SYLVIA.

BY THE SAME.

THE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind,
No leſs than a wonder by nature deſign'd;
She 's the grief of my heart, the joy of my eye,
And the cauſe of a flame that never can die.

Her mouth, from whence wit ſtill obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful bluſh and the ſmell of the roſe:
Love and deſtiny both attend on her will;
She wounds with a look, with a frown ſhe can kill.

The deſperate lover can hope no redreſs,
Where beauty and rigour are both in exceſs;
In Sylvia they meet: ſo unhappy am I,
Who ſees her muſt love, and who loves her muſt die.

TO A LADY, WHO FLED THE SIGHT OF HIM.

[203]

BY THE SAME.

IF I my Celia could perſuade
To ſee thoſe wounds her eyes have made,
And hear, whilſt I that paſſion tell,
Which, like herſelf, does ſo excel;
How ſoon we might be freed from care,
She need not fear, nor I deſpair.

Such beauty does the nymph protect,
That all approach her with reſpect:
And can I offer violence,
Where love does join in her defence?
This guard might all her fears diſperſe,
Did ſhe with ſavages converſe.
Then my Celia would ſurprize
With what's produc'd by her own eyes;
Thoſe matchleſs flames which they inſpir [...]
In her own breaſt ſhould raiſe a fire;
For love, but with more ſubtle art,
As well as beauty, charms the heart.

TO A LADY, ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER.

BY THE SAME.

IT is not, Celia, in our power
To ſay how long our love will laſt;
It may be we within this hour
May loſe thoſe joys we now do taſte,
[204]The bleſſed, that immortal be,
From change in love are only free.

Then, ſince we mortal lovers are,
Aſk not how long our love will laſt;
But, while it does, let us take care
Each minute be with pleaſure paſt:
Were it not madneſs to deny
To live, becauſe we are ſure to die?

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. DRYDEN.^*

IF generous gratitude could e'er excuſe
The ſallies of a long-neglected Muſe,
Mine pleads that cauſe alone, and ſo ſhould be
From cenſure, or malicious pity free:
For all the pleaſures ſhe from Dryden knew,
She pays this tribute, and ſhe thinks it due.

Still had ſhe ſlept, unmov'd by all beſide,
No rhymes attempted, and no numbers try'd,
If to another man he could impart
His real nature, and his wondrous art:
Both did he temper right, and raiſe from thence
Unrival'd numbers and unequal ſenſe.

Moſt that remain (for ſo to me they ſeem)
Are but the ſhadows and the ghoſts of him:
Some few, it is confeſs'd, have gain'd their cauſe,
And juſtify'd their merit by applauſe.
'Tis true, their diction 's good, their ſtyle is clear,
And art and labour through the whole appear;
[205]But let us ſearch them well, where ſhall we find
His force of thought, his energy of mind?
The words that move us with myſterious charms?
The ſoul that actuates, and the fire that warms?
A ghoſt ſometimes appears to mortal view,
And bears the ſhape of human-kind, but not the ſubſtance too.

Words are like colours in two artiſts' hands,

Of different ſkill, where each the beſt commands.

One paints and pleaſes, but the pleaſure lies
Not in the mind, but only in the eyes;
The colours, juſtly mix'd, delude the ſight,
And, gaily ſhining, give a falſe delight:
For far from thence is honeſt Nature chac'd,
Aſham'd to ſee herſelf ſo much diſgrac'd.

Not ſo the other, whoſe ſuperior art
To lifeleſs colours can a living ſoul impart:
Bold are his ſtrokes, but manag'd ſtill with care,
For Nature always claims the better ſhare;
Colours, proportion, diſtance, are combin'd
To pleaſe the ſight, and ſtrength to charm the mind.

Yet not the beſt a full perfection gain'd,
But in one province ſtill the painter reign'd:
Water and land a different maſter own,
And hiſtory is always found alone:
Peculiar hands give trees and flowers the beſt,
The mimic drolls below, diſtinguiſh'd from the reſt.

Our wondrous bard, whoſe comprehending ſoul
Could reach all Nature, and deſcribe her whole;
To ſingle beauties ſcorn'd to be confin'd,
But ſhew'd the vigour of extenſive mind;
[206]In all the nice proportions we behold,
Like Angelo correct, like Titian bold.

If homely cots, or humble ſhepherds ways,
Employ'd his Muſe, how calmly did they pleaſe,
And ſink our paſſions to a rural eaſe!
Or, when he ſung th' exceſſes of the great,
High palaces, the trifling pomp of ſtate,
Th' ungovern'd ſoul her reaſon laid aſide,
Took the fond hint, and was debas'd to pride.
Landſkip in all its various face he ſhew'd,
Here winding rivers through the meadows flow'd,
And there the fruitful trees complain'd th' unequal load;
Here mountains riſe aloft, and dare the ſky,
There dreary caves the face of Nature fly;
Here night a pleaſing horror does diſplay,
And with its gloomy charms excels the day;
There the bright morn expands its radiant wings,
And gives new vigour with the light it brings:
His univerſal Muſe with equal eaſe
Could paint or diſmal ſtorms or calmeſt ſeas,
The miſeries of war, and joys of peace.

But what nor paint can tell, nor pencil reach,
His larger genius could divinely teach;
Deſcribe the inner paſſions of the man,
And ſhow the ſteps from whence they firſt began.

Love he deſcrib'd, though different are its ways,
How the firſt fluttering pain diſturbs our days,
And gives our nights but half their uſual eaſe.
[207]Then our kind thoughts improve the paſſion higher,
'Tis reſtleſs rage, 'tis covetous deſire,
And love unbounded, and impetuous fire:
Till at the laſt with extaſy we find
Extremeſt pleaſures in one moment join'd,
And joys immenſe, which leave all other joys behind.

O Anthony! how nobly doſt thou charm!
O Cleopatra! how doſt thou diſarm
The rougheſt ſpirits, and the coldeſt warm!*
Nor ſhall † ſhe paſs unmention'd, who maintain'd
The cauſe of love, and ſhew'd her love unfeign'd;
Who ſcorn'd t'excuſe what ſhe with reaſon ſought,
A certain pleaſure, and imagin'd fault;
But boldly urg'd the argument ſhe ſhould,
Th' impulſe of nature, and the force of blood.
So did he move the ſoul, ſo touch the heart
With virgin paſſions, not debauch'd by art.

Thus could he talk of love, and lovers' deeds,

Yet give a looſe to rage, and manly rage ſucceeds.

His ſatire, free, impartial, and ſevere,
At once gave pleaſure, and created fear:
Who would not read what he ſo juſtly writ?
But who would be the ſubject of his wit?

Could but our modern ſatiriſts have known
His way of ſatire, they 'd deſpiſe their own;
[208]Soon would they ſee the ſharpeſt Muſe diſclaims
Ill-manner'd language, and opprobrious names;
That ſordid railing is the poor retreat
Of angry malice, or unmanly wit.
He ſhews, what we from him alone can feel,
Satire may bite, and yet may be genteel.

Audacious fancy fain would hurry on,
And tread thoſe paths which reaſon ought to ſhun;
For Homer and the Mantuan are in view,
A dangerous chace, nor muſt my Muſe purſue:
O'er ſteepy hills, tremendous to the ſight,
Their fiery courſers kept an equal flight,
His cloſe purſued, nor fear'd the diſmal height.
My humble Muſe looks upward with deſpair,
Admires their ſtrength, but wonders how they dare
Attempt the regions of the upper air.
Suffice it her to ſay, he never fail'd
Wherever his adventurous Muſe aſſail'd,
And, all attempting, he in all prevail'd.

What more had he to do? his conquering lays
Were above cenſure, and commanded praiſe:
Secure of fame, he laid the laurel down,
Enough diſtinguiſh'd by his ſenſe alone;
And ſmil'd to ſee, with a diſdainful air,
Contending rhymers uſe their utmoſt care
To reach that bays they want the head to bear.

Fatigu'd with life, with pleaſure he retir'd

From the vain world, both envy'd and admir'd.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XI. IMITATED.[209]BY JOHN HOWE*, ESQ.
WHAT is 't to us who guides the ſtate,
Who 's out of favour, or who great;
Who are the miniſters and ſpies,
Who votes for places, or who buys?
The world will ſtill be rul'd by knaves,
And fools contending to be ſlaves.
Small things, my friend, ſerve to ſupport
Life, troubleſome at beſt, and ſhort:
[210]Our youth runs back, occaſion flies,
Grey hairs come on, and pleaſure dies.
Who would the preſent bleſſings loſe
For empires which he cannot uſe?
Kind Providence has us ſupply'd
With what to others is deny'd,
Virtue, which teaches to condemn,
And ſcorn ill actions and ill men.
Beneath this  [...]ime-tree's fragrant ſhade,
On beds of flowers ſupinely laid,
Let's then all other cares remove,
And drink and ſing to thoſe we love.
[211]Here 's to Neaera, heaven deſign'd
Perfection of the charming kind,
Whoſe beauty, voice, and wondrous wit,
Lays all adoring at her feet;
Makes angels envy, nature vain,
And me delight in hopeleſs pain.
May ſhe be bleſs'd, as ſhe is fair,
And pity me as I love her!
The reſt let 's leave to th' unſeen powers;
This moment and this glaſs is ours.

SONG,

BY THE SAME.

I.HOW can they taſte of joys or grief,
Who beauty's power did never prove?
Love 's all our torment, our relief;
Our fate depends alone on Love.

II.Were I in heavy chains confin'd,
Neaera's ſmiles would eaſe that ſtate;
Nor wealth, nor power, could bleſs my mind,
Curs'd by her abſence, or her hate.

III.Of all the plants which ſhade the field,
The fragrant myrtle does ſurpaſs;
No flower ſo gay, that does not yield
To blooming roſes gaudy dreſs.

IV.No ſtar ſo bright that can be ſeen,
When Phoebus' glories gild the ſkies;
No nymph ſo proud adorns the green,
But yields to fair Neaera's eyes.

[212]V.

The amorous ſwains no offerings bring

To Cupid's altar as before;

To her they play, to her they ſing,

And own in love no other power.

VI.If thou thy empire wilt regain,
On thy conqueror try thy dart;
Touch with pity for my pain
Neaera's cold diſdainful heart.

SONG,

BY THE SAME.

IN Chloris all ſoft charms agree,
Inchanting humour, powerful wit,
Beauty from affectation free,
And for eternal empire fit.
Where'er ſhe goes, Love waits her eyes,
The women envy, men adore;
But did ſhe leſs the triumph prize,
She would deſerve the conqueſt more.

The pomp of Love ſo much prevails,
She begs what none elſe would deny her,
Makes ſuch advances with her eyes,
The hope ſhe gives prevents deſire;
Catches at every trifling heart,
Seems warm with every glimmering flame,
The common prey ſo deads the dart,
It ſcarce can pierce a noble game.

[213]I could lie ages at her feet,
Adore her, careleſs of my pain,
With tender vows her rigours meet,
Deſpair, love on, and not complain.
My paſſion, from all change ſecure,
No favours raiſe, no frown controls,
I any torment can endure,
But hoping with a croud of fools.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XIV.

AH! friend, the poſting years how faſt they fly?
Nor can the ſtricteſt piety.
Defer incroaching age,
Or Death's reſiſtleſs rage:
If you each day
A hecatomb of bulls ſhould ſlay,
The ſmoaking hoſt could not ſubdue
The tyrant to be kind to you.
From Geryon's head he ſnatch'd the triple crown,
Into th' infernal lake the monarch tumbled down.
The prince and peaſant of this world muſt be
Thus waſted to eternity.

In vain from bloody wars are mortals free,
Or the rough ſtorms of the tempeſtuous ſea;
In vain they take ſuch care
To ſhield their bodies from autumnal air.
Diſmal Cocytus they muſt ferry o'er,
Whoſe languid ſtream moves dully by the ſhore.
And in their paſſage we ſhall ſee
Of tortur'd ghoſts the various miſery.
[214]Thy ſtately houſe, thy pleaſing wife
And children (bleſſings dear as life),
Muſt all be left, nor ſhalt thou have,
Of all thy grateful plants, one tree;
Unleſs the diſmal cypreſs follow thee,
The ſhort-liv'd lord of all, to thy cold grave.
But the impriſon'd Burgundy
Thy jolly heir ſhall ſtraight ſet free.
Releas'd from lock and key, the ſparkling wine
Shall flow, and make the drunken pavement ſhine.

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE XIII.

I.LYCE, the Gods have heard my prayer,
Lyce the proud, the charming, and the fair,
Lyce is old! though, wanton ſtill and gay,
You laugh, and ſing, and play.
Now beauty fails, with wine you'd raiſe deſire,
And with your trembling voice would fan our dying fire.

II.In vain! for Love long ſince forſook
Thy ſnowy hair, thy falling teeth, and withering look;
He Chia's blooming face
Adorns with every grace,
Her wit, her eyes, her every glance, are darts,
That with reſiſtleſs force invade our hearts.

III.Not all your art nor all your dreſs
(Though grown to a ridiculous exceſs,
[215]Though you, by lovers' ſpoils made fine,
In richeſt ſilks and jewels ſhine,
And with their borrow'd light
Surprize the dazzled ſight)
Can your fled youth recal, recal one day
Which flying Time on his ſwift wings has borne away.

IV.Ah! where are all thy beauties fled!
Where all the charms that ſo adorn'd the tender maid!
Ah! where the nameleſs graces that were ſeen
In all thy motions and thy mien;
What now, oh! what is of that Lyce left,
By which I once was of my ſenſe and of my ſoul bereft!

V.Of her, who with my Cynara ſtrove,
And ſhar'd my doubtful love!
Yet fate, and the laſt unrelenting hour,
Seiz'd her gay youth, and pluck'd the ſpringing flower.
But angry heaven has reſerv'd thee,
That you with rage might ſee,
With rage might ſee your beauties fading glory fly,
And your ſhort youth and tyrannous power before you die.

VI.That your inſulting lovers might return
Pride for your pride, and with retorted ſcorn
Glut their revenge, and ſatiate all their pain;
With cruel pleaſure, and with ſharp diſdain,
Might laugh, to ſee that fire, which once ſo burn'd,
Shot ſuch reſiſtleſs flames, to aſhes turn'd.

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE VII.[216]WINTER'S diſſolv'd, behold a world's new face!
How graſs the ground, how leaves their branches grace.
That earth, which would not to the plough-ſhare yield,
Is ſofter now and eaſy to be till'd.
And frozen ſtreams, thaw'd by th' approaching ſun,
With whiſpering murmurs in their channels run:
The naked nymphs and graces dance around,
And o'er the flowery meadows nimbly bound.
The months that run on Time's immortal wheels,
The ſeaſons treading on each other's heels,
The winged hours that ſwiftly paſs away,
And ſpightfully conſume the ſmiling day,
Tell us, that all things muſt with them decay.
The year rolls round us in a conſtant ring,
And ſultry ſummer waſtes the milder ſpring:
Whoſe hot meridian, quickly overpaſt,
Declines to autumn, which with bounteous haſte
Comes crown'd with grapes, but ſuddenly is croſt,
Cold winter nips his vintage with a froſt.
The moon renews its orb to ſhine more bright;
But when death's hand puts out our mortal light,
With us, alas, 'tis ever, ever night!
With Tullus and with Ancus we ſhall be,
And the brave ſouls of vaniſh'd heroes ſee.
Who knows if Gods above, who all things ſway,
Will ſuffer thee to live another day?
[217]Then pleaſe thy genius, and betimes take care
To leave but little to thy greedy heir.
When among crouds of ghoſts thou ſhalt appear,
And from the judge thy fatal ſentence hear,
Not birth, nor eloquence, nor wealth, nor all
That thou canſt plead, can the paſs'd doom recal.
Diana, though a Goddeſs, cannot take
Her chaſte Hippolytus from Lethe's lake.
Perithous bound in fetters muſt remain;
Theſeus no more can break his adamantine chain.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.WE muſt all live, and we would all live well,
But how to do it very few can tell;
He ſure does beſt, who a true mean can keep,
Nor boldly ſails too far into the deep,
Nor yet too fearfully creeps near the land,
And runs the danger of the rocks and ſand,
Who to that happy medium can attain,
" Who neither ſeeks for nor deſpiſes gain,
" Who neither ſinks too low, nor aims too high,"
He ſhuns th' unwholſome ills of poverty;
And is ſecure from envy, which attends
A ſumptuous table and a croud of friends.
Their treacherous height doth the tall pines expoſe
To the rude blaſt of every wind that blows:
And lofty towers, unfortunately high,
Are near their ruin as they 're near the ſky;
[218]And when they fall, what was their pride before
Serves only then t' increaſe their fall the more.
Who wiſely governs and directs his mind
Never deſpairs, though Fortune be unkind;
He hopes, and though he finds he hop'd in vain,
He bears it patiently, and hopes again.
And if at laſt a kinder fate conſpires,
To heap upon him more than he deſires;
He then ſuſpects the kindneſs he enjoys,
Takes it with thanks, but with ſuch care employs,
As if that Fate, weary of giving more,
Would once reſume what it beſtow'd before.
He finds man's life, by an eternal ſkill,
Is temper'd equally with good and ill.
Fate ſhapes our lives, as it divides the years,
Hopes are our ſummer, and our winter's fears;
And 'tis by an unerring rule decreed,
That this ſhall that alternately ſucceed.
Therefore, when Fate's unkind, dear friend, be wiſe,
And bear its ills without the leaſt ſurprize.
The more you are oppreſs'd, bear up the more,
Weather the tempeſt till its rage be o'er.
But, if too proſperous and too ſtrong a gale
Should rather ruffle than juſt fill your ſail,
Leſſen it; and let it take but ſo much wind,
As is proportion'd to the courſe deſign'd;
" For 'tis the greateſt part of human ſkill,
" To uſe good fortune, and to bear our ill."

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. XVIII.

[219]

DEAR friend, for ſurely I may call him ſo,
Who doth ſo well the laws of friendſhip know,
I'm ſure you mean the kindneſs you profeſs,
And to be lov'd by you 's a happineſs;
Not like him who with eloquence and pains
The ſpecious title of a friend obtains,
And the next day, to pleaſe ſome man of ſenſe,
Breaks jeſts at his deluded friend's expence;
As jilts, who, by a quick compendious way,
To gain new lovers, do the old betray.
There is another failing of the mind,
Equal to this, of a quite different kind;
I mean that rude uncultivated ſkill,
Which ſome have got, of uſing all men ill;
Out of a zealous and unhewn pretence
Of freedom, and a virtuous innocence;
Who, 'cauſe they cannot fawn, betray, nor cheat,
Think they may puſh and juſtle all they meet,
And blame whate'er they ſee, complain, and brawl,
And think their virtues make amends for all;
They neither comb their head, nor waſh their face,
But think their virtuous naſtineſs a grace:
Whenas true virtue in a medium lies,
And that to turn to either hand 's a vice.
Others there are, who, too obſequious grown,
Live more for others pleaſure than their own;
[220]Applauding whatſoe'er they hear or ſee,
By a too nauſeous civility:
And if a man of title or eſtate
Doth ſome ſtrange ſtory, true or falſe, relate;
Obſequiouſly they cringe, and vouch it all,
Repeat his words, and catch them as they fall:
As ſchool-boys follow what the maſters ſay,
Or like an actor prompted in a play.
Some men there are ſo full of their own ſenſe,
They take the leaſt diſpute for an offence;
And if ſome wiſer friend their heat reſtrains,
And ſays the ſubject is not worth their pains;
Straight they reply, What I have ſaid is true,
And I'll defend it againſt him and you;
And if he ſtill dares ſay 'tis not, I'll die,
Rather than not maintain he ſays a lye.
Now, would you ſee from whence theſe heats ariſe,
And where th' important contradiction lies;
'Tis but to know, if, when a client 's preſt,
Sawyer* or Williams† pleads his cauſe the beſt:
[221]Or if to Windſor he moſt minutes gains,
Who goes by Colebrook, or who goes by Staines;
Who ſpends his wealth in pleaſure, and at play,
And yet affects to be well-cloath'd and gay,
And comes to want; and yet dreads nothing more,
Than to be thought neceſſitous and poor:
Him his rich kinſman is afraid to ſee,
Shuns like a burthen to the family;
And rails at vices, which have made him poor,
Though he himſelf perhaps hath many more:
Or tells him wiſely, Couſin, have a care,
And your expences with your rents compare;
Since you inherit but a ſmall eſtate,
Your pleaſures, couſin, muſt be moderate.
I know, you think to huff, and live like me,
Couſin, my wealth ſupports my vanity:
But they, who 've wit, and not eſtate enough,
Muſt cut their coat according to their ſtuff;
Therefore forbear t' affect equality,
Forget you 've ſuch a fooliſh friend as me.

There was a courtier, who, to puniſh thoſe
Whom, though below him, he believ'd his foes,
[222]And, more effectually to vent his rage,
Sent them fine cloaths and a new equipage;
For then the fooliſh ſparks, courageous grown,
Set up for roaring bullies of the town;
Muſt go to plays, and in the boxes ſit,
Then to a whore, and live like men of wit;
Till at the laſt, their coach and horſes ſpent,
Their cloaths grown dirty, and their ribbons rent;
Their fortune chang'd, their appetite the ſame,
And 'tis too late their follies to reclaim;
They muſt turn porters, or in taverns wait,
And buy their pleaſures at a cheaper rate;
And 'midſt their dirty miſtreſſes and wives
Lead out the reſt of their miſtaken lives.

Never be too inquiſitive to find
The hidden ſecrets of another's mind,
For when you 've torn one ſecret from his breaſt,
You run great riſque of loſing all the reſt;
And if he ſhould unimportun'd impart
His ſecret thoughts, and truſt you with his heart,
Let not your drinking, anger, pride, or luſt,
Ever invite you to betray the truſt.
Firſt never praiſe your own deſigns, and then
Ne'er leſſen the deſigns of other men;
Nor when a friend invites you any where,
To ſet a partridge, or to chace a hare,
Beg he'd excuſe you for this once, and ſay,
You muſt go home, and ſtudy all the day.
So 'twas that once Amphion, jealous grown
That Zethus lov'd no pleaſures but his own,
[223]Was forc'd to give his brother's friendſhip o'er,
Or to reſolve to touch his lyre no more;
He choſe the ſafeſt and the wiſeſt way,
And, to oblige his brother, left his play.
Do you the ſame, and for the ſelf-ſame end,
Obey your civil importuning friend;
And, when he leads his dogs into the plain,
Quit your untimely labours of the brain,
And leave your ſerious ſtudies, that you may
Sup with an equal pleaſure on the prey.
Hunting 's an old and honourable ſport,
Lov'd in the country, and eſteem'd at court;
Healthful to th' body, pleaſing to the eye,
And practis'd by our old nobility:
Who ſee you love the pleaſures they admire,
Will equally approve what you deſire;
Such condeſcenſion will more friendſhip gain,
Than the beſt rules which your wiſe books contain.
Talk not of others lives, or have a care
Of whom you talk, to whom, and what, and where;
For you don't only wound the man you blame,
But all mankind; who will expect the ſame.
Shun all inquiſitive and curious men,
For what they hear they will relate again;
And he who hath impatient craving ears,
Hath a looſe tongue to utter all he hears;
And words, like th' moving air of which they 're fram'd,
When once let looſe, can never be reclaim'd.
Where you 've acceſs to a rich powerful man,
Govern your mind with all the care you can;
[224]And be not by your fooliſh luſt betray'd,
To court his couſin, or debauch his maid;
Leſt with a little portion, and the pride
Of being to the family ally'd,
He gives you either; with which bounty bleſt,
You muſt quit all pretenſions to the reſt;
Or leſt, incens'd at your attempt, and griev'd
You ſhould abuſe the kindneſs you receiv'd,
He coldly thwarts your impotent deſire,
Till you at laſt chuſe rather to retire,
Than tempt his anger any more; and ſo
Loſe a great patron and a miſtreſs too.
Next have a care, what men you recommend
To th' ſervice or eſteem of your rich friend;
Leſt, for his ſervice or eſteem unfit,
They load you with the faults which they commit.
But as the wiſeſt men with all their ſkill
May be deceiv'd, and place their friendſhip ill;
So when you ſee you 've err'd, you muſt refuſe
To defend thoſe whom their own crimes accuſe.
But if through envy of malicious men
They be accus'd, you muſt protect them then,
And plead their cauſe yourſelf; for when you ſee
Him you commend attack'd with infamy,
Know that 'tis you they hate, when him they blame;
Him they have wounded, but at you they aim;
And when your neighbour's houſe is ſet on fire,
You muſt his ſafety as your own conſpire.
Such hidden fires, though in the ſuburbs caſt,
Neglected may conſume the town at laſt.
[225]They who don't know the dangers, which attend
The glittering court of a rich powerful friend,
Love no eſtate ſo much, and think they 're bleſt
When they make but a leg amongſt the reſt;
But they who 've try'd it, and with prudent care
Do all its honours and its ills compare,
 [...]ear to engage, leſt with their time and pain
They loſe more pleaſure than they hop'd to gain.
See you, that while your veſſel 's under ſail,
You make your beſt advantage of the gale;
Leſt the wind changes, and ſome ſtormy rain
Should throw you back to your firſt port again.
You muſt endeavour to diſpoſe your mind
To pleaſe all humours of a different kind:
Whoſe temper 's ſerious, and their humour ſad,
They think all blithe and merry men are mad;
They who are merry, and whoſe humour 's free,
Abhor a ſad and ſerious gravity;
They who are ſlow and heavy can't admit
The friendſhip of a quick and ready wit;
The ſlothful hate the buſy active men,
And are deteſted by the ſame again.
They whoſe free humour prompts them to be gay,
To drink all night, and revel all the day,
Abhor the man that can his cups refuſe;
Though, his untimely virtue to excuſe,
He ſwears that one ſuch merry drinking feaſt
Would make him ſick for a whole week at leaſt.
Suffer no cloud to dwell upon your brow;
The modeſt men are thought obſcure and low;
[226]And they, who an affected ſilence keep,
Are thought to be too rigid, ſour, and deep.
Amongſt all other things, do not omit
To ſearch the writings of great men of wit,
And in the converſation of the wiſe
In what true happineſs and pleaſure lies;
Which are the ſafeſt rules to live at eaſe,
And the beſt way to make all fortunes pleaſe;
Leſt, through the craving hopes of gaining more,
And fear of loſing what you gain'd before,
Your poor unſatisfy'd miſguided mind,
To needy wiſhes and falſe joys confin'd,
Puts its free boundleſs ſearching thoughts in chains,
And where it ſought its pleaſure finds its pains.
If virtuous thoughts, and if a prudent heart,
Be given by nature, or obtain'd by art;
What leſſens care, the mind's uneaſy pain,
And reconciles us to ourſelves again;
Which doth the trueſt happineſs create,
Unblemiſh'd honour, or a great eſtate;
Or a ſafe private quiet, which betrays
Itſelf to eaſe, and cheats away the days.
When I 'm at —, where my kind fate
Hath plac'd my little moderate eſtate,
Where nature's care hath equally employ'd
Its inward treaſures and its outward pride;
What thoughts d' ye think thoſe eaſy joys inſpire?
What do you think I covet and deſire?
'Tis, that I may but undiſturb'd poſſeſs
The little I have, and, if heaven pleaſes, leſs;
[227]That I to nature and myſelf may give
The little time that I have left to live;
Some books, in which I ſome new thoughts may find,
To entertain and to refreſh my mind;
Some horſes, which may help me to partake
The lawful pleaſures which the ſeaſons make;
An eaſy plenty, which at leaſt may ſpare
The frugal pains of a domeſtic care;
A friend, if that a faithful friend there be,
Who can love ſuch an idle life and me;
Then, heaven, give me but life and health, I'll find
A grateful ſoul, and a contented mind.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE III.

I.BE calm, my Delius, and ſerene,
However Fortune change the ſcene!
In thy moſt dejected ſtate,
Sink not underneath the weight;
Nor yet, when happy days begin,
And the full tide comes rolling in,
Let a fierce unruly joy
The ſettled quiet of thy mind deſtroy:
However Fortune change the ſcene,
Be calm, my Delius, and ſerene!

II.Be thy lot good, or be it ill,
Life ebbs out at the ſame rate ſtill:
[228]Whether, with buſy cares oppreſt,
You wear the ſullen time away;
Or whether to ſweet eaſe or reſt
You ſometimes give a day;
Careleſsly laid,
Underneath a friendly ſhade,
By pines and poplars mixt embraces made;
Near a river's ſliding ſtream,
Fetter'd in ſleep, bleſs'd with a golden dream.

III.Here, here, in this much-envy'd ſtate,
Let every bleſſing on thee wait;
Bid the Syrian nard be brought,
Bid the hidden wine be ſought,
And let the roſe's ſhort-liv'd flower,
The ſmiling daughter of an hour,
Flouriſh on thy brow:
Enjoy the very, very now!
While the good hand of life is in,
While yet the fatal ſiſters ſpin.

IV.A little hence, my friend, and thou
Muſt into other hands reſign
Thy gardens and thy parks, and all that now
Bears the pleaſing name of thine!
Thy meadows, by whoſe planted tides,
Silver Tyber gently glides!
Thy pleaſant houſes; all muſt go;
The gold that 's hoarded in them too:
A jolly heir ſhall ſet it free,
And give th' impriſon'd monarchs liberty.

[229]V.Nor matters it, what figure here
Thou doſt among thy fellow-mortals bear;
How thou wert born, or how begot;
Impartial Death matters it not:
With what titles thou doſt ſhine,
Or who was firſt of all thy line:
Life's vain amuſements! amidſt which we dwell;
Nor weigh'd, nor underſtood, by the grim god of hell!

VI.In the ſame road, alas! all travel on!
By all alike the ſame ſad journey muſt be gone!
Our blended lots together lie,
Mingled in one common urn:
Sooner or later out they fly;
The fatal boat then wafts us to the ſhore,
Whence we never ſhall return,
Never!—never more!

THE GROVE.SEE how Damon's age appears,
This grove declares his fading years;
For this he planted once, and eat
The maiden fruits of what he ſet.
Young it was then, like him; but now,
Sapleſs and old is every bough.
Thus, my Leſbia, will it be,
In time to come, with thee, and me.
Come, then, in love and youthful play
Let 's paſs the ſmiling hours away,
[230]Before this tender amorous mark
Grow wide upon its fading bark;
And ſhew, like Damon's grove, that we
Are old and gray, as well as he.

PART OF VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGICK.

BY MR. CREECH^*.

Ariſtaeus, having loſt his bees, goes by his mother's di⯑rection to Proteus, to know why the Gods had ſent this plague. Proteus tells him they ſent it to revenge the injury he had done Orpheus, in being the cauſe of his bride's death, and ſo goes on with the ſtory of his paſſion.

NOW ſcorching Sirius burnt the thirſty moors,
And ſeas contracted left their naked ſhores;
The earth lay chopp'd, no ſpring ſupply'd his flood,
And mid-day rays boil'd-up the ſtreams to mud:
[231]When Proteus coming to his uſual cave,
The ſea-calf following ſpouts the brackiſh wave:
Spread o'er the ſand the ſcatter'd monſters lay,
He (like a ſhepherd at the cloſe of day,
When heifers ſeek their ſtalls, and round a rock
The bleating lambs the hungry wolves provoke)
Sits midſt the beach, and counts the ſcaly flock.
Scarce was he laid, ſcarce ſleep had ſeal'd his eyes,
When Ariſtaeus, eager to ſurprize,
Invades and binds him: ſtraight he ſtarts and roars,
And with ſhrill noiſes fills the echoing ſhores:
He flies to his old arts, and ſtrives to 'ſcape
By frequent change, and varying of his ſhape:
All monſtrous forms put on, he would appear
A flame, a flood, a lion, or a bear:
When nought avail'd, he turn'd himſelf again;
And thus ſpoke with the accent of a man:
[232]By whoſe advice haſt thou ſo raſhly preſt,
Bold youth, on me? And what do'ſt thou requeſt?

You know, great God, you know, the ſwain reply'd,
For who can cheat you? who his wants can hide?
But ſtrive to change no more: I humbly come,
And by the Gods commands, to know my doom:
For what I'm puniſh'd, whence theſe plagues aroſe,
And by what means I may retrieve my loſs.
This ſaid, the angry God with fury ſhook,
His eyes ſhot flame, and horror chang'd his look,
He gnaſh'd his teeth, and thus at laſt he ſpoke:

No common Gods, no common Gods purſue,
Thou ſuffer'ſt what to thy great crimes is due;
At wretched Orpheus' ſuit theſe plagues commence,
Though (fate being kind) too ſmall for thy offence.
To heaven's ſtrict juſtice he his wrongs apply'd,
And call'd down vengeance for his periſh'd bride:
She, while ſhe fled from thee, unhappy maid,
By heedleſs fear to treacherous banks betray'd,
Ne'er ſaw the ſnake glide o'er the graſſy ground,
But, ere ſhe knew the foe, ſhe felt the wound:
Her fellow Dr [...]ads fill'd the hills with cries,
In groans the ſoften'd Rhodope replies;
Rough Thrace, the Getes, and Hebrus' ſtreams lament,
Forget their fury, and in grief conſent:
While he to doleful tunes his ſtrings does move,
And ſtrove to ſolace his uneaſy love:
Thee, thee, dear bride, on deſart ſhores alone
He mourn'd at riſing and at ſetting ſun:
His reſtleſs love did natural fears expel,
He dar'd to enter the black jaws of hell,
[233]He ſaw the grove, where gloomy horrors ſpread,
The ghoſt and ghaſtly tyrant of the dead;
With thoſe rough powers, that there ſeverely reign,
Unus'd to pity, when poor men complain.

He ſtrook his harp, and ſtrait a numerous throng
Of airy people fled to hear the ſong,
Thither vaſt troops of wretched lovers came,
And ſhriek'd at the remembrance of their flame;
With heavy grief and gloomy thoughts oppreſt,
Meag [...]e each ſhape, and wounds in every breaſt;
(How deep, ah me! and wide muſt mine appear,
If ſo much beauty can be ſo ſevere!)
With theſe, mixt troops of fathers, huſbands, wives,
As thick as ſwarms of bees, fly round their hives
At evening cloſe, or when a tempeſt drives:
With ghoſts of heroes, and of babes expos'd,
And ſons whoſe dying eyes their mothers clos'd:
Which now the dull unnavigable flood,
With black Cocytus' horrid weeds and mud,
And Styx, in nine large channels ſpread, confine*.

The wondrous numbers ſoftened all beneath,
Hell, and the inmoſt flinty ſeats of death:
Snakes round the Furies heads did upward rear,
And ſeem'd to liſten to the pleaſing air;
While fiery Styx in milder ſtreams did roll,
And Cerberus gap'd, but yet forbore to howl;
Ixion's wheel ſtood ſtill, all tortures ceas'd,
And hell amaz'd knew an unuſual reſt.

[234]All dangers paſt, beyond the reach of fear,
Reſtor'd Eurydice breath'd the upper air,
Following behind (for, mov'd by his complaint,
Hell added this condition to the grant)
When Fury ſoon the heedleſs lover ſeiz'd,
(To be forgiven, if hell could be appeas'd)
For near the confines of aetherial air,
Unmindful, and unable to forbear,
He ſtopt, look'd back, (what cannot Love perſuade?)
To take one view of the unhappy maid:
Here all his pains were loſt, one greedy look
Defeats his hopes, and hell's conditions broke,
Thrice Styx reſounded, thrice Avernus ſhook:
A fatal meſſenger from Pluto flew,
And ſnatch'd the forfeit from a ſecond view.

Backward ſhe fell; ah me! too greedy youth,
(She cry'd) what Fury now hath ruin'd both!
Death ſummons me again, cold fates ſurprize,
And icy ſleep ſpreads o'er my nodding eyes:
Wrapt up in night I feel the Stygian ſhore,
And ſtretch my arms to thee in vain, ah thine no more!

This ſcarce pronounc'd, like ſmoke diſpers'd in air,
So vaniſh'd the twice-loſt unhappy fair;
And left him catching at the flying ſhade:
He ſtood diſtracted, much he would have ſaid,
In vain; for Charon would not waft him o'er,
Once he had paſs'd, and now muſt hope no more.
What ſhould he do? Where ſhould he ſeek repoſe?
Where fly the trouble of his ſecond loſs?
In what ſoft numbers ſhould the wretch complain,
And beg his dear Eurydice again!
[235]She now grew cold in Charon's boat beneath,
And ſadly ſail'd to the known ſeats of death:
But while nine circling months in order turn'd,
Beneath black rocks (thus fame reports) he mourn'd:
By freezing Strymon's unfrequented ſtream,
Eurydice, his loſt Eurydice, his theme;
And while he ſang this ſad event of love,
He tam'd fierce tigers, and made oaks to move:
With ſuch ſoft tunes, and ſuch a doleful ſong,
Sweet nightingales bewail their raviſh'd young,
Which ſome hard-hearted ſwain hath borne away
While ca [...]low birds, or kill'd the eaſy prey;
Reſtleſs they ſit, renew their mournful ſtrains,
And with ſad paſſion fill their neighbouring plains.

No face could win him, and no charms could move,
He fled the heinous thoughts of ſecond love;
In vain the Thracians woo'd; wit, wealth, eſteem,
Thoſe great enticers, loſt their force on him:
Alone he wander'd through the Scythian ſnows,
Where icy Tanaïs freezeth as it flows;
Through fields ſtill white with froſt, or beat with hail,
Conſtant to grief, and eager to bewail:
Eurydice, the Gods vain gift, employs
His thoughts, and makes him deaf to other joys.

The ſlighted Thracians heat this ſcorn encreas'd,
They breath'd revenge, and fir'd at Bacchus' feaſt,
(For what ſo ſoon as wine makes fury burn?
And what can wound a maid ſo deep as ſcorn?)
Full of their God, they wretched Orpheus tore,
Scatter'd his limbs, and drank his reeking gore:
[236]His head torn off, as Hebrus roll'd along,
Eurydice fell from his dying tongue.
His parting ſoul, when flying through the wound,
Cry'd, Ah, Eurydice! the floods around
Eurydice, Eurydice the banks reſound.

ECLOGUE,
ON THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON†.BY LORD FALKLAND*,
MELIBOEUS.
HYLAS, the clear day boaſts a glorious ſun,
Our troop is ready, and our time is come:
That fox, who hath ſo long our lambs deſtroy'd,
And daily in his proſperous rapine joy'd,
[237]Is earth'd not far from hence; old Aegon's ſon,
Rough Corilas, and luſty Corydon,
[238]In part the ſport, in part revenge deſire,
And both thy tarrier and thy aid require.
Haſte, for by this, but that for thee we ſtaid,
The prey-devourer had our prey been made.
HYLAS.
Oh! Meliboeus, now I liſt not hunt,
Nor have that vigour as before I wont;
[239]My preſence will afford them no relief,
That beaſt I ſtrive to chace is only grief.
MELIBOEUS.
What mean thy folded arms, thy down-caſt eyes,
Tears which ſo faſt deſcend, and ſighs which riſe?
What mean thy words, which ſo diſtracted fall,
As all thy joys had now one funeral?
Cauſe for ſuch grief can our retirements yield?
That follows courts, but ſtoops not to the field.
Hath thy ſtern ſtep-dame to thy ſire reveal'd
Some youthful act, which thou could'ſt wiſh conceal'd?
Part of thy herd hath ſome cloſe thief convey'd
From open paſtures to a darker ſhade?
Part of thy flock hath ſome fierce torrent drown'd?
Thy harveſt fail'd? or Amaryllis frown'd?
HYLAS.
Nor love nor anger, accident nor thief,
Hath rais'd the waves of my unbounded grief:
To cure this cauſe, I would provoke the ire
Of my fierce ſtep-dame, or ſeverer ſire,
Give all my herds, fields, flocks, and all the grace
That ever ſhone in Amaryllis' face.
Alas! that Bard, that glorious Bard is dead,
Who, when I whilom cities viſited,
Hath made them ſeem but hours which were full days,
Whilſt he vouchſaf'd me his harmonious lays:
And when he liv'd, I thought the country then
A torture, and no manſion but a den.
MELIBOEUS.
JONSON you mean, unleſs I much do err;
I know the perſon by the character.
HYLAS.
[240]You gueſs aright, it is too truly ſo;
From no leſs ſpring could all theſe rivers ſlow.
MELIBOEUS.
Ah, Hylas! then thy grief I cannot call
A paſſion, when the ground is rational.
I now excuſe thy tears and ſighs, though thoſe
To deluges, and theſe to tempeſts roſe:
Her great inſtructor gone, I know the age
No leſs laments than doth the widow'd ſtage:
And only vice and folly now are glad,
Our Gods are troubled, and our prince is ſad:
He* chiefly who beſtows light, health, and art,
Feels this ſharp grief pierce his immortal heart;
He his neglected lyre away hath thrown,
And wept a larger, nobler Helicon,
To find his herbs, which to his wiſh prevail
For the leſs lov'd, ſhould his own favourite fail:
So moan'd himſelf when Daphne he ador'd,
That arts, relieving all, ſhould ſail their lord.
HYLAS.
But ſay, from whence in thee this knowledge ſprings,
Of what his favour was with Gods and Kings.
MELIBOEUS.
Dorus, who long had known books, men, and towns,
At laſt the honour of our woods and downs,
Had often heard his ſongs, was often fir'd
With their inchanting power, ere he retir'd,
And ere himſelf to our ſtill groves he brought
To meditate on what his Muſe had taught:
[241]Here all his joy was to revolve alone
All that her muſic to his ſoul had ſhewn,
Or 'n all meetings to divert the ſtream
Of our diſcourſe, and make his friend his theme,
And, praiſing works which that rare loom hath weav'd,
Impart that pleaſure which he had receiv'd.
So in ſweet notes (which did all tunes excel
But what he prais'd) I oft have heard him  [...]ell
Of his  [...]are pen what was the uſe and price,
The bays of virtue and the ſcourge of vice:
How the rich ignorant he valued leaſt,
Nor for the trappings would eſteem the beaſt:
But did our youth to noble actions raiſe,
Hoping the meed of his immortal praiſe:
How bright and ſoon his Muſe's morning ſhone,
Her noon how laſting, and her evening none:
How ſpeech exceeds not dumbneſs, nor verſe proſe,
More than his verſe the low rough rhimes of thoſe,
(For ſuch, his ſeen, they ſeem'd,) who, higheſt rear'd,
Poſſeſt Parnaſſus ere his power appear'd:
Nor ſhall another pen his fame diſſolve,
Till we this doubtful problem can reſolve,
Which in his works we moſt tranſcendent ſee,
Wit, judgement, learning, art, or induſtry,
Which till is never, ſo all jointly flow,
And each doth to an equal torrent grow:
His learning ſuch, no author old or new
Eſcap'd his reading that deſerv'd his view;
And ſuch his judgement, ſo exact his taſte,
Of what was beſt in books, as what books beſt,
[242]That had he join'd thoſe notes his labours took,
From each moſt prais'd and praiſe-deſerving book,
And could the world of that choice treaſure boaſt,
It need not care though all the reſt were loſt;
And ſuch his wit, he writ paſt what he quotes,
And his productions far exceed his notes:
So in his works where aught inſerted grows,
The nobleſt of the plants ingrafted ſhows
That his adopted children equal not
The generous iſſue his own brain begot:
So great his art, that much which he did write
Gave the wiſe wonder, and the croud delight:
Each ſort, as well as ſex, admir'd his wit,
The hees and ſhees, the boxes and the pit;
And who leſs lik'd within, did rather chuſe
To tax their judgements than ſuſpect his Muſe:
How no ſpectato [...] his chaſte ſtage could call
The cauſe of any crime of his, but all
With thoughts and wills purg'd and amended riſe
From th' ethic lectures of his comedies;
Where the ſpectators act, and the ſham'd age
Bluſheth to meet her follies on the ſtage;
Where each man finds ſome light he never ſought,
And leaves behind ſome vanity he brought;
Whoſe politicks no leſs the minds direct
Than theſe the manners, nor with leſs effect:
When his majeſtic tragedies relate
All the diſorders of a tottering ſtate,
All the diſtempers which on kingdoms fall,
When eaſe, and wealth, and vice are general,
[243]And yet the minds againſt all fear aſſure,
And, telling the diſeaſe, preſcribe the cure:
Where, as he tells what ſubtle ways, what friends
(Seeking their wicked and their wiſh'd-for ends)
Ambitious and luxurious perſons prove,
Whom vaſt deſires or mighty wants do move.
The general frame to ſap and undermine,
In proud Sejanus, and bold Catiline;
So in his vigilant prince and conſuls parts,
He ſhews the wiſer and the nobler arts,
By which a ſtate may be unhurt, upheld,
And all thoſe works deſtroy'd, which hell would build.
Who (not like thoſe who with ſmall praiſe had writ,
Had they not call'd-in judgement to their wit)
Us'd not a tutoring hand his to direct,
But was ſole workman and ſole architect:
And ſure, by what my friend did daily tell,
If he but acted his own part as well
As he writ thoſe of others, he may boaſt,
The happy fields hold not a happier ghoſt.
HYLAS.
Strangers will think this ſtrange, yet he (dear youth)
Where moſt he paſt belief, fell ſhort of truth:
Say on, what more he ſaid; this gives relief,
And though it raiſe my cauſe, it 'bates my grief,
Since fates decreed him now no longer liv'd,
I joy to hear him by thy friend reviv'd.
MELIBOEUS.
More he would ſay, and better (but I ſpoil
His ſmoother words with my unpoliſh'd ſtyle).
[244]And having told what pitch his worth attain'd,
He then would tell us what reward it gain'd:
How in an ignorant, and learn'd age he ſway'd
(Of which the firſt he found, the ſecond made);
How he, when he could know it, reap'd his fame,
And long out-liv'd the envy of his name.
To him how daily flock'd, what reverence gave,
All that had wit, or would be thought to have,
Or hope to gain, and in ſo large a ſtore,
That to his aſhes they can pay no more,
Except thoſe few who cenſuring thought not ſo,
But aim'd at glory from ſo great a foe:
How the wiſe too did with mere wits agree,
As Pembroke, Portland, and grave Aubigny;
Nor thought the rigid'ſt ſenator a ſhame,
To contribute to ſo deſerv'd a fame:
How great Eliza, the retreat of thoſe,
Who weak and injur'd her protection choſe,
Her ſubjects joy, the ſtrength of her allies,
The fear and wonder of her enemies,
With her judicious favours did infuſe
Courage and ſtrength into his younger Muſe:
How learned James, whoſe praiſe no end ſhall find,
But ſtill enjoy a fame pure like his mind,
Who favour'd quiet and the arts of peace
(Which in his halcyon days found large increaſe),
Friend to the humbleſt if deſerving ſwain,
Who was himſelf a part of Phoebus' train,
Declar'd great Jonſon worthieſt to receive
The garland which the Muſes' hands did weave;
[245]And though his bounty did ſuſtain his days,
Gave a more welcome penſion in his praiſe:
How mighty Charles (amidſt that weighty care
In which three kingdoms as their bleſſing ſhare,
Whom as it tends with ever-watchful eyes,
That neither power may force, nor art ſurprize,
So bounded by no ſhore, graſps all the main,
And far as Neptune claims extends his reign)
Found ſtill ſome time to hear and to admire
The happy ſounds of his harmonious lyre,
And oft has left his bright exalted throne,
And to his Muſes' feet * combin'd his own:
As did his queen, whoſe perſon ſo diſclos'd
A brighter nymph than any part impos'd,
When ſhe did join by an harmonious choice
Her graceful motions to his powerful voice:
How above all the reſt was Phoebus fi [...]'d
With love of a [...]ts which he himſelf inſpir'd,
Nor oftener by his light our ſenſe was cheer'd,
Than he in perſon to his ſight appear'd;
Nor did he write a line, but to ſupply
With ſacred flame the  [...]adiant God was by.
HYLAS
Though none I eve. heard this laſt rehearſe,
I ſaw as much when I did ſee his verſe.
MELIBOEUS.
Since he, when living, could ſuch honours have,
What now will piety pay to his grave?
[246]Shall of the rich (whoſe lives were low and vile,
And ſcarce deſerv'd a grave, much leſs a pile)
The monuments poſſeſs an ample room,
And ſuch a wonder lie without a tomb?
Raiſe thou him one in verſe, and there relate
His worth, thy grief, and our deplored ſtate,
His great perfections, our great loſs recite,
And let them merely weep who cannot write.
HYLAS.
I like thy ſaying, but oppoſe thy choice,
So great the taſk as this requires a voice
Which muſt be heard, and liſt'ned to by all,
And fame's own trumpet but appears too ſmall:
Then for my ſlender reed to ſound his name,
Would more my folly than his praiſe proclaim;
And when you wiſh my weakneſs ſing his worth,
You charge a mouſe to bring a mountain forth:
I am by Nature form'd, by woes made dull;
My head is emptier than my heart is full;
Grief doth my brain impair, as tears ſupply,
Which makes my face ſo moiſt, my pen ſo dry:
Nor ſhould this work proceed from woods and downs,
But from the academi [...]s, courts, and towns;
Let Digby, Carew, Killigrew, and Mayne,
Godolphin, Waller, that inſpired * train,
[247]Or whoſe rare pen beſide deſerves the grace,
Or of an equal or a neighbouring place,
Anſwer thy wiſh, for none ſo fit appears
To raiſe his tomb, as who are left his heirs:
Yet for this cauſe no labour need be ſpent,
Writing his works, he built his monument.
MELIBOEUS.
If to obey in this thy pen be loth,
It will not ſeem thy weakneſs, but thy ſloth:
Our towns preſs'd by our foes' invading might,
Our ancient Druids and young virgins right,
Emplo [...]ing feeble limbs to the beſt uſe;
So, Jonſon dead, no pen ſhould plead excuſe:
For elegies, howl all who cannot ſing;
For tombs bring t [...], who cannot marble bring
Let all their forces mix, join verſe to rhyme,
To ſave his fame from that invader, Time;
Whoſe power though his alone may well reſtrain,
Yet to ſo wiſh'd an end no care is vain;
And Time, like what our books act in our ſight,
Oft ſinks the weighty, and upholds the light:
Beſides, to this thy pains I ſtrive to move
Leſs to expreſs his glory than thy love:
Not long before his death, our woods he meant
To viſit, and deſcend from Thames to Trent,
M [...]et with thy elegy his paſtoral,
And riſe as much as he vouchſaf'd to fall:
Suppoſe it chance no other pen do join
In this attempt, and the whole work be thine.
[248]When the fierce fire the raſh boy kindled reign'd,
The whole world ſuffer'd; Earth alone complain'd:
Suppoſe that many more intend the ſame,
More taught by art, and better known to fame,
To that great deluge which ſo far deſtroy'd.
The earth her ſprings, as heaven his ſhowers employ'd;
So may, who higheſt marks of honour wears,
Admit mean partners in this flood of tears:
So oft the humbleſt join with loftieſt things,
Nor only princes weep the fare of  [...]ings.
HYLAS.
I yield, I yield, thy words my thoughts have fir'd,
And I am leſs perſuaded than inſpir'd;
Speech ſhall give ſorrow vent, and that relief,
The woods ſhall echo all the city's grief:
I oft have verſe on meaner ſubjects made;
Should I give preſent, and leave debts unpaid?
Want of invention here is no excuſe,
My matter I ſhall find, and no [...] produce,
And (as it fares in crouds) I only doubt,
So much would paſs, that nothing will get out,
Elſ [...] in this work which now my thoughts intend
I ſhall find nothing hard but how to end:
I then but aſk fit time to ſmooth my lays
(And imitate in this the pen I praiſe),
Which, by the ſubject's power embalm'd, may laſt,
Whilſt the ſun light, the earth doth ſhadows caſt,
And, feather'd by thoſe wings, fly among men,
Far as the fame of Poetry and BEN.

TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON,

[249]

BY LORD BUCKHURST^*.

IF Romulus did promiſe in the fight

To Jove the Stator, if he held from flight

His man, a Temple, and perform'd his vow:

Why ſhould not we, learn'd Jonſon, thee allow

An Altar at the leaſt; ſince by thy aid

Learning, that would have left us, has been ſtay'd?

The actions were different; that thing

Requir'd ſome mark to keep't from periſhing:

But letters muſt be quite defac'd, before

Thy memory, whoſe care did them reſtore.

ON BEN JONSON.

BY MR. HENRY KING^†.

I SEE that wreath, which doth the wearer arm
'Gainſt the quick ſtrokes of thunder, is no charm
To keep off Death's pale dart: for, Jonſon, then
Thou hadſt been number'd ſtill with living men:
[250]Time's ſcythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this ſubject of our ſorrow made.

Amongſt thoſe many votaries that come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb,
Whilſt ſome more lofty pens in their bright verſe
(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearſe)
Shall light the dull and thankleſs world to ſee
How great a maim it ſuffers (wanting thee);
Let not thy learned ſhadow ſcorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory:
And ſince I nought can add but in deſire,
Reſtore ſome ſparks which leapt from thine own fire.

What ends ſoever other quills invite,
I can proteſt, it was no itch to write,
[251]Nor any vain ambition to be read,
But merely love and juſtice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameleſs Muſe; and caus'd her bring
Theſe drops, as tribute thrown into that ſpring,
To whoſe moſt rich and fruitful head we owe
The pureſt ſtreams of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; thou taught'ſt the ruder age
To ſpeak by grammar; and reform'dſt the ſtage:
Thy comic ſock induc'd ſuch purged ſenſe,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongſt theſe ſoaring wits that did dilate
Our Engliſh, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thyſelf was one
Help'd lift it up to ſuch proportion,
That thus refin'd and rob'd it ſhall not ſpare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
For what tongue ever durſt, but ours, tranſlate
Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's ſtate?
Both which in their unblemiſh'd luſtre ſhine,
From * Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline.

All I would aſk for thee, in recompence
Of thy ſucceſsful toil, and time's expence,
Is only this poor boon: that thoſe who can
Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,
Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,
(To ſhew their ſkill in foreign dialect)
Prove not themſelves ſo unnaturally wiſe
They therefore ſhould their mother-tongue deſpiſe
[252](As if her poets both for ſtyle and wit,
Not equal'd, or not paſs'd their beſt that writ)
Until by ſtudying Jonſon they have known
The height, and ſtrength, and plenty of their own.
Thus in what low earth, or neglected room,
So e'er thou ſleep'ſt, thy book ſhall be thy tomb.
Thou wilt go down a happy corſe, beſtrew'd
With thine own flowers, and feel thyſelf renew'd;
Whilſt thy immortal, never-withering bays
Shall yearly flouriſh in thy reader's praiſe.
And when more ſpreading titles are forgot,
Or, ſpite of all their lead and ſear-cloth, rot;
Thou wrapt and ſhrin'd in thine own ſheets wilt lie
A relick fam'd by all poſterity.

TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON.BY JASPER MAYNE*.
AS, when the veſtal hearth went out, no fire
Leſs holy than the flame that did expire
Could kindle it again: ſo at thy fall
Our wit, great Ben, is too apocryphal
To celebrate the loſs, ſince 'tis too much
To write thy epitaph, and not be ſuch.
[253]What thou wert, like th' hard oracles of old,
Without an extaſy cannot be told.
We muſt be raviſh'd firſt, thou muſt infuſe
Thyſelf into us, both the theme and Muſe:
Elſe (though we all conſpir'd to make thy hearſe
Our works) ſo that 't had been but one great verſe,
Though the prieſt had tranſlated for that time
The Liturgy, and bury'd thee in rhyme,
So that in metre we had heard it ſaid,
Poetic duſt is to poetic laid:
And though, that duſt being Shakeſpeare's, thou might'ſt have
Not his room, but the poet for thy grave;
[254]So that, as thou didſt prince of numbers die,
And live, ſo now thou might'ſt in numbers lie,
'T were frail ſolemnity; verſes on thee,
And not like thine, would but kind libels be;
And we (not ſpeaking thy whole worth) ſhould raiſe
Worſe blots than they that envied thy praiſe.
Indeed, thou need'ſt us not, ſince, above all
Invention, thou wert thine own funeral.
Hereafter, when time hath fed on thy tomb,
Th' inſcription worn out, and the marble dumb;
So that 't would poſe a critic to reſtore
Half words, and words expir'd ſo long before;
When thy maim'd ſtatue hath a ſentenc'd face,
And looks that are the horror of the place,
That 't will be learning and antiquity,
And aſk a * Selden to ſay, This was thee,
Thou 'lt have a whole name ſtill, nor need'ſt thou fear
That will be ruin'd, or loſe noſe or hair.
Let others write ſo thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no poſterity
Can add to thy works; th' had their whole growth then
When firſt born, and came aged from thy pen.
Whilſt living thou enjoy'dſt the fame and ſenſe
Of all that time gives, but the reverence.
When thou 'rt of Homer's years, no man will ſay
Thy Poems are leſs worthy, but more gray:
'Tis baſtard-poetry, and o' th' falſe blood
Which can't without ſucceſſion be good.
Things that will always laſt do thus agree
With things eternal; they' at once perfect be.
[255]Scorn then their cenſures, who gave 't out, thy wit
As long upon a comedy did ſit
As elephants bring forth; and that thy blots
And mendings took more time than Fortune* plots:
That ſuch thy drought was, and ſo great thy thirſt,
That all thy plays were drawn at th' Mermaid* firſt:
That the king's yearly butt wrote, and his wine
Hath more right than thou to thy Catiline.
Let ſuch men keep a diet, let their wit
Be rack'd, and while they write, ſuffer a fit.
When they 've felt tortures which out-pain the gout,
Such, as with leſs, the ſtate draws treaſon out;
Though they ſhould the length of conſumptions lie
Sick of their verſe, and of their poem die,
'Twould not be thy worſt ſcene, but would at laſt
Confirm their boaſtings, and ſhew made in haſte.
He that writes well, writes quick, ſince the rule 's true,
Nothing is ſlowly done, that's always new.
So when thy Fox had ten times acted been,
Each day was firſt, but that 't was cheaper ſeen.
And ſo thy Alchymiſt play'd o'er and o'er
Was new o' th' ſtage when 't was not at the door.
We, like the actors, did repeat; the pit
The firſt time ſaw, the next conceiv'd thy wit:
Which was caſt in thoſe forms, ſuch rules, ſuch arts,
That but to ſome not half thy acts were parts:
Since of ſome ſilken judgments we may ſay,
They fill'd a box two hours, but ſaw no play.
So that th' unlearned loſt their money, and
Scholars ſav'd only, that could underſtand.
[256]Thy ſcene was free from monſters, no hard plot
Call'd down a God t' unty th' unlikely knot.
The ſtage was ſtill a ſtage, two entrances
Were not two parts o' th' world, disjoin'd by ſeas.
Thine were land tragedies, no prince was found
To ſwim a whole ſcene out, then o' th' ſtage drown'd;
Pitch'd fields, as * Red bull wars, ſtill felt thy doom,
Thou ſaid'ſt no ſieges to the muſic-room;
Nor would'ſt allow to thy beſt comedies
Humours that ſhould above the people riſe:
Yet was thy language and thy ſtyle ſo high,
Thy ſock to th' ancle, buſkin reach'd to th' thigh;
And both ſo chaſte, ſo 'bove dramatic clean,
That we both ſafely ſaw, and liv'd thy ſcene.
No foul looſe line did proſtitute thy wit,
Thou wrot'ſt thy comedies, did'ſt not commit.
We did the vice arraign'd not tempting hear,
And were made judges, not bad parts by th' ear.
For thou ev'n ſin didſt in ſuch words array,
That ſome who came bad parts, went out good play.
Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the age
Still acted, which grew innocent from th' ſtage.
'Tis true thou hadſt ſome ſharpneſs, but thy ſalt
Serv'd but with pleaſure to reform the fault.
Men were laugh'd into virtue, and none more
Hated Face † acted than were ſuch before.
[257]So did thy ſting not blood, but humours draw,
So much doth ſatire more correct than law;
Which was not nature in thee, as ſome call
Thy teeth, who ſay thy wit lay in thy gall:
That thou didſt quarrel firſt, and then, in ſpight,
Didſt 'gainſt a perſon of ſuch vices write:
That 'twas revenge, not truth; that on the ſtage
Carlo was not preſented, but thy rage:
And that, when thou in company wert met,
Thy meat took notes, and thy diſcourſe was net.
We know thy free vein had this innocence,
To ſpare the party, and to brand th' offence.
And the juſt indignation thou wert in
Did not expoſe Shift, but his tricks and ginn.
Thou might'ſt have us'd th' old comic freedom; theſe
Might have ſeen themſelves play'd, like Socrates.
Like Cleon, Mammon might the knight have been,
If, as Greek authors, thou hadſt turn'd Greek ſpleen;
And hadſt not choſen rather to tranſlate
Their learning into Engliſh, not their rate:
Indeed this laſt, if thou hadſt been bereft
Of thy humanity, might be call'd theft.
The other was not; whatſoe'er was ſtrange
Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change;
Who without Latin helps hadſt been as rare
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakſpeare were:
And, like them, from thy native ſtock could'ſt ſay,
Poets and Kings are not born every day.

DESCRIPTION OF FORTUNE.[258]BY MICHAEL DRAYTON*, ESQ.
FORTUNE as blinde as he whom ſhe doth lead,
Her feature chaung'd each minute of the houre,
Her riggiſh feete fantaſtically would tread:
Now would ſhe ſmile, and ſuddenly would lowre,
And with one breath her words are ſweete and ſowre.
Upon her foes ſhe amorouſly doth glaunce,
And on her followers coyly looke aſkaunce,
About her necke (it ſeem'd as for a chaine)
Some princes crownes and broken ſcepters hung.
[259]Upon her arme a lazie youth did leane,
Which ſcornfully unto the ground ſhe flung,
And with a wanton grace paſſing alone,
Great bags of gold from out her boſome drew,
And to baſe peſants and fond idiots threw.
A duſkie vale, which hid her ſightleſſe eies
Like cloudes, which cover our uncertaine lives,
Painted about with bloodie tragedies,
Fooles wearing crownes and wiſe men clog'd in gives.
Now how ſhe gives againe, how ſhe deprives:
In this blacke map this ſhe her might diſcovers,
In camps and courts, on ſouldiers, and on lovers.

THYRSIS'S PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY MR. WILLIAM BROWNE^*.

ON a hill that grac'd the plaine
Thyrſis ſate, a comely ſwaine,
Comelier ſwaine ne'er grac'd a hill:
Whilſt his flocke, that wandred nie,
Cropt the green graſſe buſilie;
Thus he tun'd his oaten quill:

[260]Ver hath made the pleaſant field
Many ſeveral odours yeeld,
Odors aromatical:
From faire Aſtra's cherrie lip,
Sweeter ſmells for ever ſkip,
They in pleaſing paſſen all.

Leavie groves now mainely ring,
With each ſweet bird's ſonneting,
Notes that make the ecchos long:
But when Aſtra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,
And are liſtening to her ſong.

[261]Fairely ſpreads the damaſke roſe,
Whoſe rare mixture doth diſcloſe
Beauties, pencills cannot faine.
Yet, if Aſtra paſſe the buſh,
Roſes have been ſeen to bluſh.
She doth all their beauties ſtaine.

Phoebus ſhining bright in ſkie,
Gilds the floods, heates mountaines hie
With his beames all quick'ning fire:
Aſtra's eyes (moſt ſparkling ones)
Strikes a heat in hearts of ſtones,
And enflames them with deſire.

[262]Fields are bleſt with ſlowrie wreath,
Ayre is bleſt when ſhe doth breath,
Birds make happy ev'ry grove,
She each bird when ſhe doth ſing,
Phoebus' heate to Earth doth bring,
She makes marble fall in love.

Thoſe bleſſinges of the Earth we ſwaines do call,

Aſtra can bleſſe thoſe bleſſings, Earth and all.

TO MICHAEL DRAYTON, ESQ.[263]BY MR. JOHN SELDEN*.
I MUST admire thee (but to praiſe were vain
What every taſting palate ſo approves)
Thy martial Pyrrhick, and thy Epick ſtrain
Digeſting wars with heart-uniting loves,
[264]The two firſt authors of what is compos'd
In this round ſyſtem all: its antient lore
All arts in diſcords and concents are clos'd
(And when unwinged ſouls the fates reſtore
[265]To th' earth for reparation of their flights,
The firſt muſicians, ſcholars, lovers make
The next rank deſtinate to Mars's knights
The following rabble meaner titles make)
I ſee thy temples crown'd with Phoebus' rites,
Thy bay's to th' eye with lily mix'd and roſe,
As to the ear a diapaſon cloſe.

TO MR. WILLIAM BROWNE.

[266]

BY THE SAME.

SO much a ſtranger my ſeverer Muſe

Is not to love-ſtrains, or a ſhepherd's reed,

But that ſhe knows ſome rites of Phoebus' dues,

Of Pan, of Pallas, and her ſiſter's meed.

Read, and commend ſhe durſt theſe tun'd eſſays

Of him that loves her (ſhe hath ever found

Her ſtudies as one circle). Next ſhe prays

His readers be with roſe and myrtle crown'd!

No willow touch them! As his ^* bays are free

From wrong of bolts, ſo may their chaplets be!

ON THE DEATH OF MR. SELDEN.

[267]

BY DR. BATHURST^*, 1654.

SO fell the ſacred Sibyl, when of old
Inſpir'd with more than mortal breaſt could hold
The gazing multitude ſtood doubtful by,
Whether to call it death, or ecſtaſy:
She ſilent lies, and now the nations find
No oracles but i' th' leaves ſhe left behind.

Monarch of times and arts, who travell'dſt oer
New worlds of knowledge, undeſcry'd before,
And haſt on everlaſting columns writ
The utmoſt bounds of learning and of wit;
[268]Hadſt thou been more like us, or we like thee,
We might add ſomething to thy memory.
Now thy own tongues muſt ſpeak thee, and thy praiſe
Be from thoſe monuments thyſelf did raiſe;
And all thoſe * titles thou didſt once diſplay,
Muſt yield thee titles greater far than they.

Time, which had wings till now, and was not known
To have a being but by being gone,
You did arreſt his motion, and have lent
A way to make him fix'd and permanent;
Whilſt by your labours ages paſt appear,
And all at once we view a Plato's year.
Actions and fables were retriev'd by you;
All that was done, and what was not done too;
[269]Which in your breaſt did comprehended lie,
As in the boſom of eternity:
You purg'd records and * authors from their ruſt,
And ſifted pearls out of Rabbinick duſt†:
By you the ‡ Syrian Gods do live, and grow
To be immortal, ſince you made them ſo.
Inſcriptions, medals, ‖ ſtatues, look freſh ſtill,
Taking new braſs and marble from your quill;
Which ſo unravels time, that now we do
Live our own age, and our forefathers' too.
And, thus enlarg'd by your diſcoveries, can
Make that an ell, which nature made a ſpan.
If then we judge, that to preſerve the ſtate
Of things, is every moment to create,
The world 's thus half your creature, whilſt it ſtands
Reſcued to memory by your learned hands.
And unto you, now fearleſs of decay,
Times paſt owe more, than times to come can pay.
How might you claim your country's juſt applauſe,
When you ſtood ſquare and upright as your cauſe
In doubtful times, nor ever would forego
Fair Truth and Right, whoſe bounds you beſt did know!
You in the Tower did ſtand another tower,
Firm to yourſelf and us, whilſt jealous Power
Your very ſoul impriſon'd, that no thought
By books might enter, nor by pen get out;
And, ſtripp'd of all beſides, left you confin'd
To the one volume of your own vaſt mind;
[270]There Virtue and ſtout Honour paſs'd the guard,
(Your only friends that could not be debarr'd)
And dwelt in your retirement; arm'd with theſe,
You ſtood forth more than admiral of our ſeas.
Your hand inclos'd the * watery plains, and thus
Was no leſs fence to them, than they to us;
Teaching our ſhips to conquer, while each fight
Is but a comment on thoſe books you write.
No foul diſgraces, nor the worſt of things,
Made you, like him, whoſe anger Homer ſings,
Slack in your country's quarrel, who adore
Their champion now, their martyr heretofore:
Still with yourſelf contending, whether you
Could bravelier ſuffer, or could bravelier do.
We aſk not now for anceſtors, nor ca [...]e
Though Selden do not kindred boaſt, nor heir;
Such worth beſt ſtands alone, and joys to be
To 'tſelf both founder and poſterity.
As when old Nilus, who with bounteous flows
Waters an hundred nations as he goes,
Scattering rich harveſts, keeps his ſacred head
Amongſt the clouds ſtill undiſcovered.

Be 't now thy Oxford's pride, that, having gone
Through Eaſt and Weſt, no tongue nor art unknown;
Laden with ſpoils thou hang'ſt thy † arms up here,
But ſett'ſt thy great example every where.

Thus, when thy monument ſhall itſelf lie dead,
And thy own ‡ epitaph no more be read;
[271]When all thy ſtatues ſhall be worn out ſo,
That even Selden would not Selden know;
Ages to come ſhall in thy virtue ſhare:
He that dies well makes all the world his heir.

VERSES
ANNEXED TO HIS BATRACHOMYOMACHIA.

BY GEORGE CHAPMAN^*,

THE Worke that I was borne to doe, is done.
Glory to him, that the concluſion
Makes the beginning of my life: and never
Let me be ſaid to live; till I live ever.

[272]Where's the outliving of my fortunes then,
Ye errant vapors of Fames Lernean fenn?
[273]That (like poſſeſt ſtormes) blaſt all; not in herde
With your abhorr'd heads; who, becauſe caſher'de
By men, for monſters; thinck men, monſters all,
That are not of your pyed hood, and your hall.
When you are nothing but the ſcumm of things,
And muſt be caſt off: drones, that have no ſtings,
Nor any more ſoule then a ſtone hath wings.

Avant ye haggs; your hates, and ſcandalls are,
The crownes and comforts of a good mans care;
By whoſe impartial perpendiculare;
All is extuberance, and excretion all,
That you your ornaments and glories call.
Your wrie mouthes cenſure right? your bliſter'd tongues,
That licke but itches? and whoſe ulcerous lungs
Come up at all things permanent and ſound?
O you (like flies in dreggs) in humors droun'd;
Your loves, like atoms, loſt in gloomie ayre;
I would not retrive with a wither'd haire.
Hate, and caſt ſtill your ſtings then; for your kiſſes
Betray but truth; and your applauds are hiſſes.

To ſee our ſupercilious wizerds frowne;
Their faces falne like foggs; and coming downe,
Stincking the ſunn out; make me ſhine the more:
And like a checkt flood, beare above the ſhore,
That their prophane opinions faine would ſet,
To what they ſee not; know not; nor can let.
Yet then, our learn'd men, with their torrents come
Roring from their forc't hills, all crown'd with ſome.
That one not taught like them, ſhould learne to know
Their Greeke rootes, and from thence the groves that grow,
[274]Caſting ſuch rich ſhades, from great Homers wings:
That firſt, and laſt, command the Muſes ſprings.
Though he 's beſt ſcholler, that through paines and vows,
Made his own maſter onely, all things knows.
Nor pleades my poore ſkill, forme, or learned place;
But dantleſſe labor, conſtant prayer, and grace.
And what 's all their ſkill, but vaſt varied reading?
As if brode-beaten high waies had the leading
To truths abſtract, and narrow path, and pit?
Found in no walke of any worldly wit.
And without truth, all 's onely ſleight of hand,
Or our law-learning, in a forraine land;
Embroderie ſpent on cobwebs; braggart ſhow
Of men that all things learne, and nothing know.
For Oſtentation, humble Truth ſtill flies,
And all confederate faſhioniſts defies.
And as ſome ſharpe-browd doctor (Engliſh-borne)
In much learn'd Latine idioms can adorne
A verſe with rare attractions; yet become
His Engliſh Muſe, like an Arachnean loome,
Wrought ſpight of Pallas; and therein bewraies
More tongue then truth; beggs, and adopts his bayes;
So Oſtentation, bee hee never ſo
Larded with labour, to ſuborne his ſhowe;
Shall ſoothe within him but a baſtard ſoule,
No more Heaven he [...]ring, then Earths ſonne the moule.
But as in dead calmes emptieſt ſmokes ariſe
Uncheckt and free, up ſtrait into the ſkies;
So drouſie Peace, that in her humor ſteepes
All ſhe affects, lets ſuch riſe while ſhe ſleepes.
[275]Many, and moſt men, have of wealth leaſt ſtore,
But none the gracious ſhame that fits the pore;
So moſt learn'd men, enough are ignorant;
But few the grace have to confeſſe their want,
Till lives and learnings come concomitant.
For from mens knowledges their lives-acts flowe;
Vaineglorious acts then, vaine prove all they know.
As Night the life-enclining ſtarrs beſt ſhowes,
So lives obſcure, the ſtarrieſt ſoules diſcloſe.

For me, let juſt men judge by what I ſhow
In acts expos'd, how much I erre, or knowe;
And let not Envie make all worſe then nought
With her meere headſtrong and quite braineles thought:
Others, for doing nothing, giving all,
And bounding all worth in her burſten gall.

God and my deare Redeemer, reſcue me
From mens immane and mad impietie;
And by my life and ſoule (ſole knowne to them)
Make me of palme, or yew, an anadem.
And ſo, my ſole God, the thrice ſacred Trine,
Beare all the aſcription of all me and mine.

TO BEAUTY.

BY THE SAME.

O BEAUTIE, how attractive is thy power?

For as the lives heat clings about the hart,

So all mens hungry eyes do haunt thy bower:

Raigning in Greece, Troy ſwumme to thee in art.

Removed to Troy, Greece followed thee in feares,

Thou dreweſt ech ſyreleſſe ſword, ech childleſſe dart,

And puldſt the towers of Troy about thine eares.

CONCLUSION OF NOSCE TEIPSUM

[276]

BY SIR JOHN DAVIES^*.

O Ignorant poor man! what doſt thou bear
Lock'd up within the caſket of thy breaſt,
What jewels, and what riches, haſt thou there?
What heavenly treaſure in ſo weak a cheſt?

Look in thy Soul, and thou ſhalt beauties find,
Like thoſe which drown'd Narciſſus in the flood:
Honour and pleaſure both are in thy mind,
And all that in the world is counted good.

[277]

Think of her worth, and think that God did mean,

This worthy mind ſhould worthy things embrace:

Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean,

Nor her diſhonour with thy paſſion baſe.

Kill not her quickening power with ſurfeitings:
Mar not her ſenſe with ſenſuality:
Caſt not her wit on idle things:
Make not her free-will ſlave to vanity.

[278]

And when thou think'ſt of her eternity,

Think not that death againſt her nature is;

Think it a birth: and, when thou go'ſt to die,

Sing like a ſwan, as if thou went'ſt to bliſs.

And if thou, like a child, didſt fear before,
Being in the dark, where thou didſt nothing ſee;
Now I have brought thee torch-light, fear no more;
Now, when thou dy'ſt, thou canſt not hood-wink'd be.

And thou, my Soul, which turn'ſt with curious eye,
To view the beams of thine own form divine,
Know, that thou canſt know nothing perfectly,
While thou art clouded with this fleſh of mine.

[279]

Take heed of over-weening, and compare

Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train:

Study the beſt and higheſt things that are,

But of thyſelf an humble thought retain.

Caſt down thyſelf, and only ſtrive to raiſe
The glory of thy Maker's ſacred name:
Uſe all thy powers, that bleſſed Power to praiſe,
Which gives thee power to be, and uſe the ſame.

DETRACTION EXECRATED.

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING^*.

THOU vermin Slander, bred in abject minds
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of converſation! could'ſt thou find
Nought but our love, whereon to ſhew thy hate?

[280]

Thou never wert, when we two were alone;

What canſt thou witneſs then? Thy baſe dull aid

Was uſeleſs in our converſation,

Where each meant more than could by each be ſaid.

Whence hadſt thou thy intelligence? From earth?
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:
Or from the air? Our gentle ſighs had birth
From ſuch ſweet raptures as to joy did move.

[281]

Our thoughts, as pure as the chaſte morning's breath,

When from the night's cold arms it c [...]eeps away,

Were cloath'd in words; and maiden's bluſh, that hath

More purity, more innocence, than they.

Nor from the water could'ſt thou have this tale:
No briny tear has furrow'd her ſmooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd. I pray, what ſhould he ail
That had her love? for what elſe could he ſeek?

We ſhorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilſt our two ſouls in amorous ecſtaſy
Perceiv'd no paſſing time, as if a part
Our love had been of ſtill eternity.

Much leſs could'ſt have it from the purer fire:
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarſe ſenſe,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond deſire;
Our mutual love itſelf did recompence.

Thou haſt no correſpondence had in heaven,
And th' elemental world, thou ſeeſt, is free:
Whence hadſt thou then this talking monſter? even
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.

Curſt be th' officious tongue that did addreſs
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taſte ſuch happineſs,
Deſerving loſe, unpitied it lament!

I muſt forbear the ſight, and ſo repay
In grief thoſe hours joy ſhorten'd to a dram:
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
And in one year out-live Methuſalem.

SONG,

[282]

BY THOMAS CAREW^*, ESQ.

ASK me no more where Jove beſtows,
When June is paſt, the fading roſe:
For in your beauty's orient deep
Theſe flowers as in their cauſes ſleep.

Aſk me no more whither do ſtray
The golden atomes of the day:
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Thoſe powders to enrich your hair.

[283]

Aſk me no more whither doth haſte

The nightingale, when May is paſt:

For in your ſweet dividing throat

She winters, and keeps warm her note.

[284]

Aſk me no more where thoſe ſtars light

That downwards fall in dead of night:

For in your eyes they ſit, and there

Fixed become, as in their ſphere.

Aſk me no more if Eaſt or Weſt,
The Phoenix builds her ſpicy neſt:
For unto you at laſt ſhe flies,
And in your fragrant boſom dies.

THE PRIMROSE.BY THE SAME.
ASK me why I ſend you here
This firſtling of the infant year;
Aſk me why I ſend to you
This primroſe all bepearl'd with dew;
I ſtrait will whiſper in your ears,
The ſweets of Love are waſh'd with tears:
Aſk me why this flower doth ſhow
So yellow, green, and ſickly too;
Aſk me why the ſtalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I muſt tell you, theſe diſcover
What doubts and fears are in a Lover.

Appendix A CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

[285]

ELEGY, by the Wife of St. Alexias, &c. Page 1
Sappho to Phaon. By Sir Carr Scrope. 6
Sireno and Diana. By the ſame. 10
Prologue to the Man of Mode. By the ſame. 1676. 15
Song. By the ſame. 16
Prologue to the Rival Queens. By the ſame. 1677. 17
Horace, Book I. Ode IV. 19
Pharmaceutria, from Theocritus. By Mr. Bowles. 21
Horace, Book II. Ode XV. imitated. By Dr. Chetwood. 29
The Eighth Eclogue of Virgil. By the ſame. 31
The Praiſes of Italy. By the ſame. 34
Upon Deſire. 37
A Song. 41
On Mr. Waller. By Sir Thomas Higgons. 42
To the Duke, on his Return, 1682. By Nath. Lee. 46
On the Snuff of a Candle. Made in Sickneſs. By Mrs. Wharton. 51
Song. By the ſame. 52
The Lamentations of Jeremiah. By the ſame. 53
Song to a Lady, who diſcovered a new Star in Caſ⯑ſiopeia. By Mr. Charles Dryden. 56
Ariadne's Complaint, on being deſerted by Theſeus. By William Cartwright. 58
In Memory of the moſt worthy Ben Jonſon. By the ſame. 63
A new Catch. 69
[286]The Parting of Hector and Andromache. By Dr. Chetwood. 70
Ode in Imitation of Pindar, on the Death of Thomas Earl of Oſſory. By the ſame. 75
On the Death of James Duke of Ormond. By the ſame. 83
To the preſent Duke. 84
On the Death of Mr. Waller. By Mrs. Behn. 85
A Prologue. By Sir Charles Sedley. 89
On the Death of King Charles II. By Mr. William Bowles. 92
The Reapers. From Theocritus. By the ſame. 96
The Honey-ſtealer. 99
The Complaint of Ariadne. From Carullus. By Mr. William Bowles. 100
Eunica, or the Neatherd. From Theocritus. By the ſame. 104
Cyniſca's Love. From Theocritus. By the ſame. 107
Proteus. From Sannazarius. By the ſame. 110
Sappho's Ode. From Longinus. By the ſame. 115
On the Protector's Death. By Mr. Godolphin. 116
On Mr. Waller. By Mr. Thomas Rymer. 120
Verſes by M. St. Evremont. 1684. 123
In Engliſh. By Mr. Rymer. 124
To Mr. Riley, on drawing Mr. Waller's Picture. ibid.
The Deſerted Swain. 125
On the Death of Mr. Waller. By Mr. Higgons. 128
On Solitude. 130
A Character of the Engliſh. By Robert Wolſeley, Eſq. 138
[287]To the Memory of Mr. Waller. By Sir John Cotton, Bart. 139
News from Hell. By Captain Radcliff. 141
Nature's Changes. By Sir Robert Howard. 147
The Duel of the Stags. By the ſame. 154
To Count Montecuccoli, againſt Pride upon ſudden Advancement. By an unknown Writer. From the Italian of Fulvio Teſti. 165
Catullus, Epig. XIX. By the ſame. 167
From the Greek of Menage. By the ſame. 168
Invitation into the Country. By the ſame. 169
Horace, Book II. Ode XXIII. By Dr. Pope. 170
The Old Man's Wiſh. By the ſame. 173
Song. 174
Song. 175
Song. 176
Hero's Complaint to Leander. ibid.
Song. 179
Written in a Book. 180
To Mr. Hoddeſdon. By Mr. DRYDEN. 181
Prologue to the Duke of Guiſe. By the ſame. 1683. 183
Epilogue. By the ſame. 185
Another Epilogue. By the ſame. 186
Hunting the Hare, an old Song. 188
Songs by Sir George Etherege, 192, 193, 194
To the Marchioneſs of Newcaſtle. By the ſame. 195
The Forſaken Miſtreſs. By the ſame. 197
To a Very Young Lady. By the ſame. 198
The Divided Heart. By the ſame. 199
On the Tranſlations of Mr. J. N. out of the French and Italian. By the ſame. 200
[288]Voiture's Urania. By Sir George Etherege. 201
To Sylvia. By the ſame. 202
To a Lady, who fled the Sight of him. By the ſame. 203
To a Lady, aſking him a Queſtion. By the ſame. ibid.
To the Memory of Mr. Dryden. 204
Horace, Book II. Ode XI. By John Howe, Eſq. 209
Songs. By the ſame. 211, 212
Horace, Book II. Ode XIV. 213
Horace, Book IV. Ode XIII. 214
Horace, Book IV. Ode VII. 216
Horace, Book II. Ode X. 217
Horace, Book I. Ep. XVIII. 219
Horace, Book II. Ode III. 227
The Grove. 220
Part of Virgil's Fourth Georgick. By Mr. Creech. 230
Lord Falkland's Eclogue on the Death of B. Jonſon. 236
To the Memory of Ben Jonſon. By Lord Buckhurſt. 249
On Ben Jonſon. By Mr. Henry King. ibid.
To the Memory of Ben Jonſon. By Jaſper Mayne. 252
Deſcription of Fortune. By Michael Drayton, Eſq. 258
Thyrſis's Praiſe to his Miſtreſs. By William Browne. 259
To Michael Drayton, Eſq. By Mr. John Selden. 263
To Mr. William Browne. By the ſame. 266
On the Death of Mr. Selden. By Dr. Bathurſt. 1654. 267
Concluſion of Chapman's Hymns of Homer. 271
To Beauty. By the ſame. 275
Concluſion of Noſce Teipſum. By Sir John Davies. 276
Detraction execrated. By Sir John Suckling. 279
Song. By Thomas Carew, Eſq. 282
The Primroſe. By the ſame. 284

THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

[288]

[...]

Notes

See "Walker's Sufferings of the Clergy," p. 221.

The following anecdotes of this excellent Poet being curious, I print them in the words of the friend from whom they are received: ‘"At lord Oxford's ſeat at Wimple (now lord Hardwicke's) there hung a fine picture of Harley in his Speaker's robes, with the roll of the bill in his hand for bringing-in the preſent family; which, if I miſtake not, was done by his caſting vote. In alluſion to Harley's being afterwards ſent to The Tower, Prior wrote with a pencil on the white ſcroll, Bill paid ſuch a day.—The late Recorder of Cambridge [Pont] had ſeen ſome MS. Dialogues of the Dead of Prior's; they were proſe, but had verſe intermixed freely: and the ſpecimen, I heard, proved it. The Dialogue was between Sir Thomas More and the Vicar of Bray. You muſt allow that the cha⯑racters are well choſen; and the ſpeakers maintain their reſpective opinions ſmartly: at laſt the Knight ſeems to come over to his adverſary, at leaſt ſo far as to allow that the doctrine was convenient, if not honourable; but that he did not ſee how any man could allow himſelf to act thus: when the Vicar concludes; Nothing eaſier, with proper management; &c. You muſt go the right way to work—

" For Conſcience, like a fiery horſe,
" Will ſtumble, if you check his courſe:
" But ride him with an eaſy rein,
" And rub him down with worldly gain,
" He'll carry you through thick and thin,
" Safe, although dirty, to your inn."

’ This certainly is ſterling ſenſe.—It would give me great pleaſure to be enabled to preſent theſe Dialogues to the world; but where they are now depoſited is unknown.

"The Complaint," by Broome, Engliſh Poets, vol. XL. p. 134, is partly in imitation of this Elegy. N.

†

Or rather Alexis, a nobleman of Rome; of whom ſee a full account in Blainville's Travels, II. 524. Alexias is probably the name of the poem, as Chriſtias is the hiſtory of Chriſt. N.

‡

A Jeſuit, of Dijon. He employed himſelf in compoſing proſe and poetry. Vid. Delit Gall. Poet. III. p. 209. Alegambe, a brother Jeſuit, in his Bibliotheque of the order, p. 131, very highly commends his Alexias. He died in 1631. N.

‖

This conveys not the leaſt idea of devotion. N.

This certainly is an intemperate exaggeration. N.

This epiſtle, after having appeared in a variety of collec⯑tions, was placed at the beginning of Garth's edition of "Ovid's Epiſtles, by ſeveral hands," 1720; where it is followed by another tranſlation of it by Mr. Pope; undertaken, as that great poet expreſsly ſays, ‘"not from any ſuppoſed defect in Sir Carr's tranſlation,"’ but becauſe he had not taken the whole of the original. N.

†

Son of Sir Adrian Scrope, of Cockrington in Lincoln⯑ſhire, knight. He became a gentleman commoner of Wad⯑ham College in 1664; was created a baronet Jan. 16, 1666; and took the degree of M.A. on the fourth of Fe⯑bruary following. His poems are not numerous; conſiſting principally of tranſlations and lampoons. In his "Defence of Satire," we are told by Anthony Wood, there are reflec⯑tions on, ‘"1. John earl of Rocheſter; 2. Edward Griffin; 3. Wroth the page; 4. Franc. Newport; 5. Lord Cul⯑pepper; 6. Henry Savil; 7. James duke of Monmouth; 8. Tho. Armſtrong; 9.—Loftus; 10. Brandon Ger⯑rard; 11. Jermyn earl of St. Albans; 12. Finch lord chan⯑cellor."’ This produced, as might have been expected, the keeneſt reſentment of Rocheſter (ſee his Poems, 1779, p. 340). Sir Carr tranſlated the fourth elegy of Ovid's firſt book, and "The Parting of Sireno and Diana;" wrote the Prologue to Lee's "Rival Queens," and to "The Man of Mode;" and ſeveral ſongs introduced into the plays of thoſe times. He died, in the pariſh of St. Martin in the Fields, in or about November, 1680. He is mentioned with reſpect by Dr. King, Poems, p. 271. Wood refers to a MS Song "on Scrope, Godolphin, and Dorſet," in Mr. Sheldon's Library. "The Parting of Sireno and Di⯑ana," Wood ſays, was tranſlated from the third book of Ovid's Elegies; but it is more probably from an Italian ori⯑ginal. N.

Another imitation of the Pharmaceutria is printed among the poems of Lord Lanſdowne. p. 169.—Some account of Mr. Bowles ſhall be given in this volume. N.

A gentleman of an ancient family, and afterwards D.D. In the ſummer of 1689, he was nominated by James II. to the ſee of Briſtol, then vacant on Dr. Trelawney's promotion to Exeter; but declined the offer. He was in⯑ſtalled dean of Glouceſter, April 6, 1707; and about the ſame time was made chaplain to the Engliſh forces in Flan⯑ders, under the duke of Marlborough. He died April 4, 1720. He was author of the ingenious and learned diſſerta⯑tion prefixed to Dryden's Virgil in 1697; and of a variety of little poems diſperſed in different collections. N.

Son of Dr. Thomas Higgons, ſome time rector of Weſt⯑burgh in Shropſhire. He was born in that county; became a commoner of St. Albans Hall in the beginning of the year 1638, at the age of 14; when he was put under the tuition of Mr. Edward Corbet, fellow of Merton College, and lodged in the chamber under him in that houſe. Leaving the univer⯑ſity without a degree, he retired to his native county. He married the widow of Robert earl of Eſſex; and delivered an oration at her funeral, Sept. 16, 1656. ‘"Oratio ſunebri, a marito ipſo, more priſco laudata fuit,"’ is part of this lady's epitaph. He married, ſecondly, Bridget daughter of Sir Be⯑vil Greenvill of Stow, and ſiſter to John earl of Bath; and removed to Grewell in Hampſhire; was elected a burgeſs for Malmſbury in 1658, and for New Windſor in 1661. His ſervices to the crown were rewarded with a penſion of 500£. a year, and gifts to the amount of 4000£. He was afterwards knighted; and in 1669 was ſent envoy extraordi⯑nary to inveſt John George duke of Saxony with the order of the Garter. About four years after he was ſent envoy to Vi⯑enna, where he continued three years. In 1685 he was elected burgeſs for St. Germain's, "being then," ſays Wood, ‘"accounted a loyal and accompliſhed perſon, and a great lo⯑ver of the regular clergy."’ He died ſuddenly, of an apo⯑plexy, in the king's-bench court, having been ſummoned there as a witneſs, November 24, 1691; and was buried in Wincheſ⯑ter cathedral near the relicks of his firſt wife. His literary productions are, 1. "A Panegyric to the King, 1660." fol. 2. "The Funeral Oration on his firſt Lady, 1656." 3. "The Hiſtory of Iſoof Baſſa, 1684." He alſo tranſlated into Engliſh "The Venetian Triumph;" for which he was com⯑plimented by Waller, in his Poems, p. 113; who has alſo addreſſed a poem to Mrs. Higgons, p. 201. Mr. Granger, who ſtyles Sir Thomas ‘"a gentleman of great merit,"’ was favoured by the dutcheſs dowager of Portland with a manu⯑ſcript copy of his Oration; and concludes, from the great ſcarcity of that pamphlet, that ‘"the copies of it were, for certain reaſons, induſtriouſly collected and deſtroyed, though few pieces of this kind have leſs deſerved to periſh. The counteſs of Eſſex had a greatneſs of mind which enabled her to bear the whole weight of infamy which was thrown upon her; but it was, nevertheleſs, attended with a delicacy and ſenſibility of honour which poiſoned all her enjoyments. Mr. Higgons had ſaid much, and I think, much to the purpoſe, in her vin⯑dication: and was himſelf fully convinced from the te⯑nor of her life, and the words which the ſpoke at the awful cloſe of it, that the was perfectly innocent.—In reading this intereſting oration, I fancied myſelf ſtanding by the grave of injured innocence and beauty; was ſen⯑ſibly touched with the pious affection of the tendereſt and beſt of huſbands doing public and ſolemn juſtice to an ami⯑able and worthy woman, who had been groſsly and pub⯑licly defamed. Nor could I with-hold the tribute of a tear; a tribute which, I am confident, was paid at her in⯑terment by every one who loved virtue, and was not deſti⯑tute of the feelings of humanity. This is what I immedi⯑ately wrote upon reading the oration. If I am wrong in my opinion, the benevolent [...]ader, I am ſure, will forgive me. It is not the firſt time that my heart has got the better of my judgment."’ I am not afraid of being cen⯑ſured for having tranſcribed this beautiful paſſage. N.

This celebrated dramatic poet was the ſon of a clergy⯑man, and bred at Weſtminſter-ſchool under the famous Dr. Buſby, whence he removed to Trinity college in Cambridge; became ſcholar upon that foundation in 1668, and pro⯑ceeded A.B. the ſame year; but not ſucceeding to a fellow⯑ſhip, he quitted the univerſity, and came to London, where he made an unſucceſsful attempt to become an actor in 1672. The part he performed was Duncan in Sir William Dave⯑nant's alteration of Macbeth. Failing in this deſign, he had recourſe to his pen for a ſupport, and, having a genius for the drama, he compoſed a tragedy called "Nero emperor of Rome," in 1675, which being well received, he puſhed on the ſame way, producing a new play almoſt every year one with another, till 1681. Though unſucceſsful in his performance on the ſtage, yet it is obſerved by Cibber, that he read his pieces with a degree of excellence which aſtoniſhed the moſt ca⯑pital actors of that age. Mr. Lee was not only careleſs in his oeconomy, a foible incident to the poetic race, but rakiſhly [...]ravagant: to that degree, as to be frequently plunged into the loweſt depths of miſery: his wit and genius were alſo of the ſame unlucky turn, turgid, unbridled, and apt to break the bounds of ſenſe. Thus gifted by nature, he left the reins looſe to his imagination, till at length indigence and poetical enthuſiaſm tranſported him into madneſs; ſo that, in November 1684, he was taken into Bedlam, where he continued four years under the care of the phyſicians. He was diſcharged in April 1688, being ſo much recovered as to be able to return to his occupation of writing for the ſtage. And he produced two plays afterwards, "The Princeſs of Cleve," in 1689, and "The maſſacre of Paris," the fol⯑lowing year. However, notwithſtanding the profits ariſing from theſe performances, he was this year reduced to ſo low [...]n ebb, that a weekly ſtipend of ten ſhillings from the thea⯑ [...]re royal was his chief dependance. He was not ſo clear of his phrenzy, as not to ſuffer ſome temporary relapſes, and [...]erhaps his untimely end might be occaſioned by one. He died this year, 1690, as it is ſaid, in a drunken frolic, by night in the ſtreet, and was interred in the pariſh of St. Cle⯑ment Danes, near Temple-bar. He is the author of eleven plays, all acted with applauſe, and printed as ſoon as finiſhed, with dedications of moſt of them to the earls of Dorſet, Mul⯑grave, Pembroke, the ducheſſes of Portſmouth and Rich⯑mond, as his patrons. Mr. Addiſon declares, that, among our modern Engliſh poets, there was none better turned for tragedy than our author, if, inſtead of favouring the impe⯑tuoſity of his genius, he had reſtrained it, and kept it within proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully ſuited to tra⯑gedy, but frequently loſt in ſuch a cloud of words, that it is hard to ſee the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but ſo involved in ſmoke, that it does not appear in half its luſtre. He frequently ſucceeds in the paſſionate parts of the tragedy, but more particularly where he ſlackens his efforts, and eaſes the ſtyle of thoſe epithets and meta⯑phors in which he ſo much abounds. His "Rival Queens," and "Theodoſius or the Force of Love," ſtill keep poſſeſſion of the ſtage. Theſe plays excel in moving the paſſions, eſpe⯑cially that univerſal one, love. He is ſaid to be particularly a maſter in that art, and for that reaſon has been compared to Ovid among the ancients, and to Otway among the mo⯑derns. Mr. Dryden prefixed a copy of commendatory verſes to the Rival Queens, and our author joined with that laureat in writing the tragedy of the Duke of Guiſe and that of Oe⯑dipus. Theſe particulars are extracted principally from the Biographical Dictionary. N.

Anne, daughter and coheireſs of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditch⯑ley, in Oxfordſhire; who, having no ſon, left his eſtate to be divided between this lady and her ſiſter Eleanor Counteſs of Abingdon; whoſe memory Mr. Dryden has celebrated in a funeral panegyrick, Poems, vol. II. p. 170. She was the marquis of Wharton's firſt wife, and died without iſſue. The earl of Rocheſter's mother was aunt to her father Sir Henry Lee; for which reaſon Mr. Waller, in his verſes on an elegy made by her on that nobleman's death, (in his Poems, p. 183), ſays, they were allied both in genius and in blood. R.

Eldeſt ſon of ‘"the great high prieſt of all the Nine."’ He was uſher of the palace to Pope Clement XI. at the time his father addreſſed the letter to him which Dr. Johnſon has given to the publick in his "Life of Dryden," p. 343. If the ſtory related of the interruption given to his father's fu⯑neral be true, Charles Dryden's conduct to lord Jefferies, to whom he ſent a challenge, was ſpirited and proper. See "Life of Dryden," p. 129. Charles tranſlated the ſixth ſa⯑tire of Juvenal, and wrote ſeveral poems. He was drowned in the Thames, near Windſor, in 1704. N.

Son of Thomas Cartwright, of Burford, in Oxfordſhire, was born Aug. 16, 1615. This is the account given by Lloyd. But Wood, who may be ſuppoſed well-informed, ſays, he was the ſon of a gentleman of broken fortune, who was re⯑duced to keep an inn at Cirenceſter, in Glouceſterſhire; was born at Northway, near Tewkſbury, in September, 1611; and received the early part of his education at Cirenceſter Free-ſchool: being placed as a king's ſcholar at Weſtminſter, he was elected to Chriſt Church, Oxford, in 1628, where he took the degree of M.A. in 1635. The ſame writer informs us, ‘"he went through the claſſes of Logick and Philoſophy with an unwearied induſtry, took holy orders, and became the moſt florid and ſcraphical preacher in the univerſity. He was another Tully and Virgil, as being moſt excellent for Oratory and Poetry; in which faculties, as alſo in the Greek tongue, he was ſo full and abſolute, that thoſe that beſt knew him, knew not in which he moſt excelled. So admirably well verſed alſo was he in Metaphyſicks, that when he was Reader of them in the Univerſity, the ex⯑poſition of them was never better performed than by him and his predeceſſor Thomas Barlow, of Queen's College. His preaching alſo was ſo graceful, and profound withal, that none of his time or age went beyond him. So that, if the Wits read his Poems, Divines his Sermons, and Philoſophers his Lectures on Ariſtotle's Metaphyſicks, they would ſcarcely believe that he died at a little above thirty years of age. But that which is moſt remarkable is, that theſe his high parts and abilities were accompanied with ſo much candour and ſweetneſs, that they made him equally beloved and admired of all perſons, eſpecially thoſe of the Gown and Court; who eſteemed alſo his life a fair copy of practic piety, a rare example of heroic worth, and in whom Arts, Learning, and Language, made up the true complement of perfection."’ In 1642 biſhop Duppa ap⯑pointed him to be ſuccentor in the church of Saliſbury, and in 1643 he was choſen junior proctor of the univerſity. He was alſo metaphyſical reader to the univerſity. Ben Jonſon ſaid of him, ‘"My ſon Cartwright writes like a man!"’ There are extant, of this author's, four plays, beſides other poems, which were printed together in 1651, accompanied by above fifty copies of commendatory verſes by the wits of the univerſity. A. Wood tells us, Mr. Cartwright wrote alſo, 1. Poëmata Graeca et Latina. 2. An offspring of mercy iſſuing out of the womb of cruelty: a paſſion ſermon, preached at Chriſt Church in Oxford, on Acts ii. 23. 3. On the ſignal days in the month of November, in relation to the crown and royal family: a poem. 4. Poems and verſes containing airs for ſeveral voices, ſet by Mr. Henry Lawes. His "Royal Slave" was acted before the king and queen by his fellow-ſtudents of Chriſt Church; of whom the moſt applauded was Mr. Buſby, afterwards the celebrated maſter of Weſtminſter ſchool. Wit, learning, judgement, elocution, a graceful perſon and behaviour, occaſioned that well-known encomium of him from dean Fell, ‘"That he was the utmoſt man could come to."’ This inſtance of the perfection of human nature was alſo an inſtance of its vanity. He was ſuddenly ſnatched away by a fever, in the prime of life, on the twenty-ninth of November, 1643; and had the honour to be regretted by his ſovereign and his queen, who were in Oxford at the time of his death. See Wood and Granger. Jacob ſays, ‘"Cartwright was a king's ſcholar at Eton under Dr. Olbaſton; eminent for learning and loyalty; an excellent ſcholar, and an admirable poet; expert in the Latin, Greek, French, and Italian languages.’ The wits of Oxford prefixed recommendatory verſes to his Works.—After ſuch eulogiums, it ſeems a kind of poetical blaſphemy to annex the opinion of Dr. King, who ſays, ‘"Cartwright's poems ſeem to me very indifferent!"’ N.

See two poems by Dr. Chetwood, with ſome account of him, p. 29, & ſeq. The MSS. of Mr. Baker have ſince fur⯑niſhed me with the following memoranda: ‘"Knightley Chetwood, extraordinariè electus, born at Coventry, came into the place of Tho. Brinley; chaplain to the lord Dart⯑mouth, to the princeſs of Denmark, and to king James II; prebend of Wells, rector of Broad Riſſington in Glouceſ⯑terſhire, archdeacon of York, nominated biſhop of Briſtol by king James juſt before his abdication; went afterwards chaplain to all the Engliſh forces into Holland under the earl of Marlborough, 1689; commenced D.D. 1691. Dean of Glouceſter."’ Harl. MS. 7038, p. 221.—King James quitted the kingdom before Dr. Chetwood's election to Briſtol paſſed the ſeals. He had an hereditary claim, Jacob ſays, to an ancient barony and ſeat in the houſe of lords. N

†

The temple of Minerva. C.

The let-gate, accounted ominous. C.

Thomas Butler, earl of Oſſory, eldeſt ſon of the duke of Ormond. He was born July 9, 1634; and died July 30, 1680, in the lifetime of his father, leaving behind him the character of one of the beſt and braveſt amongſt the nobility. "His virtue," ſays the writer of his life in the Biographia Britannica, ‘"was unſpotted in the centre of a luxurious court; his integrity unblemiſhed amidſt all the vices of his times, and his honour untainted through the courſe of his whole life."’ R.

Italian rivers. C.

†

French rivers. C.

†

French rivers. C.

‡

Spaniſh. C.

Alluding to the danger of the Proteſtant Religion. N.

†

He was created baron Butler of Moor Park, in 1667; [...]d was afterwards honoured with the Garter. N.

‡

A few days before his death he was nominated com⯑mander of the expedition againſt Tangier, being then a [...]ear-admiral in the king's fleet. N.

His blood. C.

†

His heart. C.

Father to the hero of the preceding poem. He died July 21, 1688, in his 79th year. N.

James, eldeſt ſon of Thomas earl of Oſſory, born April 29, 1665, was ſent to France at ten years of age; and on his return was admitted of Chriſt Church, Oxford, of which uni⯑verſity he was afterwards chancellor. He ſucceeded his grandfather in title and eſtate in 1688; and, after holding many conſiderable poſts under king William and queen Anne, was attainted of high treaſon in 1715; and died in exile at Madrid, November 16, 1745. N.

Born at Canterbury in the reign of Charles I. Her father, whoſe name was Johnſon, being related to lord Wil⯑loughby, was appointed lieutenant-general o [...] S [...]rinam, and embarked for the Weſt Indies with his family whilſt Aphan was very young. He died on his paſſage; but his family arrived at Surinam, where his daughter became acquainted with Prince Oronooko, whoſe ſtory ſhe has given. Soon after her return to England, ſhe was married to Mr. Behn, a merchant of Dutch extraction. She was employed by Charles II, in 1666, in a political negotiation at Antwerp, which ſhe managed with much dexterity; but her intelligence (though well-ſounded) being diſregarded, ſhe renounced all ſtate affairs, and amuſed herſelf ſome time with the gallantries of Antwerp; and, when ſhe arrived at London, dedicated the reſt of her life to pleaſure and poetry. She publiſhed three volumes of miſcellany poems, the firſt in 1684, the ſecond in 1685, and the third in 1688. They conſiſt of ſongs and other little pieces, by the earl of Rocheſter, Sir George Etherege, Mr. Henry Criſp, and others, with ſome pieces of her own. To the ſecond miſcellany, is annexed a tranſlation of the duke of Rochefoucault's Moral Reflections, under the title of "Seneca unmaſked," an edition of which was printed in 1727, in four volumes 12 mo. She wrote alſo ſeventeen plays, ſome hiſtories and novels; and tranſlated M. Fonte⯑nelle's Hiſtory of Oracles, and Plurality of Worlds, to which laſt ſhe annexed an eſſay on tranſlation and tranſlated proſe. The paraphraſe of Oenone's epiſtle to Paris, in the Engliſh tranſlation of Ovid's epiſtles, is Mrs. Behn's; and Mr. Dry⯑den, in his preface to that work, pays her the following compliment: ‘"I was deſired to ſay, that the author, who is of the fair ſex, underſtood not Latin; but if ſhe does not, I am afraid ſhe has given us occaſion to be aſhamed who do."’ She was alſo the authoreſs of the celebrated letters between a nobleman and his ſiſter, printed in London, 1684; and we have extant of hers eight love-letters, to a gentle⯑man whom ſhe paſſionately loved, and with whom ſhe cor⯑reſponded under the name of Lycidas. They are printed in the life and memoirs of Mrs. Behn, prefixed to her hiſtories and novels. She died, after a long indiſpoſition, April 16, 1689, and was buried in the Cloiſters in Weſtminſter-Abbey. There are ſeveral encomiums on Mrs. Behn prefixed to her "Lover's Watch;" and Mr. Gildon, who was inti⯑mately acquainted with our poeteſs, ſpeaks of her in the higheſt terms. Dr. King tells us,

" Aſtraea's lines flow on with ſo much eaſe,

" That ſhe who writes like her muſt ſurely pleaſe."

Yet, pleaſing as they may be, the licentiouſneſs of her dra⯑matic pieces occaſioned the juſt cenſure of Mr. Pope:

" The ſtage how looſely does Aſtraea tread,

" Who fairly puts all characters to-bed!"

Son of Sir John Sedley, of Aylesford, in Kent, where [...]e was born about the year 1639. At 17 years of age, he was a fellow commoner of Wadham college, Oxford; and returned to his own country without taking any degree At the Re⯑ſtoration, he came to London; commenced wit, courtier, poet, and gallant; and was ſo much eſteemed as to be a kind of oracle among the poets. Whilſt the reputation of his wit increaſed, he became poor and debauched, his eſtate was impaired, and his morals much corrupted. In 1663, being fined five hundred [...]ounds for a riot in Bow-ſtreet, he became more ſerious, and applied to politicks.—His daughter Catha⯑rine, having been miſtreſs to James II. before he aſcended the throne, was created counteſs of Dorcheſter, Jan. 2, 1685; and, on that king's abdication, ſhe married the earl of Pe [...] ⯑more. Sir Charles, who looked upon the title as a ſplendid indignity purchaſed at the expence of his daughter's honour, was extremely active in bringing about the Revolution; fre [...] a principle of gratitude, as he ſaid himſelf: ‘"for, ſince his majeſty has made my daughter a counteſs, it is fit I ſhould do all I can to make his daughter a queen."’ He died Aug. 20, 1701. His works, which hear great marks genius, and conſiſt of ſpeeches, political pieces, tranſlation from Virgil and Horace, poems, ſongs, and five plays, were printed in 2 vols. 8vo. 1719, and again in 1722. Among [...] them is a comedy called "The Mulberry Garden," acted at the Theatre Royal 1668. That garden is alſo mentioned in ſeveral other comedies of the laſt century. And Dr. King, in his "Art of Cookery," ver. 83, obſerves,

" A princely palace on that ſpace does riſe,

" Where Sedley's noble Muſe found Mulberries."

At the repreſentation of his comedy of "Bellamira," the roof of the play-houſe ſell down; by which Sir Charles and a few others were hurt. His merry friend Sir Fleetwood Shepheard obſerved to him on this occaſion, ‘"There was ſo much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, houſe and all."’ —"No," returned the baronet, ‘"the play was ſo heavy, it broke down the houſe, and buried the poet in his own rubbiſh."’ Sir Carr Scrope's ſong, which is printed in this volume, p. 16, has, from a ſimilarity of their initials, been erroneouſly aſcribed to Sir Charles Sedley. N.

Son of William and Bridget. He was born at Hagley in Worceſterſhire, September 15, 1659; educated at Eton ſchool, and elected from that foundation to a ſcholarſhip in King's College, Cambridge, Dec. 22, 1677. He went out B.A. Oct. 10, 1681; and Maſter at the uſual time following, viz. about 1684. In 1687, he and others were delegated by the ſenate, to adviſe the vice-chancellor to offer a petition to his majeſty, to revoke his mandate to Fa⯑ther Alban Francis, a Benedictine monk, for his degree of M.A. without taking the uſual oath: which had its effect. In February 1687-88, he married Mrs. Abigail Southal, d [...]ghter to Mr. George Southal rector of Endfield in Staf⯑fordſhire; was preſented to that rectory; and reſigned his fel⯑lowſhip of King's College, June 5, 1688. His reſignation is ſealed with a griffin ſegreant: but it does not ſeem to be meant for coat armour; and is witneſſed by William [...]owles ſenior, Samuel and Thomas Palmer. On the 19th of Auguſt 1695 (Willis's Cath. vol. I. p. 448) he was collated by W. Lloyd, biſhop of Litchfield, to the prebend of Gaia M [...]nor in his cathedral, which he vacated by his death in 1705. His elder brother Henry Bowles, fellow of King's College alſo, ſucceeded him in the living of Endfield. He was e [...]eemed a moſt complete ſcholar, and a great poet. Carter, in his "Hiſtory of Cambridge," p. 150, ſays, from [...] information, that ‘"he wrote ſeveral poems and tranſla⯑tions."’ I am indebted to the kind communication of the Reverend Mr. Cole for moſt of the above particulars; to which Mr. Baker's valuable MSS. enable me to add, that ‘"Henry Bowles was born at Hagley in the county of Wor⯑ceſter; moderator in the ſophiſters ſchools anno 1683; ſenior fellow 1690; ſchoolmaſter at Stourbridge in Wor⯑ceſterſhire 1691; burſar 1695, and proctor 1697; vice-provoſt 1705; ſucceeded his brother in the rectorſhip of Endfield;"’ and that ‘"William Bowles, brother to Henry, was born in the ſame place; married and reſigned 1638; being beneficed at Endfield in Worceſterſhire; [q. Staf⯑fordſhire?] died 1705."’ Mr. William Bowles the anti⯑quary (poſſibly their father) died Feb. 11, 1738. N.

This Idyllium is generally excluded by the critics from the number of the paſtorals; but is conſidered as ſuch by Mr. Fawkes, in his tranſlation of the Syracuſan bard. I am aware that in the preface to that elegant performance, not only this of Mr. Bowles, but all former verſions of Theocritus, are re⯑probated, as ſounding harſhly in the poliſhed [...]ars of the preſent age. How far the poetry of Bowles deſerves this cenſure, let the reader determine. N.

This paſſage, as Mr. Fawkes obſerves, is literally adopted [...] Virgil. Ecl. X. 39. "Et nigrae violae ſunt," &c. N.

A baſtard ſon of Midas, whoſe hiſtory is given by Mr. Fawkes. N.

Imitated by Theocritus (Idyll. XIX.) from Anacreon, [...] XI. both of which poems are excellently tranſlated by [...] Fawkes. N.

He carried away her ſiſter Phaedra. B.

†

Mr. Fawkes's tranſlation of this Idyllium is admirable. There is alſo a beautiful imitation of it, in the manner of Spenſer, in "The Union," p. 94. N.

A double meaning is here intended in the original; [...], the name of Cyniſca's lover, ſignifying likewiſe a wolf. See Fawkes. N.

From hence to the concluſion is rather an original poem than a tranſlation of Theocritus, who concludes with a noble poetical encomium on Ptolemy, to which Mr. Fawkes has annexed in proſe the favourable ſide of his character, as it is given by the hiſtorian. N.

The Herculean way raiſed by Hercules in his return from Spain. B.

†

Sibyl. B.

‡

Placed by ſome near Naples. B.

Pauſilypus and Neſis are the names of two promontories near Naples. B.

Parthenope. B.

†

A colony of Euboeans from Chalcis built Cumè and Naples. B.

Johannes Jovianus Pontanus, an Italian ſtateſman under Alphonſus the younger, king of Arragon. Beſides ſome Latin poems, he wrote the hiſtory of the wars of Ferdinand I, and John of Anjou. He was born in 1426, and died in 1503. R.

†

His poem called Urania. B.

‡

Veſuvius. B.

‖

Frederick king of Naples. See Guicciardini. B.

See Mr. Waller on the ſame ſubject, Poems, p. 145. N.

†

Sidney Godolphin, eſq. a younger brother of an ancient family in Cornwall, was choſen burgeſs for Helſton in 1661, and for ſeveral parliaments afterward; was appointed a com⯑miſſioner of the treaſury in 1671; made ſecretary of ſtate, April 7, 1684; placed at the head of the treaſury, Aug. 25; and created baron Godolphin of Rialton, Sept. 8. On the acceſſion of king James, he was conſtituted lord chamberlain to the queen, continued a commiſſioner of the treaſury, and was much favoured by the king, who appointed him a com⯑miſſioner to treat with the prince of Orange; on whoſe ad⯑vancement to the throne, he was ſtill continued a commiſ⯑ſioner of the treaſury, and was four times one of the lords juſtices in that reign. He was appointed lord treaſurer by [...] Anne, May 12, 1702; elected knight of the Garter, July 6, 1704; created viſcount Rialton and earl of Godol⯑phin, Dec. 5, 1706; diſmiſſed from all employments, Aug. 8, 1710; and died of the ſtone (with which he had been for many years afflicted) at the duke of Marlborough's ſeat near St. Alban's, Sept. 15, 1712. See the particulars of h [...]s poli⯑tical character, in the "Supplement to Swift." Bp. Burnet ſays, ‘"He was the ſilenteſt and modeſteſt man that was, perhaps, ever bred in a court."’—Notwithſtanding he poſ⯑ſeſſed abilities of the firſt rate as a Stateſman, he was re⯑markably attached to Horſe-racing. To this part of his cha⯑racter Mr. Pope alludes, Moral Eſſays, Ep. i. 81.

" Who would not praiſe PATRICIO's high deſert,
" His hand unſtain'd, his uncorrupted heart,
" His comprehenſive head! all intereſts weigh'd,
" All Europe ſav'd, yet Britain not betray'd?
" He thanks you not; his pride is in piquette,
" Newmarket-fame, and judgement at a bett."

Beſides the poem here printed, Jacob ſays, he was author of, 1. "Cupid's Paſtime;" 2. "The Paſſion of Dido for Aeneas;" 3. "A Fable, of the Beaſts ſick of the Plague." That "Cupid's Paſtime," however, was not by lord Godol⯑phin, ſee Dr. Percy's Reliques, vol. I. p. 317; and "The Paſſion of Dido for Aeneas" was written, in conjunc⯑tion with Waller, by Sidney Godolphin, who died in Febru⯑ary 1642-3. See Wood's Athenae, vol. II. p. 23. The miſ⯑take of Jacob evidently aroſe from there having been two Sidneys. N.

A gentleman born in the North of England. On quit⯑ting the Univerſity, he became a member of Gray's Inn, and ſucceeded Mr. Shadwell as hiſtoriographer to K. William III. He wrote "The Engliſh Monarch," an heroic tragedy, 1678; ſeveral poems and tranſlations; and "A View of the Tragedies of the laſt Age," which occaſioned thoſe admi⯑rable Remarks preſerved in the preface to Mr. Colman's edi⯑tion of Beaumont and Fletcher, and ſince by Dr. Johnſon in his "Life of Dryden," p. 316. On Mr. Rymer's Poetry much commendation cannot be beſtowed, and therefore only a ſmall portion of it is ſelected; but he was an excellent Antiquary and Hiſtorian. Some of his pieces relating to our Conſtitu⯑tion are very good; and his valuable collection of the "Foedera," &c. will be a laſting monument of his worth. He died December 14, 1713. N.

This celebrated French wit (the favourite of three ſuc⯑ceſſive kings of England) died at London, in his 91ſt year, Sept. 9, 1703. His Works are printed in 7 vols. 1726. N.

John Riley was born in London, in 1646. He was one of the beſt native painters that had, until very lately, flouriſhed in England. His ſtyle of painting was agreeable, and his co⯑louring extremely pleaſing; but, by being preceded by ſeveral eminent artiſts in his profeſſion, ſuch as Vandyck, Dobſon, and Lely, and contemporary with Kneller, his reputation was not advanced in proportion to his merit; nor did his works engage the public attention ſo much as they really de⯑ſerved. A very good judge ſays, ‘"He made nature his principal ſtudy, without adopting the manner of any maſter, and as far as he thought it prudent, he improved or embel⯑liſhed it in his pictures; and, like many other men of ge⯑nius, he ſeems to be more reſpected by poſterity, than by the age in which he flouriſhed."’ He died in the year 1691. R.

A younger ſon of Sir Thomas Higgons (already men⯑tioned, p. 42) by Bridget his ſecond wife. At the age of 16, he became a commoner of St. John's College, Oxford, in Lent term 1686; and went afterwards to Cambridge. Wood enumerates five of his poems. He wrote ſome others; and was the author of a tragedy, intituled, "The Generous Conqueror, or the Timely Diſcovery," acted at Drury Lane, and printed in 4to, 1702. See the prologue to this tragedy in Lord Lanſdowne's Poems, p. 220. He was a ſteady adherent to the cauſe of the exiled family; and ac⯑companied K. James into France, where he maintained his wit and good-humour undepreſſed by his misfortunes. On the publication of Biſhop Burnet's Hiſtory of his own Times, he wrote ſome ſtrictures on it, in a volume, intituled, "Hiſto⯑rical and Critical Remarks;" the ſecond edition of which was printed in 8vo, 1727; and, in the ſame year, publiſhed "A ſhort View of the Engliſh Hiſtory; with Reflections, Political, Hiſtorical, Civil, Phyſical, and Moral; on the Reigns of the Kings; their Characters, and Manners; their Succeſſions to the Throne, and all other remarkable Incidents to the Revolution 1688. Drawn from authentic Memoirs and MSS. By B. Higgons, of The Middle Temple, Eſq."—"Theſe papers," he tells us in his Pre⯑ [...], ‘"lay covered with duſt 36 years, till every perſon con⯑cerned in the tranſactions mentioned was removed from the ſtage."’ He died the 1ſt of March, 1735. N.

†

Weſtminſter-Abbey. N.

See a beautiful "Ode on Solitude," by Mr. Hammond, in the Poems of Lord Roſcommon, p. 238. N.

So printed by Dryden. Q. Antique, or [...]. N.

Son of Sir Charles Wolſeley of Staffordſhire, a zealous parliamentarian, who for his ſervices was made one of Crom⯑well's lords. Robert was a younger brother; and, being in favour with King William, was ſent envoy to Bruſſels about the year 1693. He was very much the man of pleaſure, and occaſionally invoked the Muſe. He wrote the extraordinary Preface to Lord Rocheſter's Valentinian; a tranſlation from the ſixth book of Virgil, on Aeneas's meeting with Dido, not worth preſerving; and ſome other little pieces. The poem here printed is an alluſion to Tacitus de Vitâ Agricolae. N.

Recorder of the town of Cambridge, and one of their repreſentatives in parliament all king William's and part of queen Anne's reign. He died in January 1712. N.

Heſiod.

†

Cowley▪

An officer of the army, devoted to Parnaſſus, of ſtrong propenſity to mirth and pleaſure. His poetical performances abound in low humour. That which is here given as a ſpe⯑cimen, being perhaps as unexceptionable as any other of this author's productions, is retained for the ſake of the anecdotes it furniſhes. "The Ramble," and "A Call to the Guard by a Drum," are the titles of two others. N.

The celebrated aſtrologer of the laſt century. N.

Davenant and Dryden, both laureats, are here the ob⯑j [...]cts of our poet's ſatire. N.

†

Alluding to two lines in Dryden's poem called "Aſtraea Redux:"

" An horrid ſtilneſs firſt invades the ear,

" And in that ſilence we a tempeſt fear;"

which are ridiculed in "The Rehearſal," A. 5.

" But ſtay, what ſound is this invades our ears?"

The Key, however, to that witty performance refers to the following lines in "The Siege of Rhodes," as thoſe intended to be burleſqued:

" What various noiſes do my ears invade,

" And have a concert of confuſion made!"

‡

A line in one of Mr. Dryden's Plays is here alluded to. R.

See the Earl of Rocheſter's Poems, p. 318. N.

†

Shadwell.

‡

Sir George Etherege; of whom and of Shadwell, ſome account will be given hereafter. N.

Mr. Wicherley; alluding to his Plain Dealer." N.

‖

Nat Lee. See above, p. 46. His lunacy is compared by Langbaine to the Divine Fury mentioned by Ovid, ‘" Eſt Deus in nobis, agitante caleſcimus illo."’ The deſcription of madneſs in his "Caeſar Borgia," is admi⯑rably fine. N.

This was Sir Robert Howard, author of "The Com⯑mittee" and other pieces, and related to Mr. Dryden by that author's marriage. He had a controverſy with Mr. Dryden on the propriety of verſe in dramatic entertainments. In the dedication of his works, he ſays ‘"that rhyme is ſuch a confinement to a quick and luxuriant fancy, that it gives a ſtop to its ſpeed till ſlow judgment comes in to aſſiſt it."’ And again, ‘"Verſes (I mean good ones) do, in their height of fancy, declare the labour that brought them forth like majeſty that grows with care; and nature, that made the poet capable, ſeems to retire and leave its offers to be made perfect by pains and judgment."’ Theſe paſ⯑ſages appear to be alluded to above. See an account of Sir Robert, p. 147. R.

†

Mrs. Behn. See above, p. 85. N.

‡

Mr. Hoyl.

A younger ſon of Thomas earl of Berkſhire, and edu⯑cated at Magdalen College in Oxford. During the civil wars he was a zealous royaliſt; and was knighted at the Reſtora⯑tion, and rewarded by the office of auditor of the exchequer. He was choſen member for Stockbridge in 1661; and for Caſtle Riſing in 1679 and 1688. He was ſo ſtrong an ad⯑vocate for the Revolution, as to diſclaim all manner of con⯑verſation with the Nonjurors; and, by his obſtinacy and pride, made many enemies. His patron the duke of Buck⯑ingham had in 1663 expoſed him under the name of Bilboa in "The Rehearſal;" but afterwards altered his reſolution, and leveled his ridicule at a much greater name, under that of Bayes. He was alſo ridiculed in Shadwell's "Sullen Lovers." 1670, under the name of Sir Poſitive At-all. He publiſhed ſix plays, a volume of poems, and ſome treatiſes in proſe; was four times married; and died Sept. 3, 1698.—In Dryden, vol. II. p. 117, is a beautiful epiſtle "To my ho⯑noured Friend Sir R. Howard, on his excellent Poems." N.

Sir Robert Howard was author of an excellent poem "againſt the Fear of Death;" which gained him a conſide⯑rable degree of reputation. N.

†

George Villiers, duke of Buckingham, a noble writer, a man of great wit and humour, and of the moſt whimſical ca⯑price, was the admiration and the jeſt of the reign of Charles II. He was the alchemiſt and the philoſopher; the fiddler and the poet; the mimic and the ſtateſman. He has left us a ſpecimen of his admirable wit in "The Rehearſal," which had a conſiderable effect in reforming the ſtage. It was finiſhed before the end of 1664; but the great plague and other accidents prevented its being acted before 1671. He is ſaid to have been aſſiſted in this comedy by Dr. Spratt, Mr. Clifford, and the celebrated author of Hudibras.—The duke was born Jan. 30, 1627, the year before his fa⯑ther's aſſaſſination. After many ſufferings in the royal cauſe, he ſolicited one of the daughters of Cromwell in mar⯑riage; but was mortified with a denial. He afterwards mar⯑ried the only daughter of lord Fairfax, and was ſoon commit⯑ted to The Tower by the protector. On the Reſtoration, he was at firſt ſlighted by the king; but the charms of his wit and converſation ſoon prevailed, and he was appointed a lord of the bed-chamber. In May 1668, he purchaſed the office of maſter of the horſe; was inſtalled chancellor of Cambridge, June 7, 1671, and deprived of that office in 1674. He died, in contempt and miſery, April 16, 1688; a melancholy ex⯑ample of the proſtitution of talents. His end is pathetically deſcribed in Mr. Pope's Epiſtle to Lord Bathurſt. And ſee ſome further particulars of a peer, ‘"who was of ſo great and at the ſame time of ſo little a character,"’ in Granger, vol. III. p. 192. His Works were publiſhed in 1775, in 2 vols. 8vo. N.

The tyrant of Sicily, and ſon of a potter. N.

M. Menage (who for his great learning was called ‘"The Varro of the 17th century"’) ſet out in life in the poſt of king's advocate at Angers; but ſoon exchanged the Law for the Church, where he cultivated an acquaintance with the beautiful, the learned, and the great. Beſides [...] number of other ingenious performances, he p [...]liſhed at Paris, in 1652, a quarto volume of "Miſcellanea;" a col⯑lection of ſeveral pieces, in Greek, Latin, and French, in proſe as well as verſe, compoſed by him on different occaſions; among which was "La Requeſte des Diction⯑naires," one of the moſt ingenious pieces of raillery that ever was written; making all the Dictionaries complain that the Academy's Dictionary will be their ruin, and join in an humble petition to prevent it. It prevented, however, the ingenious author's obtaining a place in the Academy. He died July 23, 1692, at the age of 79. N.

In imitation of Catullus, Epig. XXXIV. N.

Half-brother to Bp. Wilkins. He was born at Fawſley in Northamptonſhire, and elected from Weſtminſter-ſchool to Trinity College, Cambridge, 1645. He was afterward a ſcholar of Wadham College, Oxford, where he took the de⯑gree of B.A. July 6, 1649; was admitted probationer fel⯑low July 3, 1651; and commenced B.A. on the 10th of the ſame month. In 1658, being junior proctor, an attempt was made to abrogate the ſtatute for wearing caps and hoods. Th [...]s was fruſtrated by his firmneſs, which he called ‘"the moſt glorious action of his life."’ While Mr. Pope was in his proctorſhip, Mr. Sprat (afterwards biſhop) addreſſed to him "The Plague of Athens;" which fixes the date of that poem to 1658. He was appointed dean of Wadham College in 1660; aſtronomy profeſſor in Greſham College, March 8, 1660-1; created doctor of phyſic, Sept. 12, 1661; was ob⯑liged to give up his fellowſhip, June 27, 1662, as incompati⯑ble with the profeſſorſhip. He was choſen one of the firſt fel⯑lows of the Royal Society, May 20, 1663; and ſoon after had licenſe to travel for two years, during which time he made the tour of Italy. After the great fire, Sept. 2, 1666, the principal lodgings in Greſham College were taken up by the lord mayor and other perſons of note; but thoſe of Dr. Pope were preſerved for the uſe of the profeſſors and the Royal Society, who firſt aſſembled there on Tueſday the 11th of that month, but ſoon after removed to Arundel-Houſe in the Strand. Dr. Pope was choſen into the council of the Royal Society in 1667; and appointed regiſter of the dioceſe of Cheſter, March 16, 1668. He publiſhed, in 1670, "The Memoirs of Monſieur Du Vall, with his laſt Speech and Epitaph." [Claude Du Vall, a native of Normandy, was a briſk handſome fellow; but, being a notorious highway-man, was hanged at Tyburn, Jan. 21, 1669; and in this pamphlet the Doctor humourouſly raillied the faſhion, then prevalent among the ladies, of admiring Frenchmen.] In 1686, Dr. Pope had very nearly loſt his ſight by an inflam⯑mation which had been of many years continuance; but was cured by Dr. Turbervill, as he handſomely acknowledges in the epitaph he wrote on that eminent oculiſt. He reſigned his profeſſorſhip, Sept. 21, 1687; and in 1693 publiſhed "The Wiſh," a well-known little poem. On the 16th of November that year he loſt all his books, by a fire in Lom⯑bard-ſtreet. He publiſhed the "Life of Bp. Ward in 1697;" and "Moral and Political Fables" in 1698. The next year he withdrew from the Royal Society, and reſided principally at Epſom; but ſettled at laſt in Buning-fields, in the ſuburbs of London, where he died at a very advanced age, and was buried at Cripplegate Church, June 25, 1714. He wrote a copy of Verſes upon Anne Green, who was executed at Ox⯑ford, Dec. 14, 1650; and afterwards revived. [A narrative of this fact was printed at Oxford in 1651, 4to. intituled, "News from the Dead, &c.," reprinted in Morgan's "Phoe⯑nix Britannicus." See likewiſe in Heath's Chronicle, p. 278; Plot's Natural Hiſtory of Oxfordſhire, p. 201; and Warton's "Life of Dr. Bathurſt." Sir Wm. Petty was one chiefly concerned in recovering her]. Dr. Pope was author of ſeveral humourous ballads, and of many ſerious treatiſes in proſe; which are enumerated in Dr. Ward's Lives of the Greſham Profeſſors; of which a valuable copy, with large MS additions by the author, is in The Britiſh Muſeum. N.

Some additional ſtanzas to this poem were handed about in MS. in 1685, which were taken notice of by "The Obſer⯑vator."—It was afterwards enlarged to twenty ſtanzas, and publiſhed, in folio, 1693, under the title of "The Wiſh;" a poem which, if it had no other merit, deſerves the higheſt praiſe, for having given riſe to the truly claſſical imitation of it in the Latin poems of a diſtinguiſhed ornament of Weſt⯑minſter School, the late Mr. Vincent Bourne. N.

This Epiſtle, it muſt be owned, furniſhes numerous ex⯑amples of the falſe ſublime: it is preſerved, however, as con⯑taining a poetical ſpirit, though wretchedly expreſſed. N.

"A Lady's New Year's Gift, or Advice to a Daughter," by Lord Halifax, printed in his Miſcellanies, 8vo, 1704. N.

Prefixed to "The Poems of John Hoddeſdon, London, 12mo. 1650."—Neither theſe verſes, nor the prologue and two epilogues to "The Duke of Guiſe," having yet found admittance among the Works of this great Poet; I am happy in being thus able to ſupply the deficiency; and of obſerving, that he was not the author of "An Elegy on the Uſurper O. C. by the Author of Abſalom and Achitophel, publiſhed to ſhew the Loyalty and Integrity of the Poet. 1681;" nor of "The Addreſs of John Dryden, Laureat, to his Highneſs the Prince of Orange, 1689;" nor of the "Familiar Epiſtle to Julian," (erroneouſly aſcribed to him in the ſixth volume of his Miſcellanies publiſhed by Tonſon after the death of the perſon whoſe name they bear, and ſince continued in every edition of his Works. See vol. II. 1778, p. 157.) which was originally publiſhed about 1683, under the title of "An Exclamation againſt Julian, Secretary of the Muſes; with the Character of a Libeller [Sir Charles Scrope]. By a Perſon of Quality [Lord Mulgrave]." Having the original edition before me, I think it neceſſary to point out the following material errors in that of 1778: P. 157. l. 15. r. "leaves"—l. 23. r. "wight"—l. 26. r. "ſhe ſung Euphelia's"—P. 158. l. 20. r. "his ſelf-love,"—l. 21. r. "He dares"—l. 23. r. "the leaſt"—After l. 27, r.

" But, by the monthly flowers diſcharg'd abroad,
" 'Tis full, brimfull of Paſtoral and Ode.
" Erewhile he honour'd Birtha," &c.

P. 159. l. 7. r. "his ſquinting looks"—l. 8. r. "The very." P. 160. l. ult. r. "His miſtreſs loſt, yet ſtill his pen," &c.

I have been told that there is a poem by Dryden in the "Epithalamia Cantabrigienſia, 1662;" which I never ſaw. N.

The actreſs, who ſpake the epilogue. N.

Langbaine ſays, this play found many enemies at its firſt appearance on the Stage. N.

Hence Mr. Pope's couplet, Eſſay on Criticiſm, ver. 543.

" The modeſt fan was lifted up no more,

" And virgins ſmil'd at what they bluſh'd before."

This celebrated wit was born near London about the year 1634; and, after receiving ſome part of his education at Cambridge, travelled into France and Flanders. At his return, he ſtudied the law for ſome time; which he ſoon ex⯑changed for the belles lettres, and commenced dramatic writer in 1664. His firſt comedy, "The Comical Re⯑venge," ſecured to him the general eſteem of the publick. He was married young to a widow of conſiderable fortune, who would not conſent to the match unleſs he could make her a lady by obtaining the honour of knighthood; which he applied for, and ſucceeded. His accompliſhments pro⯑cured him the favour of James the Second's queen, to whom (whilſt ſhe was only daughter of the duke of Modena) he had dedicated his "Man of Mode," 1676; and, by her in⯑tereſt and recommendation, he was ſent envoy to Hamburgh. On the Revolution he followed the fortunes of James II. and died either in France, or very ſoon after his arrival in Eng⯑land from thence; but there was a report that he came to an untimely end by an accident in conſequence of inebriation after a ſocial dinner he had given to ſome friends at Ratiſbon. He wrote three plays, and a number of ſprightly poems. N.

Margaret, youngeſt daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, married to the marquis (afterwards duke) of Newcaſtle in 1645. Jacob ſays, ſhe had a great deal of wit, and was the moſt voluminous dramatic writer of our female poets; and Langhaine tells us, that all the language and plots of her plays were her own, a commendation which will atone for ſ [...]me faults in her numerous productions; conſiſting of let⯑ters, plays, poems, philoſophical diſcourſes, and orations; all which are enumerated in Ballard's "Memoirs of learned Ladies." Amongſt them are, "Poems and Phancies," fol. 1 [...] and 1664; 19 plays; her own life 1656, and that of the duke her huſband 1667. Mr. Ballard alſo refers to two volumes of her Grace's poems in MS. She was buried in Weſtminſter-Abbey, Jan. 7, 1673-4. N.

I cannot diſcover theſe initials. N.

This polite and elegant writer, who was born at Amiens in 1591, and died in 1648, was famous for introducing new and eaſy graces into the French language, and giving a more agreeable turn to many trite and familiar modes of expreſſion, by a happineſs peculiar to himſelf. His irony has been par⯑ticularly admired for its ſingularity and addreſs; but it has been obſerved, that few authors have ſuffered ſo much by tranſlation, his native beauties being of too delicate a kind to be copied in a foreign language. Voiture, as well as the courtly Waller, was the poet of the ſair; and both, Mr. Granger obſerves, have celebrated the charming counteſs of Carliſle. N.

I am ſorry that I cannot trace out the author of this ex⯑cellent poem. N.

"All for Love, or the World well loſt," a tragedy by Mr. Dryden, 1678, in imitation of Shakſpeare's "Anthony and Cleopatra." N.

†

See the "Fable of Sigiſmonda and Guiſcardo," in Dry⯑den's Poems, vol. III. p. 228. N.

‘"Younger brother of Sir Scroop Howe, a good family in Nottinghamſhire; but this gentleman ſettled in Glouceſter⯑ſhire, where being choſen a member of parliament, he ſoon made a good figure in the Houſe of Commons. He ſeemed to be pleaſed with, and joined in the Revolution, and was made vice-chamberlain to Queen Mary; but having aſked a grant, which was refuſed him, and given to Lord Portland, he fell from the court, and was all that reign the moſt violent and open antagoniſt King William had in the Houſe. A great enemy to Foreigners ſettling in England; moſt clauſes in acts againſt them being brought in by him. He is indefatigable in whatever he undertakes; witneſs the Old Eaſt India Company, whoſe cauſe he maintained till he fixed it upon as ſure a foot as the New; even when they thought themſelves paſt recovery. He lives up to what his viſible eſtate can afford; and yet purchaſes, inſtead of run⯑ning in debt. He is endued with good natural parts, at⯑tended with an unaccountable boldneſs; daring to ſay what he pleaſes, and will be heard out; ſo that he paſſeth with ſome for the ſhrew of the Houſe. On the Queen's acceſſion to the throne, he was made a privy-counſellor; and pay⯑maſter of the guards and garriſons. He is a tall, thin, pale-faced man, with a very wild look; brave in his perſon, bold in expreſſing himſelf, a violent enemy, a ſure friend, and ſeems to be always in a hurry. Near fifty years old."’ Such is the character given of this gentleman by Macky in 1703.—Mr. Howe was author of "A Panegyric on King William," and of ſeveral little poems; and is introduced in Swift's celebrated little ballad "On the Game of Traffic:"

" My Lord, to find out who muſt deal,
" Delivers cards about;
" But the firſt knave does ſeldom fail
" To find the Doctor out.
" But then his Honour cry'd, Gadzooks!
" And ſeem'd to knit his brow:
" For on a knave he never looks,
" But he thinks upon JACK How."

Sir Robert Sawyer, Attorney General from 1681 to 1687. He was the manager for James the Second in depriving the city of London of its charter. Burnet repreſents him as a dull hot man, and forward to ſerve all the deſigns of the court; Granger, as a man of general learning, and of an in⯑tegrity that nothing could corrupt. He died at Highcleer, in Hampſhire, 1692. His only daughter married the earl of Pembroke. R.

†

Sir William Williams had been Speaker of two ſuc⯑ceſſive parliaments, a zealous promoter of the Excluſion bill, and a bold pleader in all cauſes againſt the court. Burne [...] ſays, he was a corrupt and vicious man, who had no prin⯑ciples, but followed his own intereſts. At the latter part of king James's reign, he veered towards the court, was ap⯑pointed Solicitor General, and had the management of the famous Trial of the Seven Biſhops wholly given to him. After this period he ſunk into obſcurity, and we hear no more of him. R.

Born near Sherborne in Dorſetſhire in 1659, and bred up at the Free-ſchool in that town, under Mr. Curganven, to whom he gratefully inſcribed an Idyllium of Theocritus. He was ſent by Colonel Strangeways to Wadham College in Oxford, where he was admitted a ſcholar on the foundation 1675, and took the degree of B.A. June 13, 1683. The reputation acquired by his Lucretius, which he publiſhed when very young, recommended him to All Souls College, where he was elected Fellow in 1689; proceeded B.D. March 18, 1696; and was preſented by that College to the living of Welwyn in Hertfordſhire; but, through ſome diſ⯑appointment either in love or in his expectations, laid violent hands on himſelf in 1701, before he had taken poſſeſſion of his living. "He was a man," ſays Jacob, ‘"of excellent parts, ſound judgement, and perfectly maſter of the Greek and Latin languages; but naturally of a moroſe temper, and too apt to deſpiſe the underſtandings and performances of others. This made him leſs eſteemed than his great merit deſerved; and his reſentments on this account fre⯑quently engaged him in thoſe heats and diſputes which in the end proved fatal to him."’ On his father's monument at Blandford, he is called ‘"The learned, much-admired, and much-envied Mr. Creech."’—He tranſlated Lucretius, Theocritus, and Horace; ſome eclogues of Virgil; and ſome of the ſatires of Juvenal. N.

There is no line correſponding with this in any edition that I have ſeen. N.

Lucius Cary, eldeſt ſon of the firſt lord viſcount of Falkland, was born about 1610; and received his academical learning firſt at Trinity College Dublin, and then at St. John's Cambridge. He entered early into the ſervice of Charles I; and was ſhot at the battle of Newbury, Sept. 20, 1643. ‘"The character of Lord Falkland by the Earl of Clarendon is the completeſt, if not the fineſt, of any in his admirable hiſtory. He is repreſented as an aſſemblage of almoſt every virtue and excellency that can dignify or adorn a man. This encomium is doubtleſs ſomewhat ex⯑aggerated; but there ſeems to be much truth in it with reſpect to the private part of his life, as it appears to have been taken from near and repeated views. A great man in public rather appears to be what it is his intereſt or in⯑clination to be thought, than what he is. The Earl of Clarendon, who knew Lord Falkland in private life, ſeems therefore to have given us a juſter portrait of him than if he had ſeen him only in his public character. It muſt be acknowledged, that he has drawn him to great advantage: but we are not to impute this to the leaſt diſregard to truth, but to the amiable lights in which his friendſhip had placed him. A friend who draws the portrait of another friend, is apt to beſtow as much heightening upon it as a painter would in finiſhing the picture of his miſ⯑treſs."’ This extract from Mr. Granger is given without the moſt diſtant inclination of ‘"throwing a ſhade on a virtue the brighteſt and pureſt that hath done honour to theſe later ages;"’ [ſee Bp. Hurd's excellent Dialogues, vol. I. p. 78.]—Before he was twenty-three years of age, he had read over all the Greek and Latin fathers, and was inde⯑fatigable in collecting books of value. He has given ſpecimens of his own abilities as a poet, a politician, and a polemic writer; but his "Diſcourſe of the Infallibility of the Church of Rome," which is written in an eaſy and familiar ſtyle, without the leaſt affectation of learning, is the moſt conſiderable of his Works. It is remarked by Doctor Swift, that in ſome of Lord Falkland's writings, ‘"when he doubted whether a word was perfectly intelligible or no, he uſed to conſult one of his lady's chambermaids (not the waiting-woman, becauſe it was poſſible ſhe might be converſant in romances), and by her judgment was guided whether to receive or reject it."’ N.

†

Ben Jonſon, a moſt celebrated Engliſh poet in his time, died Aug. 6, 1637, in his 63d year. He is gene⯑rally repreſented as ſurly and moroſe by the writers of the preſent time, though, from the attention ſhewn to him by his contemporaries, it might be ſuſpected that the charge was not well founded. Certain it is that he died much lamented; and in the beginning of 1638 his memory was embalmed by the tears of the Muſes, in a collection of elegies and poems under the title of "Jonſonius Virbius, or The Memorie of Ben Jonſon revived by the Friends of the Muſes." In this collection were poems by moſt of the men of genius of that age. One by Mr. Waller is in his Poems, p. 104; another by Cartwright in this volume, p. 63. Thoſe of the Lords Falkland and Buckhurſt, Bp. King, and Dr. Mayne, are here exhibited. Sir John Beaumont, Sir Thomas Hawkins, H. Coventry, T. May, D. Diggs, G. Forteſcue, W. Abington, J. Vernon, J. Butler, Owen Feltham (who had been a very violent enemy to him), G. Donne, Shackerley Marmion, J. Ford (with whom he had the literary alter [...]ation mentioned in Shakſpeare, edit. 1778, vol I. p. 219.), R. Brideoake, R. Weſt, R. Meade, H. Ramſay, Sir Fr. Wortley, T. Terrent, W. Bew, S. Evans, R. Warying the author of "Effigies Amoris," James Howel, and ſome others, employed their pens in this collection; which was publiſhed by Dr. Duppa, biſhop of Chicheſter, and tutor to Charles II. then prince of Wales. N.

Apollo. N.

King Charles and his Queen condeſcended to take a part in ſome of Jonſon's Maſques; as Queen Elizabeth and the Queen of James had done before them. N.

Waller and Mayne are the only two of this ſett whoſe Muſes were inſpired on this occaſion. See a ſpecimen of Go⯑dolphin's poetry, p. 116; and of Mayne's, p. 252. Digby, Carew, and Killigrew, will appear in a future volume. N.

Richard Lord Buckhurſt (a nobleman unnoticed in the "Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors") obtained the title of Earl of Dorſet in 1652, on the death of Edward his father (who is mentioned by Mr. Walpole with reſpect, vol. II. p. 96). He died in Auguſt 1677, and was ſucceeded in the title by Charles the celebrated poet. N.

†

Son of Dr. John King, biſhop of London from 1611 to 1621. Henry was born in January 1591; educated partly at Thame, and partly at Weſtminſter; elected ſtudent of Chriſt Church in 1608. He was made chaplain to James I. archdeacon of Colcheſter, reſidentiary of St. Paul's, and canon of Chriſt Church; D.D. in 1625; chaplain to Charles I; dean of Rocheſter in 1638; and in 1641, when epiſcopacy was ſinking, was advanced to the biſhoprick of Cheſter, "it being conceived," ſays Jacob, ‘"the moſt ef⯑fectual method for the reſtitution of that order, to prefer perſons not only of unblam [...]able lives and eminent for their learning, but alſo ſuch a were generally beloved by all diſintereſted people. The king's choice amongſt theſe was very happy in this great Divine, who lived a moſt religious life, and did not die till after his order was re⯑ſtored."’ His death happened October 1, 1669; after having publiſhed a new metrical tranſlation of the Pſalms, 1651, 12mo; "Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, Sonnets, 1657," 8vo; "Divers Latin and Greek Poems;" ſome Sermons, and religious treatiſes. N.

A ſpecimen of Chapman ſhall be given hereafter. N.

Born at Hatherlagh, in D [...]onſhire, 1608; elected from Weſtminſter-ſchool to Chriſt Church Oxford, as a ſervitor, in 1623; and in the next year was choſen a ſtudent. He took the degrees of B. and M.A, and was preſented by the College to the livings of Caſſington and Pyrton in Oxford⯑ſhire. In the civil wars he preached before the king at Ox⯑ford, and was made D.D.; but was ſoon after ejected from his livings by Cromwell's viſitors. He found an aſylum with the Earl of Devonſhire; and at the Reſtoration obtained his livings again, was made canon of Chriſt Church, arch⯑deacon of Chicheſter, and chaplain to Charles II. He died December 6, 1672; and is called by Wood ‘"a quaint preacher and a noted poet."’ Five only of his ſermons are in print, and his poems are not numerous. He publiſhed two plays; a poem on the Naval Victory over the Dutch by the Duke of York; tranſlated ſome of Lucian's Dialogues, 1638; and Donne's Latin Epigrams, 1652, which he called "A Sheaf of Miſcellany Epigrams." Though very orthodox in his opinions, and ſevere in his manners, he was a facetious companion, and his propenſity to mirth attended him in his laſt moments; for to a ſervant who had lived long with him he ‘"bequeathed a trunk, with ſomething in it to make him drink;"’ which being opened by the expecting ſervant, he found the legacy to be nothing but a red herring. N.

An honourable teſtimony to contemporary merit. N.

See p. 256.

The Red Bull in St. John's Street was one of the old play-houſes. R.—And ſo the Fortune and Mermaid, p. 255. N.

†

A finiſhed character in The Alchymiſt. N.

‘"The reputation of Drayton in the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. ſtood on much the ſame level with that of Cowley in the reigns of Charles I. and II. but it has declined conſiderably ſince that period. He frequently wants that elevation of thought which is eſſential to poetry; though, in ſome of the ſtanzas of his "Barons Wars," he is ſcarce in⯑ferior to Spenſer. In his "England's Heroical Epiſtles," written in the manner of Ovid, he has been, in general, happier in the choice, than the execution of his ſubjects; yet ſome of his imitations are more in the ſpirit of a poet, than ſeveral of the Engliſh tranſlations of him. His "Nym⯑phidia, or Court of Fayrie," ſeems to have been the greateſt effort of his imagination, and is the moſt generally admired of his works. His character among his friends was that of a modeſt and amiable man."’ GRANGER.—Drayton, who on his monument in Weſtminſter Abbey is ſtyled ‘"a memorable poet of his age,"’ was born at Atherſton in Warwickſhire, in 1563; and is ſaid on his epitaph to have ‘"exchanged his laurel for a crown of glory, 1631."’ His "Nymphidia" ſhall be printed in a future volume. N.

An excellent writer, whoſe fate was as uncommon as it was unmerited. He who was admired and beloved by all the beſt writers of his time, who was eſteemed and highly recommended by the critical Jonſon and the learned Selden, was in a few years after his death almoſt forgotten. To the [...]o ſmall credit of Mr. T. Davies, his writings were for the firſt time completely collected in 1772, in three neat volumes, of a ſize which makes them a proper companion for the "Engliſh Poets," and conſequently renders it unneceſſary to print here any more than a ſpecimen of his poetry. But a few particulars of his life ſhall be given in the words of Mr. Davies: ‘"William Browne, deſcended of a good family, was born at Taviſtock in Devonſhire, in the year 1590; his father, according to Prince, in his "Worthies of Devon," being probably of the knightly family of Browne, of Browne's-Ilaſh, in the pariſh of Langtree, near Great-Torrington. After he had paſſed through the Grammar-ſchool, he was ſent to Exeter College in the Univerſity of Oxford, about the beginning of the reign of king James the Firſt, where he became a great proficient in claſſical learning, and in the Belles Lettres was ſcarcely equalled; from hence, however, before he had taken any academical degree, he removed to the Inner-Temple, London, where he more particularly devoted himſelf to the Muſes. In the beginning of the year 1624, he returned again to Exeter College, and became tutor to Robert Dormer, who was af⯑terwards earl of Carnarvon, and who loſt his life at New⯑bury Fight, on the 20th of September, 1643. On the 25th of March, 1624, our author received permiſſion to be actu⯑ally created a Maſter of Arts, although the degree was not conferred upon him till the November following. He is ſtyled, in the public regiſter of the Univerſity, a man well ſkilled in all kinds of polite literature and uſeful arts; vir omni humanâ literaturâ et bonarum artium cognitione in⯑ſtructus. After he had left College with his pupil, he was gladly received into the family of William earl of Pem⯑broke, who had a great reſpect for him; and here, ac⯑cording to the author of the Athenae Oxonienſes, he made his fortune ſo well that he purchaſed an eſtate; he alſo adds, that he had a great mind in a little body; but with regard to the time of his death, he is very doubtful, for all that he ſays of the matter is, that in his ſearches he finds that one William Browne, of Ottery St. Mary in De⯑vonſhire, died in the year 1645; but that he cannot tell whether he was the ſame with our poet."’ To this ac⯑count I ſhall only add that Mr. Warburton the herald ap⯑pears to have been poſſeſſed of ſome MS. poems by this au⯑thor, which were ſold, with the reſt of his library, about the year 1759 or 1760. I cannot but wiſh that Mr. Davies had met with ſufficient encouragement to have proceeded with the work he announced at the concluſion of his preface, under the title of "England's Helicon." He publiſhed, however, in the ſame ſize, the whole works of Suckling, in 1770, the poems of Marvell and Carew in 1772; and thoſe of Sir John Davies in 1773. A ſmall portion, therefore, of each of theſe writers will be ſufficient for this collection. N.

This famous antiquary, deſcended from a good family, was born at Salvington in Suſſex, December 16, 1585; edu⯑cated at Chicheſter free-ſchool, and admitted of Hart-Hall, Oxon, in 1598; removed to Clifford's Inn in 1602, to ſtudy the law; admitted of the Inner Temple in May 1604. He ſoon commenced writer; and publiſhed a conſiderable num⯑ber of valuable works, which it is needleſs here to enume⯑rate. In 1612 he publiſhed notes and illuſtrations on the firſt eighteen ſongs in ‘"his worthy friend Michael Dray⯑ton's"’ Poly-Olbion, and the year after wrote verſes in Greek, Latin, and Engliſh, upon Browne's "Britannia's Paſtorals;" which, with divers poems prefixed to the works of other authors, occaſioned Sir John Suckling to give him a place in his "Seſſion of the Poets." Mr. Selden, when not above three and thirty years of age, had ſhewn himſelf a great philologiſt, ant'quary, herald, and linguiſt; and his name was ſo wonderfully advanced, not only at home, but in foreign countries, that he was actually then, what he was afterwards uſually ſtyled, the great dictator of learning to the Engliſh nation. In 1618, when he was in his thirty-fourth year, he publiſhed his "Hiſtory of Tithes;" which alarming the clergy, and offending king James I, it was ſuppreſſed, and the author forced to make public ſub⯑miſſion. He again offended that monarch in 1621, by an opinion he gave againſt the crown as counſel in the houſe of lords, and was committed into the cuſtody of the ſheriff of London; but was releaſed in five weeks by the favour of the lord keeper Williams. He was choſen member for Lan⯑caſter that year; but neglected all public buſineſs to apply himſelf to ſtudy. In 1624 he was appointed, by the Inner Temple, reader at Lyon's Inn; but refuſed to accept that office. In 1625 he was choſen burgeſs for Great Bedwin, Wiltſhire, and again in 1626, when he was an active ma⯑nager againſt the duke of Buckingham. In 1627 he was counſel for Mr. Hampden; and in the third parliament of king James was again elected for Lancaſter, and had a con⯑ſiderable hand in the Petition of Rights. After the proro⯑gation in June, retiring to Wreſt in Bedfordſhire, he finiſhed his Commentaries on the Arundelian Marbles. In the next ſeſſion he warmly oppoſed the court, and was committed to the Tower, and had his ſ [...]dy ſealed up, March 24, 1628. He was cloſely confined three months, but magnificently ſupported at the king's expence; and being afterwards al⯑lowed the uſe of ſuch books as he deſired, he proceeded in his ſtudies. In Hilary Term, 1629, declining to give ſe⯑curity for his good behaviour (as unwarrantable by law), he was committed to the King's Ben [...]h priſon. He was releaſed the latter end of the year, though it does not appear how; only that the parliament in 1646 ordered him £.5000. for the loſſes he had ſuſtained on that occaſion. In 1630 he was again committed to cuſtody, with the earls of Bedford and Clare, Sir Robert Cotton, and Mr. St. John, being accuſed of having diſperſed a libel, intituled, "A Propoſition for his Majeſty's ſervice to bridle the impertinency of Parlia⯑ments;" but it was proved that Sir Robert Dudley, their living in the duke of Tuſcany's dominions, was the author. All theſe various impriſonments and tumults gave no inter⯑ruption to his ſtudies; but he proceeded, in his old way, to write and publiſh books. In 1640 he was choſen member of parliament for the Univerſity of Oxford; and though he was againſt the court, yet in 1642 the king had thoughts of tak⯑ing the ſeal from the lord keeper Littleton, and giving it to him. In 1643 he was appointed one of the lay-members to ſit in the aſſembly of divines at Weſtminſter, in which he frequently perplexed thoſe divines with his vaſt learning. About this time he took the covenant; and the ſame year, 1643, was by the parliament appointed keeper of the records in the Tower. In 1644 he was elected one of the twelve commiſſioners of the Admiralty; and the ſame year was no⯑minated to the maſterſhip of Trinity College in Cambridge, which he did not think proper to accept. In the beginning of 1653 his health began to decline; and he died the 30th of November that year, at the Friary Houſe in White-Friars, where he had reſided for ſome years, being poſſeſſed of it in the right of Elizabeth counte [...]s dowager of Kent, who had appointed him executor of her will, having before, from the firſt of her widowhood, committed the management of her affairs to him. He was buried in the Temple church, where a monume [...]t was erected to him. He left a moſt valu⯑able and curious library to his executors; which they gene⯑rouſly would have beſtowed on the ſociety of the Inner Temple, if a proper place had been provided to receive it; but, this being neglected, they gave it to the Univerſity of Oxford. A good edition of his Works was publiſhed by Dr. Wilkins, 1726, in three volumes, folio. N.

Bays (fair readers) being the materials of poet's gar⯑lands (as myrtle and roſes are for enjoying lovers, and the fruitleſs willow for them which your unconſtancy, too oft, makes moſt unhappy) are ſuppoſed not ſubject to any hurt of Jupiter's thunderbolts, as other trees are. SELDEN.

Preſident of Trinity College, Oxford, and vice-chancellor of that Univerſity. ‘"Dr. Bathurſt, in the early part of his life, applied himſelf to the ſtudy of divinity, in which he made a very conſiderable progreſs. But when he ſaw that ſome churches were defaced or demoliſhed, and others con⯑verted into barracks and ſtables, and that a learned mi⯑niſtry was held in the utmoſt contempt, he changed the courſe of his ſtudies, and applied himſelf to phyſic. He took a doctor's degree in that faculty, in which he roſe to ſuch eminence, that he was, in the time of the Uſurpation, appointed phyſician to the ſtate. Upon the Reſtoration, he quitted his profeſſion of phyſic, was elected a fell [...]w of the Royal Society, and preſident of his college: and having entered into holy orders, he was made chaplain to the king, and inſtalled dean of Wells, June 28, 1670. His learning and talents were various: he was the orator and the poet, the philoſopher and the divine. He poſſeſſed an inexhauſtible fund of writ, and was the facetious companion at eighty years of age. Ridicule was the weapon that he made uſe of to correct the deliquents of his college; and he was ſo abſolute a maſter of it, that he had it always at hand. His poetical pieces in the "Muſae Anglicanae" are excellent in their kind: they are much in the ſpirit of Ovid, who was his favourite poet. His "Diatribae Theo⯑logicae" in manuſcript, which he began at twenty-three years of age, are much commended by Mr. Warton. He died greatly lamented by all that knew his worth, and particularly by the ſociety over which he preſided, the 14th of June, 1704, in the 84th year of his age."’ GRANGER.—His Life has been elegantly written by Mr. Warton. N.

"Titles of Honour." BATHURST.

Eadmerus, Fleta. BATHURST.

†

In his learned treatiſe "De Synedriis Ebraeorum." N.

‡

De D [...]is Syris. BATHURST.

‖

Marmora Arundelia. Ibid.

Marc Clauſum. BATHURST.

†

His library was given to the Univerſity. Ibid.

‡

His epitaph, made by himſelf, in the Temple chapel. Ibid.

This writer, who obtained much applauſe in his time, and was greatly praiſed by his contemporaries, was born at Hitching-hill, in the county of Hertford, ſome time in the year 1557. After being well grounded in ſchool-learning, he was ſent to the Univerſity, but whether to Oxford or Cam⯑bridge was unknown to Anthony Wood, who declares him⯑ſelf certain he reſided ſome time at the former, where he was obſerved to be moſt excellent in the Latin and Greek tongues, but not in Logic or Philoſophy, which may be preſumed to be the reaſon he took no degree there. He appears to have been a man of a very reſpectable character, being countenanced and patronized by ſeveral eminent perſons, particularly Sir Thomas Walſyngham and his ſon, and by Prince Henry, ſon of James the Firſt. Wood imagines that he was a ſworn ſervant either to James the Firſt or his Queen, and ſays he was highly valued, but not ſo much as Ben Jonſon. The ſame writer adds, that ‘"he was a perſon of moſt reverend aſpect, religious and temperate qualities, rarely meeting in a poet."’ After living to the age of 77 years, he died on the 12th day of May, 1634, in the pariſh of St. Giles in the Fields, and was buried on the South-ſide of the Church-yard there. His friend Inigo Jones erected a monument to his memory near the place of his interment. His tranſlation of Homer acquired him a conſiderable degree of reputation. Mr. Dryden tells us, that Waller uſed to ſay he never could read it without incredible tranſport. It is much cenſured by Mr. Pope, who, notwithſtanding, acknowledges that there is a daring, fiery ſpirit, which animates it, ſomething like what one might imagine Homer himſelf would have writ before he arrived at years of diſcretion. He tranſlated alſo the Batrachomyomachia, and all the Hymns of Homer, to which he annexed the verſes here printed; finiſhed Marlow's Tranſ⯑lation of Muſaeus; produced ſeveral original Poems, and ſome other Tranſlations; was the author of ſeventeen dra⯑matick performances, and aſſiſted Shirley in two others. For this note I am indebted to the new edition of Dodſley's Old Plays, vol. IV. p. 113. where the reader will find ſome other curious particulars of Chapman, and an exact liſt of his dra⯑matick writings.

Of the Batrachomyomachia and Hymns, I have the copy preſented to Lord Ruſſel, with the following MS. dedi⯑cation: ‘"For the many noble favors, receiv'd of the righte honorable the Lord RUSSELL; and deſirouſe by all beſt ſervices, to crowne his Lordſhip's free graces with con⯑tin [...]wance; GEORGE CHAPMAN humblie inſcribes this crowne of all the Homericall Graces and Muſes to his Lordſhip's Honor: wiſhing the ſame, crownde above title, and eſtabliſhte paſt marble."’ N.

Son of a wealthy tanner of Chiſgrove in Wiltſhire, and born there about 1569; commoner of Queen's College, Ox⯑ford, in Michaelmas term 1583. When he had taken the degree of B.A. he removed to the Middle Temple, and was called to the bar. Being expelled thence on account of a quarrel, he returned to Oxford. He was afterwards rein⯑ſtated in the Temple, practiſed as a barriſter, and was choſen a burgeſs in the parliament held at Weſtminſter in 1601. Upon the death of Queen Elizabeth, our author went with Lord Hunſdon into Scotland, to congratulate King James. That prince was learned himſelf, and a great encourager of learned men; when Hunſdon and his retinue were admitted into the [...]ing's preſence, his majeſty enquired the names of the gentlemen who accompanied him; his lordſhip naming among the reſt John Davies, the king preſently aſked whe⯑ther he was Noſce Teiptum, which was the title of his poem on the I [...]mortality of the Soul, and being anſwered that he was, he graciouſly embraced him, and aſſured him of his fa⯑vour. The king preſently after promoted him to the office of ſolicitor and then attorney-general in Ireland, where in 1606 he was made ſerjeant at law, and afterwards ſpeaker of the houſe of commons in that kingdom; the year following he received the order of knighthood from the king at Whitehall. In the year 1612 he publiſhed a very valuable book, called, "A Diſcovery of the true Cauſes why Ireland was never en⯑tirely ſubdued, nor brought under obedience of the Crown of England, until the beginning of his Majeſty's happy Reign;" reprinted in 12mo, 1747. Sir John, in 1612, quitted Ireland, and was made one of his majeſty's Engliſh ſerjeants at law. After his ſettling in England he was often appointed one of the judges of aſſize in the circuits. He mar⯑ried Eleanor Tonchet, youngeſt daughter of George, Lord Audley, by whom he had a ſon an ideot, who died young, and a daughter named Lucy, married to Ferdinand, Lord Haſtings, afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. In 1626 Sir John was appointed Lord Chief Juſtice of the King's Bench; but, before the ceremony of his inſtallation could be per⯑formed, he died ſuddenly of an apoplexy, the 7th of Decem⯑ber, at his houſe in the Strand, in the 57th year of his age. Sir John Davies, beſides his Poems and his Account of the reduction of Ireland before-mentioned, publiſhed reports and other books relating to the conſtitution and laws of this kingdom. Anthony Wood ſays, there were ſeveral of his manuſcripts on various ſubjects, which were formerly in the library of Sir James Ware, and ſince that in the poſſeſſion of Edward Earl of Clarendon; beſides theſe, which were chiefly of the political kind, the ſame author ſays there were alſo ſome epigrams written by Sir John, and a metaphraſe of ſeveral of King David's Pſalms, but never publiſhed. The poem on the Soul, which he called Noſce Teipſum, was firſt publiſhed in 1599, and afterwards in 1622 with Hymns to Aſtrea in acroſtic verſe; and Orcheſtra, a poem expreſſing the antiquity and excellence of dancing, in a dialogue be⯑tween Penelope and one of her wooers, containing one hun⯑dred and thirty-one ſtanzas unfiniſhed. See the Life pre⯑fixed by Mr. Davies to the complete edition of his poems, 1773. N.

A poet of great vivacity and ſome elegance, and one of the fineſt gentlemen of his time. He was ſon to Sir John Suckling, comptroller of the houſhold to king Charles the Firſt; and was born at Witham in Eſſex in 1613. He ſpoke Latin at five years of age, and wrote it when nine. He had a general knowledge of polite literature; but applied himſelf more particularly to muſic and poetry. In the courſe of his foreign travels, he made a campaign under Guſtavus Adol⯑phus; and, at his return, raiſed a ſplendid troop of horſe, at the expence of twelve thouſand pounds, for the ſervice of the king. This troop, with Sir John at its head, behaved ſo ill in the engagement with the Scots, upon the Engliſh borders, in 1639, as to occaſion the famous lampoon by Sir John Mennis, "Sir John he got him an ambling nag," &c. which was ſet to an Iriſh tune, and much ſung by the Parliamenta⯑rians. This diſaſtrous exped [...]tion, and the ridicule that at⯑tended it, was ſuppoſed to have haſtened his death, which happened in 1641, at the age of twenty-eight. His proſe writings, particularly his "Diſcourſe of Religion," addreſſed to lord Dorſet, are thought equal to the beſt of his poetical performances. His ballad on a wedding, and his "Seſſion of the Poets," are oftener remembered than any of his works. This ballad was occaſioned by the marriage of Roger Boyle, the firſt earl of Orrery, with lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the earl of Suffolk. There was a great intimacy betwixt Sir John and the earl of Orrery, then lord Broghill. In his "Seſſion of the Poets," he has given us ſome traits of the characters of his poetical brethren. This article is prin⯑cipally compiled from Jacob and Granger. The whole of Sir John Suckling's Works, containing his "Poems, Letters, and Plays," were publiſhed ſeveral times by Mr. Tonſon; and in two neat volumes, by Mr. Davies, 1770. N.

Thomas Carew, a poet of real elegance, was a younger ſon of the family of the Carews in Devonſhire. He was born in 1589; and after receiving ſome part of his education at Corpus Chriſti College, Oxford, he ſpent many years in France and Italy. Returning from travel, he followed the court, which, ſays Lord Clarendon, ‘"the modeſty of that time diſpoſed men to do ſome time, before they pretended to be of it; and he was very much eſteemed by the moſt emi⯑nent perſons in the court, and well looked upon by the King himſelf, ſome years before he could obtain to be Sewer to the King; and when the King conferred that place upon him it was not without the regret even of the whole Scotch nation, which united themſelves in recom⯑mending another gentleman to it; and of ſo great value were thoſe relations held in that age, when majeſty was beheld with the reverence it ought to be."’ Wood, the ce⯑lebrated Oxford Biographer, ſays that ‘"he was adored by the poets of his time"’ Which ſeems to be true, as we well know that his admirers were the firſt men of the age; that Montague, the Lord Abbot of Pontois, careſſed him; that Donne, D' Avenant, and May, loved him. Suckling too admired him; and yet, in his Seſſion of the Poets, ſays,

" Tom Carew came next, but he had a fault
" That would not well ſtand with a Laureat;
" His Muſe was hide-bound, and the iſſue of 's brain
" Was ſeldom brought forth but with trouble and pain."

Suckling knew otherwiſe: but we muſt remember, that the poet, when he wrote this, was writing a ſatire. The ele⯑gance of his love-ſonnets made them familiar to his Majeſty and his nobles; they were ſought after, read, and rehearſed; and by his Majeſty's command were ſet to muſic, or (as Wood expreſſes it) wedded to the charming notes of Mr. Henry Lawes, who was gentleman of the King's chapel, and at that time the greateſt muſical compoſer in England. Lord Clarendon ſays, ‘"Carew was a perſon of a pleaſant and face⯑tious wit, and made many poems (eſpecially in the amorous way) which, for the ſharpneſs of the fancy, and the ele⯑gance of the language in which that fancy was ſpread, were at leaſt equal, if not ſuperior, to any of that time: but his glory was, that after fifty years of his life had been ſpent with leſs ſeverity or exactneſs than it ought to have been, he died with the greateſt remorſe for that licenſe, and with the greateſt manifeſtation of Chriſtianity that his beſt friends could deſire."’ He died in the year 1639. I have already mentioned that his poems were publiſhed in 1772 by Mr. Davies. N.

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Citation Suggestion for this Object: TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4775 A select collection of poems with notes biographical and historical pt 1. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-6031-0

TO THE REVEREND THOMAS PERCY, D.D. DEAN OF CARLISLE.

ADVERTISEMENT.

INDEX TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, AND MATTERS INCIDENTALLY ILLUSTRATED.

DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.

[1]A SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS.

ELEGY*, BY THE WIFE OF ST. ALEXIAS†,COMPLAINING OF HIS ABSENCE, HE HAVING LEFT HER ON HIS WEDDING NIGHT UNENJOYED, OUT OF ZEAL TO VISIT THE CHRISTIAN CHURCHES.FROM THE LATIN OF FRANCIS REMOND‡,

SAPPHO TO PHAON*

THE PARTING OF SIRENO AND DIANA.

PROLOGUE TO THE MAN OF MODE.

SONG IN THE MAN OF MODEFROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA SUZE.

PROLOGUE TO THE RIVAL QUEENS.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IV.

PHARMACEUTRIA;* OR, THE ENCHANTRESS.TRANSLATED FROM THEOCRITUS,

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XV. IMITATED.

THE EIGHTH ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL.

THE PRAISES OF ITALY,FROM VIRGIL'S SECOND GEORGIC.

UPON DESIRE.

A SONG.

ON MR. WALLER.

TO THE DUKE, ON HIS RETURN. 1682.

ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE; MADE IN SICKNESS.

SONG.

THE LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH.

SONG TO A LADY, WHO DISCOVERED A NEW STAR IN CASSIOPEIA.

ARIADNE'S COMPLAINT, UPON A ROCK IN THE ISLAND OF NAXOS ON BEING DESERTED BY THESEUS.

IN MEMORY OF THE MOST WORTHY BEN JONSON.

A NEW CATCH.

THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

ODE, IN IMITATION OF PINDAR, ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS EARL OF OSSORY*.

ON THE DEATH OF JAMES DUKE OF ORMOND*.

TO THE PRESENT DUKE*.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WALLER.

A PROLOGUE.

ON THE DEATH OF KING CHARLES II.

THE REAPERS*,THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. X.

THE HONEY-STEALER*.

THE COMPLAINT OF ARIADNE.FROM CATULLUS.

EUNICA, OR THE NEATHERD†.THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XX.

CYNISCA'S LOVE.THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XIV.

PROTEUS:FROM SANNAZARIUS, ECL. IV.TO FERDINAND OF ARRAGON, DUKE OF CALABRIA.

SAPPHO'S ODE,FROM LONGINUS.

ON THE PROTECTOR'S DEATH*.

ON MR. WALLER.

VERSES

IN ENGLISH,

TO MR. RILEY,ON DRAWING MR. WALLER'S PICTURE.

THE DESERTED SWAIN.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WALLER.

ON SOLITUDE*.

A CHARACTER OF THE ENGLISH.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. WALLER▪

NEWS FROM HELL.

NATURE'S CHANGES,LUCRET. BOOK V.

THE DUEL OF THE STAGS.TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM†.

TO COUNT MONTECUCCOLI; AGAINST PRIDE UPON SUDDEN ADVANCEMENT.FROM THE ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI.

CATULLUS, EPIG. XIX.

FROM THE GREEK OF MENAGE*.

INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XXIII.

THE OLD MAN'S WISH*.

A SONG.

A SONG.

A SONG.

HERO'S COMPLAINT TO LEANDER.

SONG.

WRITTEN IN A BOOK*.

J. DRYDEN, OF TRINITY COLLEGE, TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR*, UPON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

PROLOGUE TO THE DUKE OF GUISE.

EPILOGUE.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE,INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN TO THE PLAY, BEFORE IT WAS FORBIDDEN LAST SUMMER.*

HUNTING THE HARE.

SONG,

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE*, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS.

THE FORSAKEN MISTRESS.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

THE DIVIDED HEART.

ON THE TRANSLATIONS OF MR. J. N.* OUT OF THE FRENCH AND ITALIAN.

ELEGY^*, BY THE WIFE OF ST. ALEXIAS^†,
COMPLAINING OF HIS ABSENCE, HE HAVING LEFT HER ON HIS WEDDING NIGHT UNENJOYED, OUT OF ZEAL TO VISIT THE CHRISTIAN CHURCHES.
FROM THE LATIN OF FRANCIS REMOND^‡,

SAPPHO TO PHAON^*

SONG IN THE MAN OF MODE
FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA SUZE.

PHARMACEUTRIA;^* OR, THE ENCHANTRESS.
TRANSLATED FROM THEOCRITUS,

THE PRAISES OF ITALY,
FROM VIRGIL'S SECOND GEORGIC.

ODE, IN IMITATION OF PINDAR, ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS EARL OF OSSORY^*.

ON THE DEATH OF JAMES DUKE OF ORMOND^*.

TO THE PRESENT DUKE^*.

THE REAPERS^*,
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. X.

THE HONEY-STEALER^*.

THE COMPLAINT OF ARIADNE.
FROM CATULLUS.

EUNICA, OR THE NEATHERD^†.
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XX.

CYNISCA'S LOVE.
THEOCRITUS, IDYLL. XIV.

PROTEUS:
FROM SANNAZARIUS, ECL. IV.
TO FERDINAND OF ARRAGON, DUKE OF CALABRIA.

SAPPHO'S ODE,
FROM LONGINUS.

ON THE PROTECTOR'S DEATH^*.

TO MR. RILEY,
ON DRAWING MR. WALLER'S PICTURE.

ON SOLITUDE^*.

NATURE'S CHANGES,
LUCRET. BOOK V.

THE DUEL OF THE STAGS.
TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM^†.

TO COUNT MONTECUCCOLI; AGAINST PRIDE UPON SUDDEN ADVANCEMENT.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI.

FROM THE GREEK OF MENAGE^*.

THE OLD MAN'S WISH^*.

WRITTEN IN A BOOK^*.

J. DRYDEN, OF TRINITY COLLEGE, TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR^*, UPON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN TO THE PLAY, BEFORE IT WAS FORBIDDEN LAST SUMMER.^*

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF NEWCASTLE^*, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS.

ON THE TRANSLATIONS OF MR. J. N.^* OUT OF THE FRENCH AND ITALIAN.

VOITURE'S^* URANIA.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. DRYDEN.^*

ECLOGUE,
ON THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON^†.

VERSES
ANNEXED TO HIS BATRACHOMYOMACHIA.