His loss supplied, now all our fears Are, that the nymph should melt in tears. Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take, For his, your own, and for our sake, Lest his fair soul, that lives in you, Should from the world for ever go. [1] 'Mrs. Wharton': the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire. [2] 'In blood': the Earl of Rochester's mother was Mrs. Wharton's grand aunt.



OF HER MAJESTY, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1683.

What revolutions in the world have been, How are we changed since we first saw the Queen! She, like the sun, does still the same appear, Bright as she was at her arrival here! Time has commission mortals to impair, But things celestial is obliged to spare.

May every new year find her still the same In health and beauty as she hither came! When Lords and Commons, with united voice, Th' Infanta named, approved the royal choice;[1] First of our Queens whom not the King alone, But the whole nation, lifted to the throne.

With like consent, and like desert, was crown'd The glorious Prince[2] that does the Turk confound. Victorious both! his conduct wins the day, And her example chases vice away; Though louder fame attend the martial rage, 'Tis greater glory to reform the age.

[1] 'Royal choice': a royal message, announcing the king's intention to marry the Infanta of Portugal, was delivered in Parliament in May 1661. [2] 'Prince': John Sobieski, king of Poland.



OF TEA, COMMENDED BY HER MAJESTY.

Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has his bays; Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise. The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe To that bold nation which the way did show To the fair region where the sun does rise, Whose rich productions we so justly prize. The Muse's friend, tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene, Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen.



OF THE INVASION AND DEFEAT OF THE TURKS, IN THE YEAR 1683.[1]

The modern Nimrod, with a safe delight Pursuing beasts, that save themselves by flight, Grown proud, and weary of his wonted game, Would Christians chase, and sacrifice to fame.

A prince, with eunuchs and the softer sex Shut up so long, would warlike nations vex, Provoke the German, and, neglecting heaven, Forget the truce for which his oath was given.

His Grand Vizier, presuming to invest The chief imperial city of the west, 10 With the first charge compell'd in haste to rise, His treasure, tents, and cannon, left a prize; The standard lost, and janizaries slain, Render the hopes he gave his master vain. The flying Turks, that bring the tidings home, Renew the memory of his father's doom; And his guard murmurs, that so often brings Down from the throne their unsuccessful kings.

The trembling Sultan's forced to expiate His own ill-conduct by another's fate. 20 The Grand Vizier, a tyrant, though a slave, A fair example to his master gave; He Bassa's head, to save his own, made fly, And now, the Sultan to preserve, must die.

The fatal bowstring was not in his thought, When, breaking truce, he so unjustly fought; Made the world tremble with a numerous host, And of undoubted victory did boast.

Strangled he lies! yet seems to cry aloud, 29 To warn the mighty, and instruct the proud, That of the great, neglecting to be just, Heaven in a moment makes a heap of dust.

The Turks so low, why should the Christians lose Such an advantage of their barb'rous foes? Neglect their present ruin to complete, Before another Solyman they get? Too late they would with shame, repenting, dread That numerous herd, by such a lion led; He Rhodes and Buda from the Christians tore, Which timely union might again restore. 40

But, sparing Turks, as if with rage possess'd, The Christians perish, by themselves oppress'd; Cities and provinces so dearly won, That the victorious people are undone!

What angel shall descend to reconcile The Christian states, and end their guilty toil? A prince more fit from heaven we cannot ask Than Britain's king, for such a glorious task; His dreadful navy, and his lovely mind, Give him the fear and favour of mankind; 50 His warrant does the Christian faith defend; On that relying, all their quarrels end. The peace is sign'd,[2] and Britain does obtain What Rome had sought from her fierce sons in vain.

In battles won Fortune a part doth claim, And soldiers have their portion in the same; In this successful union we find Only the triumph of a worthy mind. 'Tis all accomplish'd by his royal word, Without unsheathing the destructive sword; 60

Without a tax upon his subjects laid, Their peace disturb'd, their plenty, or their trade. And what can they to such a prince deny, With whose desires the greatest kings comply?

The arts of peace are not to him unknown; This happy way he march'd into the throne; And we owe more to Heaven than to the sword, The wish'd return of so benign a lord.

Charles! by old Greece with a new freedom graced, Above her antique heroes shall be placed. 70 What Theseus did, or Theban Hercules, Holds no compare with this victorious peace, Which on the Turks shall greater honour gain, Than all their giants and their monsters slain: Those are bold tales, in fabulous ages told; This glorious act the living do behold.

[1] 'Year 1683': see History. [2] 'Peace is signed': the Peace of Nimeguen.



A PRESAGE OF THE RUIN OF THE TURKISH EMPIRE; PRESENTED TO HIS MAJESTY KING JAMES II. ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Since James the Second graced the British throne, Truce, well observed, has been infring'd by none; Christians to him their present union owe, And late success against the common foe; While neighb'ring princes, both to urge their fate, Court his assistance, and suspend their hate. So angry bulls the combat do forbear, When from the wood a lion does appear.

This happy day peace to our island sent, As now he gives it to the Continent. 10 A prince more fit for such a glorious task, Than England's king, from Heaven we cannot ask; He, great and good! proportion'd to the work, Their ill-drawn swords shall turn against the Turk.

Such kings, like stars with influence unconfined, Shine with aspect propitious to mankind; Favour the innocent, repress the bold, And, while they flourish, make an age of gold.

Bred in the camp, famed for his valour, young; At sea successful, vigorous, and strong; 20 His fleet, his array, and his mighty mind, Esteem and rev'rence through the world do find. A prince with such advantages as these, Where he persuades not, may command a peace. Britain declaring for the juster side, The most ambitious will forget their pride; They that complain will their endeavours cease, Advised by him, inclined to present peace, Join to the Turk's destruction, and then bring All their pretences to so just a king. 30

If the successful troublers of mankind, With laurel crown'd, so great applause do find, Shall the vex'd world less honour yield to those That stop their progress, and their rage oppose? Next to that power which does the ocean awe, Is to set bounds, and give ambition law.

The British monarch shall the glory have, That famous Greece remains no longer slave; That source of art and cultivated thought! Which they to Rome, and Romans hither brought. 40

The banish'd Muses shall no longer mourn, But may with liberty to Greece return; Though slaves (like birds that sing not in a cage), They lost their genius, and poetic rage; Homers again, and Pindars, may be found, And his great actions with their numbers crown'd.

The Turk's vast empire does united stand; Christians, divided under the command Of jarring princes, would be soon undone, Did not this hero make their int'rest one; 50 Peace to embrace, ruin the common foe, Exalt the Cross, and lay the Crescent low.

Thus may the Gospel to the rising sun Be spread, and flourish where it first began; And this great day, (so justly honour'd here!) Known to the East, and celebrated there.

Haec ego longaevus cecini tibi, maxime regum! Ausus et ipse manu juvenum tentare laborem.—VIRG.



EPISTLES.



TO THE KING, ON HIS NAVY.

Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings, Homage to thee, and peace to all she brings; The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear, Forget their hatred, and consent to fear. So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey, And when he pleased to thunder, part the fray. Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped, The mightiest still upon the smallest fed; Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws, And by that justice hast removed the cause 10 Of those rude tempests, which for rapine sent, Too oft, alas! involved the innocent. Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be free From both those fates, of storms and piracy.

But we most happy, who can fear no force But winged troops, or Pegasean horse. 'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil Another nation, as to touch our soil. Should Nature's self invade the world again, And o'er the centre spread the liquid main, 20 Thy power were safe, and her destructive hand Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command; Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all, And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball; Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go, And visit mountains where they once did grow.

The world's Restorer once could not endure That finish'd Babel should those men secure, Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stood Above the reach of any second flood; 30 To thee, his chosen, more indulgent, he Dares trust such power with so much piety.



TO MR HENRY LAWES,[1] WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE IN THE YEAR 1635.

Verse makes heroic virtue live; But you can life to verses give. As when in open air we blow, The breath, though strain'd, sounds flat and low; But if a trumpet take the blast, It lifts it high, and makes it last: So in your airs our numbers dress'd, Make a shrill sally from the breast Of nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd, Our passions to themselves commend; 10 While love, victorious with thy art, Governs at once their voice and heart.

You by the help of tune and time, Can make that song that was but rhyme. Noy[2] pleading, no man doubts the cause; Or questions verses set by Lawes.

As a church window, thick with paint, Lets in a light but dim and faint; So others, with division, hide The light of sense, the poet's pride: 20 But you alone may proudly boast That not a syllable is lost; The writer's and the setter's skill At once the ravish'd ears do fill. Let those which only warble long, And gargle in their throats a song, Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:[3] Let words, and sense, be set by thee. [1] 'Lawes': an eminent musical composer, who composed the music for Milton's Comus. [2] 'Noy': Attorney-General to Charles I., had died in 1635. By a poetical licence Waller represents him still pleading. [3] 'Ut, Re, Mi': Lawes opposed the Italian music.



THE COUNTRY TO MY LADY CARLISLE.[1]

1 Madam, of all the sacred Muse inspired, Orpheus alone could with the woods comply; Their rude inhabitants his song admired, And Nature's self, in those that could not lie: Your beauty next our solitude invades, And warms us, shining through the thickest shades.

2 Nor ought the tribute, which the wond'ring Court Pays your fair eyes, prevail with you to scorn The answer and consent to that report Which, echo-like, the country does return: Mirrors are taught to flatter, but our springs Present th'impartial images of things.

3 A rural judge disposed of beauty's prize; A simple shepherd was preferr'd to Jove; Down to the mountains from the partial skies, Came Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love, To plead for that which was so justly given To the bright Carlisle of the court of heaven.

4 Carlisle! a name which all our woods are taught, Loud as their Amaryllis, to resound; Carlisle! a name which on the bark is wrought Of every tree that's worthy of the wound. From Phoebus' rage our shadows and our streams May guard us better than from Carlisle's beams.

[1] 'Lady Carlisle': the Lady Lucy Percy, daughter of the Earl of Northumberland, married against her father's wishes to the Earl of Carlisle. She was a wit and intriguante.



TO PHYLLIS.

Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you, And on that rock your Thrysis threw; Who for proud Celia could have died, While you no less accused his pride.

Fond Love his darts at random throws, And nothing springs from what he sows; From foes discharged, as often meet The shining points of arrows fleet, In the wide air creating fire, As souls that join in one desire. 10

Love made the lovely Venus burn In vain, and for the cold youth[1] mourn, Who the pursuit of churlish beasts Preferr'd to sleeping on her breasts.

Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes, Which she regards no more than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh. So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the sea an useless shower; 20 And the vex'd sailors curse the rain For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.

Then, Phyllis, since our passions are Govern'd by chance, and not the care, But sport of heaven, which takes delight To look upon this Parthian fight Of love, still flying, or in chase, Never encount'ring face to face; No more to Love we'll sacrifice, But to the best of deities; 30 And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd, By his kind mother be combin'd.

[1] 'Cold youth ': Adonis.



TO THE QUEEN-MOTHER OF FRANCE, UPON HER LANDING.[1]

Great Queen of Europe! where thy offspring wears All the chief crowns; where princes are thy heirs; As welcome thou to sea-girt Britain's shore, As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore) To Delos was; here shines a nymph as bright, By thee disclosed, with like increase of light. Why was her joy in Belgia confined? Or why did you so much regard the wind? Scarce could the ocean, though enraged, have toss'd Thy sov'reign bark, but where th'obsequious coast 10 Pays tribute to thy bed. Rome's conqu'ring hand More vanquished nations under her command Never reduced. Glad Berecynthia so Among her deathless progeny did go; A wreath of towers adorn'd her rev'rend head, Mother of all that on ambrosia fed. Thy godlike race must sway the age to come, As she Olympus peopled with her womb.

Would those commanders of mankind obey Their honour'd parent, all pretences lay 20 Down at your royal feet, compose their jars, And on the growing Turk discharge these wars; The Christian knights that sacred tomb should wrest From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; Our England's Prince, and Gallia's Dolphin, might Like young Rinaldo and Tancredi fight; In single combat by their swords again The proud Argantes and fierce Soldan slain; Again might we their valiant deeds recite, And with your Tuscan Muse[2] exalt the fight. 30

[2] 'Her landing': Mary de Medicis, widow of Henry IV., and mother of the King of France, and of the Queens of England and Spain, coming to England in 1638, was very ill received by the people, and forced ultimately to leave the country. [2] 'Tuscan Muse': Tasso.



TO VANDYCK.[1]

Rare Artisan, whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves! From thy shop of beauty we Slaves return, that enter'd free. The heedless lover does not know Whose eyes they are that wound him so; But, confounded with thy art, Inquires her name that has his heart. Another, who did long refrain, Feels his old wound bleed fresh again 10 With dear remembrance of that face, Where now he reads new hope of grace: Nor scorn nor cruelty does find, But gladly suffers a false wind To blow the ashes of despair From the reviving brand of care. Fool! that forgets her stubborn look This softness from thy finger took. Strange! that thy hand should not inspire The beauty only, but the fire; 20 Not the form alone, and grace, But act and power of a face. Mayst thou yet thyself as well, As all the world besides, excel! So you th'unfeigned truth rehearse (That I may make it live in verse), Why thou couldst not at one assay,[2] The face to aftertimes convey, Which this admires. Was it thy wit To make her oft before thee sit? 30 Confess, and we'll forgive thee this; For who would not repeat that bliss, And frequent sight of such a dame Buy with the hazard of his fame? Yet who can tax thy blameless skill, Though thy good hand had failed still, When Nature's self so often errs? She for this many thousand years 38 Seems to have practised with much care, To frame the race of women fair; Yet never could a perfect birth Produce before to grace the earth, Which waxed old ere it could see Her that amazed thy art and thee. But now 'tis done, oh, let me know Where those immortal colours grow, That could this deathless piece compose! In lilies? or the fading rose? No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher Than did Prometheus for his fire. 50

[1] 'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, by Vandyck, in Hall-Barn. [2] 'Assay': attempt.



TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER.[1]

1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan, Oppressed with their timely load, And seem to make their silent moan, That their great lord is now abroad: They to delight his taste, or eye, Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.

2 Not that thy harmless deer repine, And think themselves unjustly slain By any other hand than thine, Whose arrows they would gladly stain; No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear That peace with France which keeps thee there.

3 All these are less than that great cause Which now exacts your presence here, Wherein there meet the divers laws Of public and domestic care. For one bright nymph our youth contends, And on your prudent choice depends.

4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son[2] (For which such stern debate did rise, That the great Ajax Telamon Refused to live without the prize), Those Achive peers did more engage Than she the gallants of our age.

5 That beam of beauty, which begun To warm us so when thou wert here, Now scorches like the raging sun, When Sirius does first appear. Oh, fix this flame! and let despair Redeem the rest from endless care.

[1] 'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this time in foreign service. [2] 'Thetis' son': Achilles.



TO MRS BRAUGHTON, SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.

Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my slighted care Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief (Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief) Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid my humble Muse to court her train.

So, in those nations which the sun adore, Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor, No higher dares advance his dazzled sight, Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light 10 Of their ascending god adorns the east, And, graced with his beams, outshines the rest.

Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe, And whets those arrows which confound us so. A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit (Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit. The Graces put not more exactly on Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won, Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd, When all our youth prefers her to the rest. 20

You the soft season know when best her mind May be to pity, or to love, inclined: In some well-chosen hour supply his fear, Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear Of that stern goddess. You, her priest, declare What offerings may propitiate the fair; Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they; For if I thought she took delight in those, To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, 30 (The shady night removing with her beams), Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems. But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels All that is found in mines or fishes' shells, Her nobler part as far exceeding these, None but immortal gifts her mind should please. The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd On Sparta's queen,[1] her lovely neck did load, And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd, Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; 40 Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame, Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.

[1] 'Sparta's queen': Helen.



TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.[1]

1 Why came I so untimely forth Into a world which, wanting thee, Could entertain us with no worth Or shadow of felicity? That time should me so far remove From that which I was born to love!

2 Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight That age which you may know so soon; The rosy morn resigns her light And milder glory to the noon; And then what wonders shall you do, Whose dawning beauty warms us so?

3 Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime; And summer, though it be less gay, Yet is not look'd on as a time Of declination or decay; For with a full hand that does bring All that was promised by the spring.

[1] 'Lady Lucy Sidney': the younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards married to Sir John Pelham.



TO AMORET.[1]

Fair! that you may truly know What you unto Thyrsis owe, I will tell you how I do Saccharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me, when I set My bless'd eyes on Amoret; But with wonder I am strook, 7 While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains, I have sense of all her pains; But for Saccharissa I Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine, Lovely Amoret! is thine; Saccharissa's captive fain Would untie his iron chain, And, those scorching beams to shun, To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election To dispose of her affection, 20 I would not thus long have borne Haughty Saccharissa's scorn; But 'tis sure some power above, Which controls our wills in love!

If not love, a strong desire To create and spread that fire In my breast, solicits me, Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

'Tis amazement more than love, Which her radiant eyes do move; 30 If less splendour wait on thine, Yet they so benignly shine, I would turn my dazzled sight To behold their milder light; But as hard 'tis to destroy That high flame, as to enjoy; Which how eas'ly I may do, Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know!

Amoret! as sweet and good As the most delicious food, 40 Which, but tested, does impart Life and gladness to the heart.

Saccharissa's beauty's wine, Which to madness doth incline; Such a liquor as no brain That is mortal can sustain.

Scarce can I to heaven excuse The devotion which I use Unto that adored dame; For 'tis not unlike the same 50 Which I thither ought to send; So that if it could take end, 'Twould to heaven itself be due To succeed her, and not you, Who already have of me All that's not idolatry; Which, though not so fierce a flame, Is longer like to be the same.

Then smile on me, and I will prove Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love. 60

[1] 'Amoret': see 'Life.'



TO MY LORD OF FALKLAND.[1]

Brave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes: Who hears this told, and does not straight suppose We send the Graces and the Muses forth To civilise and to instruct the north? Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp; Apollo bears as well his bow as harp;[2] And though he be the patron of that spring, Where, in calm peace, the sacred virgins sing, He courage had to guard th'invaded throne 9 Of Jove, and cast th'ambitious giants down.

Ah, noble friend! with what impatience all That know thy worth, and know how prodigal Of thy great soul thou art (longing to twist Bays with that ivy which so early kiss'd Thy youthful temples), with what horror we Think on the blind events of war and thee! To fate exposing that all-knowing breast Among the throng, as cheaply as the rest; Where oaks and brambles (if the copse be burn'd) Confounded lie, to the same ashes turn'd. 20

Some happy wind over the ocean blow This tempest yet, which frights our island so! Guarded with ships, and all the sea our own, From heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.

In a late dream, the genius of this land, Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew, stand, When first she felt the twins begin to jar,[3] And found her womb the seat of civil war. Inclined to whose relief, and with presage Of better fortune for the present age, 30 Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good, To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood; To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scorn Of our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn (Though now they joy in our expected harms) We had occasion to resume our arms.

A lion so with self-provoking smart (His rebel tail scourging his nobler part) Calls up his courage; then begins to roar, And charge his foes, who thought him mad before. 40

[1] 'Lord of Falkland': referring to the unsuccessful expedition of Charles I. against Scotland in 1639, frustrated by the cowardice or treachery of Lord Holland. [2] 'Bow as harp': Horace, Ode iv., lib. 3. [3] 'Twins begin to jar': Gen. xxv. 22.



TO MY LORD NORTHUMBERLAND, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.[1]

To this great loss a sea of tears is due; But the whole debt not to be paid by you. Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain Those show'rs the eyes of us your servants rain. Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart, In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part? Virtue would blush if time should boast (which dries, Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes) Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs so Over all passions, that they ne'er could grow 10 Beyond their limits in your noble breast, To harm another, or impeach your rest. This we observed, delighting to obey One who did never from his great self stray; Whose mild example seemed to engage Th' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.

The brave Aemilius, his great charge laid down (The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon), In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke Of changing fortune, and thus highly spoke 20 Before Rome's people: 'We did oft implore, That if the heavens had any bad in store For your Aemilius, they would pour that ill On his own house, and let you flourish still.' You on the barren seas, my lord, have spent Whole springs and summers to the public lent; Suspended all the pleasures of your life, And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife; For which your country's more obliged than 29 For many lives of old less happy men. You, that have sacrificed so great a part Of youth, and private bliss, ought to impart Your sorrow too, and give your friends a right As well in your affliction as delight. Then with Aemilian courage bear this cross, Since public persons only public loss Ought to affect. And though her form and youth, Her application to your will, and truth, That noble sweetness, and that humble state (All snatch'd away by such a hasty fate!) 40 Might give excuse to any common breast, With the huge weight of so just grief oppress'd; Yet let no portion of your life be stain'd With passion, but your character maintain'd To the last act. It is enough her stone May honour'd be with superscription Of the sole lady who had power to move The great Northumberland to grieve, and love.

[1] 'His lady': the Lady Anne Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Salisbury. See a previous note.



TO MY LORD ADMIRAL, OF HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.

With joy like ours the Thracian youth invades Orpheus, returning from th'Elysian shades; Embrace the hero, and his stay implore; Make it their public suit he would no more Desert them so, and for his spouse's sake, His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake. The ladies, too, the brightest of that time (Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb), Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, 9 Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed: Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan Makes list'ning trees and savage mountains groan; Through all the air his sounding strings dilate Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late. Your pining sickness, and your restless pain, At once the land affecting, and the main, When the glad news that you were admiral Scarce through the nation spread,[1] 'twas feared by all That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you, Would be perplexed how to choose anew. 20 So more than private was the joy and grief, That at the worst it gave our souls relief, That in our age such sense of virtue lived, They joy'd so justly, and so justly grieved. Nature (her fairest light eclipsed) seems Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes; While not from thine alone thy blood retires, But from those cheeks which all the world admires. The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee, Droop all the branches of that noble tree! 30 Their beauty they, and we our love suspend; Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend. As lilies overcharged with rain, they bend Their beauteous heads, and with high heaven contend; Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry— 'He is too faultless, and too young, to die!' So like immortals round about thee they Sit, that they fright approaching death away. Who would not languish, by so fair a train To be lamented, and restored again? 40

Or, thus withheld, what hasty soul would go, Though to the blest? O'er young Adonis so Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious shower Of her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.

The next support, fair hope of your great name, And second pillar of that noble frame, By loss of thee would no advantage have, But step by step pursue thee to the grave.

And now relentless Fate, about to end The line which backward does so far extend 50 That antique stock, which still the world supplies With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes, Kind Phoebus, interposing, bid me say, Such storms no more shall shake that house; but they, Like Neptune, and his sea-born niece,[1] shall be The shining glories of the land and sea; With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age, And lovers fill with like poetic rage.

[1] 'Nation spread': the Earl of Northumberland, appointed Lord High Admiral in the year 1638.



TO THE QUEEN, OCCASIONED UPON SIGHT OF HER MAJESTY'S PICTURE.[2]

Well fare the hand, which to our humble sight Presents that beauty, which the dazzling light Of royal splendour hides from weaker eyes, And all access, save by this art, denies. Here only we have courage to behold This beam of glory; here we dare unfold In numbers thus the wonders we conceive; 7 The gracious image, seeming to give leave, Propitious stands, vouchsafing to be seen; And by our Muse saluted Mighty Queen, In whom th'extremes of power and beauty move, The Queen of Britain and the Queen of Love!

As the bright sun (to which we owe no sight Of equal glory to your beauty's light) Is wisely placed in so sublime a seat, T' extend his light, and moderate his heat; So, happy 'tis you move in such a sphere, As your high Majesty with awful fear In human breasts might qualify that fire, Which, kindled by those eyes, had flamed higher 20 Than when the scorched world like hazard run, By the approach of the ill-guided sun.

No other nymphs have title to men's hearts, But as their meanness larger hope imparts; Your beauty more the fondest lover moves With admiration than his private loves; With admiration! for a pitch so high (Save sacred Charles his) never love durst fly. Heaven, that preferr'd a sceptre to your hand, Favour'd our freedom more than your command; 30 Beauty had crown'd you, and you must have been The whole world's mistress, other than a Queen. All had been rivals, and you might have spared, Or kill'd, and tyrannised, without a guard; No power achieved, either by arms or birth, Equals love's empire both in heaven and earth. Such eyes as yours on Jove himself have thrown As bright and fierce a lightning as his own; Witness our Jove, prevented by their flame In his swift passage to th'Hesperian dame; 40

When, like a lion, finding, in his way To some intended spoil, a fairer prey, The royal youth pursuing the report Of beauty, found it in the Gallic court; There public care with private passion fought A doubtful combat in his noble thought: Should he confess his greatness, and his love, And the free faith of your great brother[3] prove; With his Achates breaking through the cloud Of that disguise which did their graces shroud;[4] 50 And mixing with those gallants at the ball, Dance with the ladies, and outshine them all; Or on his journey o'er the mountains ride?— So when the fair Leucothoe he espied, To check his steeds impatient Phoebus yearn'd, Though all the world was in his course concern'd. What may hereafter her meridian do, Whose dawning beauty warm'd his bosom so? Not so divine a flame, since deathless gods Forbore to visit the defiled abodes 60 Of men, in any mortal breast did burn; Nor shall, till piety and they return.

[1] 'Sea-born niece': Venus. [2] 'Majesty's picture': Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV., married by proxy to Charles I. in Paris, 1st May 1625. Marriages made in May are said to be unlucky—this certainly was. [3] 'Great brother': Louis XIII., King of France. [4] 'Graces shroud': 'Achates,' the Duke of Buckingham.



TO AMORET.

1 Amoret! the Milky Way Framed of many nameless stars! The smooth stream where none can say He this drop to that prefers!

2 Amoret! my lovely foe! Tell me where thy strength does lie? Where the pow'r that charms us so? In thy soul, or in thy eye?

3 By that snowy neck alone, Or thy grace in motion seen, No such wonders could he done; Yet thy waist is straight and clean As Cupid's shaft, or Hermes' rod, And pow'rful, too, as either god.



TO PHYLLIS.

Phyllis! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day? Could we (which we never can!) Stretch our lives beyond their span, Beauty like a shadow flies, And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay, Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time, Change in love to heaven does climb. 10 Gods, that never change their state, Vary oft their love and hate.

Phyllis! to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two. Let not you and I inquire What has been our past desire; On what shepherds you have smiled, Or what nymphs I have beguiled; Leave it to the planets too, 19 What we shall hereafter do; For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love.



TO SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT.[1] WRITTEN IN FRANCE.

Thus the wise nightingale that leaves her home, Her native wood, when storms and winter come, Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring, To foreign groves does her old music bring.

The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps, unstrung, At Babylon upon the willows hung; Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel No less in courage, than in singing well; While, unconcern'd, you let your country know They have impoverish'd themselves, not you; 10 Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those fates Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states. So Ovid, when from Caesar's rage he fled, The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led; Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass, See Nero milder than Augustus was. Hereafter such, in thy behalf, shall be Th' indulgent censure of posterity. To banish those who with such art can sing, Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring; 20 Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought, Nor how to love, their present youth be taught.

This to thyself.—Now to thy matchless book, Wherein those few that can with judgment look, May find old love in pure fresh language told, Like new-stamp'd coin made out of angel-gold. Such truth in love as th'antique world did know, In such a style as courts may boast of now; Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell, But human passions, such as with us dwell. 30 Man is thy theme; his virtue or his rage Drawn to the life in each elaborate page. Mars nor Bellona are not named here, But such a Gondibert as both might fear; Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshined By the bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind. Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds Betwixt thy worthies and the Grecian gods! Whose deities in vain had here come down, Where mortal beauty wears the Sovereign crown; 40 Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood, Though not resisted, may be understood.

[1] 'Sir William Davenant': Davenant fled to France in fear of the displeasure of the Parliament, and there wrote the two first cantos of Gondibert.



TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR WASE, THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.[1]

1 Thus, by the music, we may know When noble wits a-hunting go, Through groves that on Parnassus grow.

2 The Muses all the chase adorn; My friend on Pegasus is borne; And young Apollo winds the horn.

3 Having old Gratius in the wind, No pack of critics e'er could find, Or he know more of his own mind.

4 Here huntsmen with delight may read How to choose dogs for scent or speed, And how to change or mend the breed;

5 What arms to use, or nets to frame, Wild beasts to combat or to tame; With all the myst'ries of that game.

6 But, worthy friend! the face of war In ancient times doth differ far From what our fiery battles are.

7 Nor is it like, since powder known, That man, so cruel to his own, Should spare the race of beasts alone.

8 No quarter now, but with the gun Men wait in trees from sun to sun, And all is in a moment done.

9 And therefore we expect your next Should be no comment, but a text To tell how modern beasts are vex'd.

10 Thus would I further yet engage Your gentle Muse to court the age With somewhat of your proper rage;

11 Since none does more to Phoebus owe, Or in more languages can show Those arts which you so early know.

[1] 'Mr. Wase': Wase was a fellow of Cambridge, tutor to Lord Herbert, and translator of Grathis on 'Hunting,' a very learned man.



TO A FRIEND, ON THE DIFFERENT SUCCESS OF THEIR LOVES.[1]

Thrice happy pair! of whom we cannot know Which first began to love, or loves most now; Fair course of passion! where two lovers start, And run together, heart still yoked with heart; Successful youth! whom love has taught the way To be victorious in the first essay. Sure love's an art best practised at first, And where th'experienced still prosper worst! I, with a different fate, pursued in vain The haughty Caelia, till my just disdain 10 Of her neglect, above that passion borne, Did pride to pride oppose, and scorn to scorn. Now she relents; but all too late to move A heart directed to a nobler love. The scales are turn'd, her kindness weighs no more Now, than my vows and service did before. So in some well-wrought hangings you may see How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee; Here, the fierce Mars his courage so inspires, That with bold hands the Argive fleet he fires; 20 But there, from heaven the blue-eyed virgin[2] falls, And frighted Troy retires within her walls; They that are foremost in that bloody race, Turn head anon, and give the conqu'rors chase. So like the chances are of love and war, That they alone in this distinguish'd are, In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly; They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.

[1] 'Their loves': supposed to be Alexander Hampden, involved with Waller in the plot. See 'Life' [2] 'Blue-eyed virgin': Minerva.



TO ZELINDA.[1]

Fairest piece of well-form'd earth! Urge not thus your haughty birth; The power which you have o'er us lies Not in your race, but in your eyes. 'None but a prince!'—Alas! that voice Confines you to a narrow choice. Should you no honey vow to taste, But what the master-bees have placed In compass of their cells, how small A portion to your share would fall! 10 Nor all appear, among those few, Worthy the stock from whence they grew. The sap which at the root is bred In trees, through all the boughs is spread; But virtues which in parents shine, Make not like progress through the line. 'Tis not from whom, but where, we live; The place does oft those graces give. Great Julius, on the mountains bred, A flock perhaps, or herd, had led. 20 He that the world subdued,[2] had been But the best wrestler on the green. 'Tis art and knowledge which draw forth The hidden seeds of native worth; They blow those sparks, and make them rise Into such flames as touch the skies. To the old heroes hence was given A pedigree which reached to heaven; Of mortal seed they were not held, 29 Which other mortals so excell'd. And beauty, too, in such excess As yours, Zelinda! claims no less. Smile but on me, and you shall scorn, Henceforth, to be of princes born. I can describe, the shady grove Where your loved mother slept with Jove; And yet excuse the faultless dame, Caught with her spouse's shape and name. Thy matchless form will credit bring To all the wonders I shall sing. 40

[1] 'Zelinda': referring to a novel where the lady, a princess, refuses a lover, saying, 'I will have none but a prince!' [2] 'World subdued': Alexander.



TO MY LADY MORTON, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY,[1] AT THE LOUVRE IN PARIS.

Madam! new years may well expect to find Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind; Still as they pass, they court and smile on you, And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new. To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer, And fairest Morton now as much to her; So like the sun's advance your titles show, Which as he rises does the warmer grow.

But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise, Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays; 10 From armed foes to bring a royal prize, Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes. If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head, Can give us passion when her story's read, What may the living do, which brought away, Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey; Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand, Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand? A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart, And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part. 20 So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroud The hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud.

This gallant act may cancel all our rage, Begin a better, and absolve this age. Dark shades become the portrait of our time; Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime! Let him that draws it hide the rest in night; This portion only may endure the light, Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape, Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape, 30 When through the guards, the river, and the sea, Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way. As the brave eagle does with sorrow see The forest wasted, and that lofty tree Which holds her nest about to be o'erthrown, Before the feathers of her young are grown, She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay, But bears them boldly on her wings away; So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore. 40 Born in the storms of war, this royal fair, Produced like lightning in tempestuous air, Though now she flies her native isle (less kind, Less safe for her than either sea or wind!) Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown, See her great brother on the British throne; Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise, But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.

[1] 'New-year's day': Lady Morton, daughter of Sir Edward Villiers, niece of the Duke of Buckingham, and wife of Lord Douglas, of Dalkeith, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day. She accompanied the Princess Henrietta in disguise to Paris. Waller, then in France, wrote these lines in 1650.



TO A FAIR LADY, PLAYING WITH A SNAKE.

1 Strange! that such horror and such grace Should dwell together in one place; A fury's arm, an angel's face!

2 'Tis innocence, and youth, which makes In Chloris' fancy such mistakes, To start at love, and play with snakes.

3 By this and by her coldness barr'd, Her servants have a task too hard; The tyrant has a double guard!

4 Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve May boldly creep; we dare not give Our thoughts so unconfined a leave.

5 Contented in that nest of snow He lies, as he his bliss did know, And to the wood no more would go.

6 Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make Another tempter of this snake; A marble one so warm'd would speak.



TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,[1] UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'

Lucretius, (with a stork-like fate, Born, and translated, in a state) Comes to proclaim, in English verse, No Monarch rules the universe; But chance, and atoms, make this All In order democratical, Where bodies freely run their course, Without design, or fate, or force. And this in such a strain he sings, As if his Muse, with angels' wings, 10 Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere, And other worlds discover'd there; For his immortal, boundless wit, To Nature does no bounds permit, But boldly has removed those bars Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars, By which they were before supposed, By narrow wits, to be enclosed, Till his free Muse threw down the pale, And did at once dispark them all. 20

So vast this argument did seem, That the wise author did esteem The Roman language (which was spread O'er the whole world, in triumph led) A tongue too narrow to unfold The wonders which he would have told. This speaks thy glory, noble friend! And British language does commend; For here Lucretius whole we find, His words, his music, and his mind. 30 Thy art has to our country brought All that he writ, and all he thought. Ovid translated, Virgil too, Show'd long since what our tongue could do; Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spared; Only Lucretius was too hard. Lucretius, like a fort, did stand 37 Untouch'd, till your victorious hand Did from his head this garland bear, Which now upon your own you wear: A garland made of such new bays, And sought in such untrodden ways, As no man's temples e'er did crown, Save this great author's, and your own!

[1] 'Master Evelyn': the well-known author of 'Sylva,' translated the first book of Lucretius, 'De Rerum Natura.'



TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOMAS HIGGONS,[1] UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.'

The winged lion's not so fierce in fight As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight; Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce, Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse; But your translation does all three excel, The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel. As their small galleys may not hold compare With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air; So does th'Italian to your genius vail, Moved with a fuller and a nobler gale. 10 Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story, You make all Europe emulate her glory; You make them blush weak Venice should defend The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend; Shed Christian blood, and pop'lous cities raze, Because they're taught to use some different phrase. If, list'ning to your charms, we could our jars Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars, Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest 19 From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; And then you might our own high deeds recite, And with great Tasso celebrate the fight.

[1] 'Sir T. Higgons': a knight of some note, who translated the 'Venetian Triumph,' an Italian poem by Businello, addressed to Liberi, the painter.



TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

1 Chloris! yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching, I am caught.

2 That eagle's fate[1] and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

[1] 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White



TO THE MUTABLE FAIR.

Here, Caelia! for thy sake I part With all that grew so near my heart; The passion that I had for thee, The faith, the love, the constancy! And, that I may successful prove, Transform myself to what you love.

Fool that I was! so much to prize Those simple virtues you despise; Fool! that with such dull arrows strove, Or hoped to reach a flying dove; 10 For you, that are in motion still, Decline our force, and mock our skill; Who, like Don Quixote, do advance Against a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air, Mount, make a stoop at every fair; And, with a fancy unconfined (As lawless as the sea or wind), Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly, And with your various thoughts comply. 20

The formal stars do travel so, As we their names and courses know; And he that on their changes looks, Would think them govern'd by our books; But never were the clouds reduced To any art; the motions used By those free vapours are so light, So frequent, that the conquer'd sight Despairs to find the rules that guide Those gilded shadows as they slide; 30 And therefore of the spacious air, Jove's royal consort had the care; And by that power did once escape, Declining bold Ixion's rape; She with her own resemblance graced A shining cloud, which he embraced.

Such was that image, so it smiled With seeming kindness which beguiled Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought He had his fleeting Caelia caught. 40 'Twas shaped like her, but, for the fair, He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the less, Because the gods had like success; For in their story one, we see, Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree; A second, with a lover's haste, Soon overtakes whom he had chased, But she that did a virgin seem, Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream; 50 For his supposed love, a third Lays greedy hold upon a bird, And stands amazed to find his dear A wild inhabitant of the air.

To these old tales such nymphs as you Give credit, and still make them new; The am'rous now like wonders find In the swift changes of your mind.

But, Caelia, if you apprehend The Muse of your incensed friend, 60 Nor would that he record your blame, And make it live, repeat the same; Again deceive him, and again, And then he swears he'll not complain; For still to be deluded so, Is all the pleasure lovers know; Who, like good falc'ners, take delight, Not in the quarry, but the flight.



TO A LADY, FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.

1 Madam! intending to have tried The silver favour which you gave, In ink the shining point I dyed, And drench'd it in the sable wave; When, grieved to be so foully stain'd, On you it thus to me complain'd.

2 'Suppose you had deserved to take From her fair hand so fair a boon, Yet how deserved I to make So ill a change, who ever won Immortal praise for what I wrote, Instructed by her noble thought?

3 'I, that expressed her commands To mighty lords, and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands, Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile!'

4 So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladyship, in these: And now 'tis forced to confess That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more noble, write.



TO CHLORIS.

Chloris! since first our calm of peace Was frighted hence, this good we find, Your favours with your fears increase, And growing mischiefs make you kind.

So the fair tree, which still preserves Her fruit and state while no wind blows, In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs.



TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.

1 Sees not my love how time resumes The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should taste of their perfumes, Yet must they live but some few hours: Time what we forbear devours!

2 Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,[1] Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces, Those beauties must at length have been The spoil of age, which finds out faces In the most retired places.

3 Should some malignant planet bring A barren drought, or ceaseless shower, Upon the autumn or the spring, And spare us neither fruit nor flower; Winter would not stay an hour.

4 Could the resolve of love's neglect Preserve you from the violation Of coming years, then more respect Were due to so divine a fashion, Nor would I indulge my passion.

[1] 'Egyptian Queen': Cleopatra.



TO MR GEORGE SANDYS,[1] ON HIS TRANSLATION OF SOME PARTS OF THE BIBLE.

1 How bold a work attempts that pen, Which would enrich our vulgar tongue With the high raptures of those men Who, here, with the same spirit sung Wherewith they now assist the choir Of angels, who their songs admire!

2 Whatever those inspired souls Were urged to express, did shake The aged deep and both the poles; Their num'rous thunder could awake Dull earth, which does with Heaven consent To all they wrote, and all they meant.

3 Say, sacred bard! what could bestow Courage on thee to soar so high? Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee so To shake off all mortality? To light this torch, thou hast climb'd higher Than he who stole celestial fire.[2]

[1] 'Sandys,' besides his 'Ovid,' which Pope read and relished in his boyhood, versified some of the poetical parts of the Bible. [2] 'Celestial fire': Prometheus.



TO THE KING, UPON HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RETURN.

The rising sun complies with our weak sight, First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light At such a distance from our eyes, as though He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

But your full majesty at once breaks forth In the meridian of your reign. Your worth, Your youth, and all the splendour of your state, (Wrapp'd up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!) With such a flood of light invade our eyes, And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise, 10 That if your grace incline that we should live, You must not, sir! too hastily forgive. Our guilt preserves us from th'excess of joy, Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy. All are obnoxious! and this faulty land, Like fainting Esther, does before you stand, Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea Trembles to think she did your foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late, In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate 20 Of her proud neighbours, who began to think She, with the weight of her own force, would sink. But you are come, and all their hopes are vain; This giant isle has got her eye again. Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes. Naked, the Graces guarded you from all Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall. Princes that saw you, diff'rent passions prove, For now they dread the object of their love; 30 Nor without envy can behold his height, Whose conversation was their late delight. So Semele, contented with the rape Of Jove disguised in a mortal shape, When she beheld his hands with lightning fill'd, And his bright rays, was with amazement kill'd.

And though it be our sorrow, and our crime, To have accepted life so long a time Without you here, yet does this absence gain No small advantage to your present reign; 40 For, having view'd the persons and the things, The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings, You know your work; ambition to restrain, And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main. We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught, Not such as books, but such as practice, taught. So the lost sun, while least by us enjoy'd, Is the whole night for our concern employ'd; He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums, Which from remotest regions hither comes. 50

This seat of yours (from th'other world removed) Had Archimedes known, he might have proved His engine's force, fix'd here; your power and skill Make the world's motion wait upon your will.

Much suffring monarch! the first English born That has the crown of these three nations worn! How has your patience, with the barb'rous rage Of your own soil, contended half an age? Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word, At last preventing your unwilling sword) 60 Armies and fleets which kept you out so long, Own'd their great sov'reign, and redress'd his wrong; When straight the people, by no force compell'd, Nor longer from their inclination held, Break forth at once, like powder set on fire, And, with a noble rage, their king require. So th'injured sea, which from her wonted course, To gain some acres, avarice did force, If the new banks, neglected once, decay, No longer will from her old channel stay; 70 Raging, the late got land she overflows, And all that's built upon't to ruin goes.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin To strive for grace, and expiate their sin. All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil; Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.

If then such praise the Macedonian[1] got, For having rudely cut the Gordian knot, What glory's due to him that could divide Such ravell'd interests; has the knot untied, 80 And without stroke so smooth a passage made, Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all To His high hand, which threw the untouch'd wall Of self-demolish'd Jericho so low; His angel 'twas that did before you go, Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield, Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.

Thus, patience-crown'd, like Job's, your trouble ends, Having your foes to pardon, and your friends; 90 For, though your courage were so firm a rock, What private virtue could endure the shock? Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood, And pitied those who love with frailty show'd.

Rude Indians, tort'ring all the royal race, Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace That suffers best. What region could be found, 97 Where your heroic head had not been crown'd?

The next experience of your mighty mind Is, how you combat Fortune, now she's kind. And this way, too, you are victorious found; She flatters with the same success she frown'd. While to yourself severe, to others kind, With pow'r unbounded, and a will confined, Of this vast empire you possess the care, The softer parts fall to the people's share. Safety, and equal government, are things Which subjects make as happy as their kings.

Faith, Law, and Piety, (that banished train!) Justice and Truth, with you return again. 110 The city's trade, and country's easy life, Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife. Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace, Than the warm sun advances his increase; And does the shepherds as securely keep From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.

But, above all, the Muse-inspired train Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again! Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument. 120

Nec magis expressi vultus per ahenea signa, Quam per vatis opus mores, animique, virorum Clarorum apparent.... HOR.

[1] 'Macedonian': Alexander.



TO A LADY, FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED THE COPY OF THE POEM ENTITLED 'OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER,' WHICH FOR MANY YEARS HAD BEEN LOST.

Nothing lies hid from radiant eyes; All they subdue become their spies. Secrets, as choicest jewels, are Presented to oblige the fair; No wonder, then, that a lost thought Should there be found, where souls are caught.

The picture of fair Venus (that For which men say the goddess sat) Was lost, till Lely from your book Again that glorious image took.

If Virtue's self were lost, we might From your fair mind new copies write. All things but one you can restore; The heart you get returns no more.



TO THE QUEEN, UPON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY, AFTER HER HAPPY RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS SICKNESS.[1]

Farewell the year! which threaten'd so The fairest light the world can show. Welcome the new! whose every day, Restoring what was snatch'd away By pining sickness from the fair, That matchless beauty does repair So fast, that the approaching spring (Which does to flow'ry meadows bring What the rude winter from them tore) Shall give her all she had before. 10

But we recover not so fast The sense of such a danger past; We that esteem'd you sent from heaven, A pattern to this island given, To show us what the bless'd do there, And what alive they practised here, When that which we immortal thought, We saw so near destruction brought, Felt all which you did then endure, And tremble yet, as not secure. 20 So though the sun victorious be, And from a dark eclipse set free, The influence, which we fondly fear, Afflicts our thoughts the following year.

But that which may relieve our care Is, that you have a help so near For all the evil you can prove, The kindness of your royal love; He that was never known to mourn, So many kingdoms from him torn, 30 His tears reserved for you, more dear, More prized, than all those kingdoms were! For when no healing art prevail'd, When cordials and elixirs fail'd, On your pale cheek he dropp'd the shower, Revived you like a dying flower.

[1] 'Dangerous sickness': the Queen of Charles II. These verses belong to the year 1663.



TO MR KILLIGREW,[1] UPON HIS ALTERING HIS PLAY, 'PANDORA,' FROM A TRAGEDY INTO A COMEDY, BECAUSE NOT APPROVED ON THE STAGE.

Sir, you should rather teach our age the way Of judging well, than thus have changed your play; You had obliged us by employing wit, Not to reform Pandora, but the pit; For as the nightingale, without the throng Of other birds, alone attends her song, While the loud daw, his throat displaying, draws The whole assemblage of his fellow-daws; So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould; Whilst nobler fancies make a flight too high For common view, and lessen as they fly.

[1] 'Mr. Killigrew': a gentleman usher to Charles II., and one of the playwrights of the period.



TO A PERSON OF HONOUR, UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE POEM, ENTITLED, 'THE BRITISH PRINCES.'[1]

Sir! you've obliged the British nation more Than all their bards could ever do before, And, at your own charge, monuments as hard As brass or marble to your fame have rear'd; For, as all warlike nations take delight To hear how their brave ancestors could fight, You have advanced to wonder their renown, 7 And no less virtuously improved your own; That 'twill be doubtful whether you do write, Or they have acted, at a nobler height. You of your ancient princes, have retrieved More than the ages knew in which they lived; Explain'd their customs and their rights anew, Better than all their Druids ever knew; Unriddled those dark oracles as well As those that made them could themselves foretell. For as the Britons long have hoped, in vain, Arthur would come to govern them again, You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone, And in your poem placed him on his throne. 20 Such magic power has your prodigious pen To raise the dead, and give new life to men, Make rival princes meet in arms and love, Whom distant ages did so far remove; For as eternity has neither past Nor future, authors say, nor first nor last, But is all instant, your eternal Muse All ages can to any one reduce. Then why should you, whose miracles of art Can life at pleasure to the dead impart, 30 Trouble in vain your better-busied head, T'observe what times they lived in, or were dead? For since you have such arbitrary power, It were defect in judgment to go lower, Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd, As use to take the vulgar latitude; For no man's fit to read what you have writ, That holds not some proportion with your wit; As light can no way but by light appear, He must bring sense that understands it here. 40

[1] 'The British Princes': an heroic poem, by the Hon. Edward Howard, was universally laughed at. See our edition of 'Butler.'



TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR, A PERSON OF HONOUR, WHO LATELY WRIT A RELIGIOUS BOOK, ENTITLED, 'HISTORICAL APPLICATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL MEDITATIONS, UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.'[1]

Bold is the man that dares engage For piety in such an age! Who can presume to find a guard From scorn, when Heaven's so little spared? Divines are pardon'd; they defend Altars on which their lives depend; But the profane impatient are, When nobler pens make this their care; For why should these let in a beam Of divine light to trouble them, 10 And call in doubt their pleasing thought, That none believes what we are taught? High birth and fortune warrant give That such men write what they believe; And, feeling first what they indite, New credit give to ancient light. Amongst these few, our author brings His well-known pedigree from kings.[2] This book, the image of his mind, Will make his name not hard to find; 20 I wish the throng of great and good Made it less eas'ly understood!

[1] 'Several subjects': supposed to be Lord Berkeley. It contained testimonies of celebrated men to the value of religion. [2] 'Pedigree from kings': the Earl of Berkeley was descended from the royal house of Denmark.



TO THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS, WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.[1]

That sun of beauty did among us rise; England first saw the light of your fair eyes; In English, too, your early wit was shown; Favour that language, which was then your own, When, though a child, through guards you made your way; What fleet or army could an angel stay? Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain Whom she first bred within her ambient main. Our late burnt London, in apparel new, Shook off her ashes to have treated you; 10 But we must see our glory snatch'd away, And with warm tears increase the guilty sea; No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows, We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose! Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,— Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!

[1] 'Court at Dover': the Duchess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political mission.



TO CHLORIS.

Chloris! what's eminent, we know Must for some cause be valued so; Things without use, though they be good, Are not by us so understood. The early rose, made to display Her blushes to the youthful May, Doth yield her sweets, since he is fair, And courts her with a gentle air. Our stars do show their excellence Not by their light, but influence; When brighter comets, since still known Fatal to all, are liked by none. So your admired beauty still Is, by effects, made good or ill.



TO THE KING.

Great Sir! disdain not in this piece to stand, Supreme commander both of sea and land. Those which inhabit the celestial bower, Painters express with emblems of their power; His club Alcides, Phoebus has his bow, Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.

But your great providence no colours here Can represent, nor pencil draw that care, Which keeps you waking to secure our peace, The nation's glory, and our trade's increase; 10 You, for these ends, whole days in council sit, And the diversions of your youth forget.

Small were the worth of valour and of force, If your high wisdom governed not their course; You as the soul, as the first mover you, Vigour and life on every part bestow; How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast, Instruct the artists, and reward their haste.

So Jove himself, when Typhon heaven does brave, Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky cave, 20 Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame. Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode, Crete had not been the cradle of their god; On that small island they had looked with scorn, And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.



TO THE DUCHESS, WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

Madam! I here present you with the rage, And with the beauties of a former age; Wishing you may with as great pleasure view This, as we take in gazing upon you. Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher. While we your wit and early knowledge fear, To our productions we become severe; Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing, Your judgment makes us careful how we sing. 10 Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste, Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last, And make you through as many ages shine, As Tasso has the heroes of your line.

Though other names our wary writers use, You are the subject of the British Muse; Dilating mischief to yourself unknown, Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own. So the bright sun burns all our grass away, While it means nothing but to give us day. 20



TO MR CREECH, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'[1]

What all men wish'd, though few could hope to see, We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee. Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store, Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more. May they enjoy thy thoughts!—Let not the stage The idlest moment of thy hours engage; Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds, And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds. There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong; Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song. 10 'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days; For sure the ancients never wrote such plays. These scribbling insects have what they deserve, Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve. That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before; And death found surly Ben exceeding poor. Heaven turn the omen from their image here! May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear! Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find, And be our Caesar, like Augustus, kind! 20

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head; Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread; Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care; But art above what other poets fear. What may we not expect from such a hand, That has, with books, himself at free command? Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain; And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain. So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet, Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit, 30 We read, and read again; and still admire Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee? Thy goodness may my several faults forgive, And by your help these wretched lines may live. But if, when view'd by your severer sight, They seem unworthy to behold the light, Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown! They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan; 40 But, dying silently, your justice own.

[1] 'Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition of 1693.



SONGS.



STAY, PHOEBUS!

1 Stay, Phoebus! stay; The world to which you fly so fast, Conveying day From us to them, can pay your haste With no such object, nor salute your rise, With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

2 Well does this prove The error of those antique books, Which made you move About the world; her charming looks Would fix your beams, and make it ever day, Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.



PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!

1 Peace, babbling Muse! I dare not sing what you indite; Her eyes refuse To read the passion which they write. She strikes my lute, but, if it sound, Threatens to hurl it on the ground; And I no less her anger dread, Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead, While some fierce lion does embrace His breathless corpse, and lick his face; Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies, Torn all in pieces if he cries.



CHLORIS! FAREWELL.

1 Chloris! farewell. I now must go; For if with thee I longer stay, Thy eyes prevail upon me so, I shall prove blind, and lose my way.

2 Fame of thy beauty, and thy youth, Among the rest, me hither brought; Finding this fame fall short of truth, Made me stay longer than I thought.

3 For I'm engaged by word and oath, A servant to another's will; Yet, for thy love, I'd forfeit both, Could I be sure to keep it still.

4 But what assurance can I take, When thou, foreknowing this abuse, For some more worthy lover's sake, Mayst leave me with so just excuse?

5 For thou mayst say, 'twas not thy fault That thou didst thus inconstant prove; Being by my example taught To break thy oath, to mend thy love.

6 No, Chloris! no: I will return, And raise thy story to that height, That strangers shall at distance burn, And she distrust me reprobate.

7 Then shall my love this doubt displace, And gain such trust, that I may come And banquet sometimes on thy face, But make my constant meals at home.



TO FLAVIA.

1 'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.

2 'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find.

3 No, Flavia! 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts; Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field.



BEHOLD THE BRAND OF BEAUTY TOSS'D!

1 Behold the brand of beauty toss'd! See how the motion does dilate the flame! Delighted Love his spoils does boast, And triumph in this game. Fire, to no place confined, Is both our wonder and our fear; Moving the mind, As lightning hurled through the air.

2 High heaven the glory does increase Of all her shining lamps, this artful way; The sun in figures, such as these, Joys with the moon to play; To the sweet strains they advance, Which do result from their own spheres, As this nymph's dance Moves with the numbers which she hears.



WHILE I LISTEN TO THY VOICE.

1 While I listen to thy voice, Chloris! I feel my life decay; That powerful noise Calls my fleeting soul away. Oh! suppress that magic sound, Which destroys without a wound.

2 Peace, Chloris! peace! or singing die, That together you and I To heaven may go; For all we know Of what the blessed do above, Is, that they sing, and that they love.



GO, LOVELY ROSE!

1 Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

2 Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

3 Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

4 Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!



SUNG BY MRS KNIGHT TO HER MAJESTY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

This happy day two lights are seen, A glorious saint, a matchless queen;[1] Both named alike, both crown'd appear, The saint above, th'Infanta here. May all those years which Catherine The martyr did for heaven resign, Be added to the line Of your bless'd life among us here! For all the pains that she did feel, And all the torments of her wheel, May you as many pleasures share! May heaven itself content With Catherine the Saint! Without appearing old, An hundred times may you, With eyes as bright as now, This welcome day behold!

[1] 'Matchless queen': Queen Catherine was born on the day set apart in the calendar for the commemoration of the martyrdom of St. Catherine.



SONG.

1 Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face? Colours of this glorious kind Come not from any mortal place.

2 In heaven itself thou sure wert dress'd With that angel-like disguise: Thus deluded am I bless'd, And see my joy with closed eyes.

3 But, ah! this image is too kind To be other than a dream; Cruel Saccharissa's mind Never put on that sweet extreme!

4 Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine; Paint despised love in thy face, And make it to appear like mine.

5 Pale, wan, and meagre let it look, With a pity-moving shape, Such as wander by the brook Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

6 Then to that matchless nymph appear, In whose shape thou shinest so; Softly in her sleeping ear, With humble words, express my woe.

7 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride, Thus surprised she may fall; Sleep does disproportion hide, And, death resembling, equals all.



PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.



PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS. SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.

Amaze us not with that majestic frown, But lay aside the greatness of your crown! And for that look which does your people awe, When in your throne and robes you give them law, Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile, Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while He listens to Apollo's charming lyre, Or judges of the songs he does inspire. Comedians on the stage show all their skill, And after do as Love and Fortune will. 10 We are less careful, hid in this disguise; In our own clothes more serious and more wise. Modest at home, upon the stage more bold, We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold; A fault committed here deserves no scorn, If we act well the parts to which we're born.



PROLOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'[1]

Scarce should we have the boldness to pretend So long-renown'd a tragedy to mend, Had not already some deserved your praise With like attempt. Of all our elder plays This and Philaster have the loudest fame; Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame. In both our English genius is express'd; 7 Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.

Above our neighbours our conceptions are; But faultless writing is th'effect of care. Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste, Polished like marble, would like marble last.[2] But as the present, so the last age writ; In both we find like negligence and wit. Were we but less indulgent to our faults, And patience had to cultivate our thoughts, Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.

Thus says our author, not content to see That others write as carelessly as he; 20 Though he pretends not to make things complete, Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat.

In this old play, what's new we have express'd In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest; That as the Rhone its hasty way does make (Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake, So having here the different styles in view, You may compare the former with the new.

If we less rudely shall the knot untie, Soften the rigour of the tragedy, 30 And yet preserve each person's character, Then to the other this you may prefer. 'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit, Are sov'reign judges of this sort of wit. In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.

[1] 'Maid's Tragedy': Waller altered this tragedy without success. [2] 'Marble last': these lines occur in a previous poem.



EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.' SPOKEN BY THE KING.

The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compassion find, But died—because the killer had been kind! Nor is't less strange, such mighty wits as those Should use a style in tragedy like prose. Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage, Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage. 10 By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids, We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades; And verses are the potent charms we use, Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, we shall be slain. The innocent Aspasia's life or death, Amintor's too, depends upon your breath. Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause. 20



ANOTHER EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.' DESIGNED UPON THE FIRST ALTERATION OF THE PLAY, WHEN THE KING ONLY WAS LEFT ALIVE.

Aspasia bleeding on the stage does lie, To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy. The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compassion find, But died—because the killer had been kind! This better-natured poet had reprieved Gentle Amintor too, had he believed 10 The fairer sex his pardon could approve, Who to ambition sacrificed his love. Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound (Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, I must be slain. Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.



EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS.



UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.

Such Helen was! and who can blame the boy[1] That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy? But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek, The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seek Or hope for pity; but with silent moan, And better fate, had perished alone.

[1] Paris.



OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.

While she pretends to make the graces known Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own; And when she would another's praise indite, Is by her glass instructed how to write.



TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.

Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!) Be buried in those monumental arms, All we can wish is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.



AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net So grossly woven and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show If she would bite; her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are disabused when first she gapes; The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.



EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL.[1]

Our guard upon the royal side! On the reverse our beauty's pride! Here we discern the frown and smile, The force and glory of our isle. In the rich medal, both so like Immortals stand, it seems antique; Carved by some master, when the bold Greeks made their Jove descend in gold, And Danae[2] wond'ring at their shower, Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower. Britannia there, the fort in vain Had batter'd been with golden rain; Thunder itself had fail'd to pass; Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

[1] 'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the medals to which the poet here alludes. [2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more conventional diaresis shown here.



WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY TORE AT OMBRE.

The cards you tear in value rise; So do the wounded by your eyes. Who to celestial things aspire, Are by that passion raised the higher.



TO MR GRANVILLE (NOW LORD LANSDOWNE), ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II.

An early plant! which such a blossom bears, And shows a genius so beyond his years; A judgment! that could make so fair a choice; So high a subject to employ his voice; Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing The growing greatness of our matchless king!



LONG AND SHORT LIFE.

Circles are praised, not that abound In largeness, but th'exactly round: So life we praise that does excel Not in much time, but acting well.



TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.

Though we may seem importunate, While your compassion we implore; They whom you make too fortunate, May with presumption vex you more.



TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.

Fade, flowers! fade, Nature will have it so; 'Tis but what we must in our autumn do! And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground, The loss alone by those that loved them found; So in the grave shall we as quiet lie, Miss'd by some few that loved our company; But some so like to thorns and nettles live, That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.



SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED FOR A FRIEND, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF OVID'S 'FASTI.'

Rome's holy-days you tell, as if a guest With the old Romans you were wont to feast. Numa's religion, by themselves believed, Excels the true, only in show received. They made the nations round about them bow, With their dictators taken from the plough; Such power has justice, faith, and honesty! The world was conquer'd by morality. Seeming devotion does but gild a knave, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave; But where religion does with virtue join, It makes a hero like an angel shine.



ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES I., AT CHARING CROSS, IN THE YEAR 1674.

That the First Charles does here in triumph ride, See his son reign where he a martyr died, And people pay that rev'rence as they pass, (Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass, Is not the effect of gratitude alone, To which we owe the statue and the stone; But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought, That mortals may eternally be taught Rebellion, though successful, is but vain, And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again. This truth the royal image does proclaim, Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.



PRIDE.

Not the brave Macedonian youth[1] alone, But base Caligula, when on the throne, Boundless in power, would make himself a god, As if the world depended on his nod. The Syrian king[2] to beasts was headlong thrown, Ere to himself he could be mortal known. The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line, Would never stop till he were thought divine. All might within discern the serpent's pride, If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide. Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread, And woo the female to his painted bed; Let winds and seas together rage and swell— This Nature teaches, and becomes them well. 'Pride was not made for men;'[3] a conscious sense Of guilt, and folly, and their consequence, Destroys the claim, and to beholders tells, Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.

[1] 'Macedonian youth': Alexander. [2] 'Syrian king': Nebuchadnezzar. [3] 'For men': Ecclus. x. 18.



EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE.

Under this stone lies virtue, youth, Unblemish'd probity, and truth, Just unto all relations known, A worthy patriot, pious son; Whom neighb'ring towns so often sent To give their sense in Parliament; With lives and fortunes trusting one Who so discreetly used his own. Sober he was, wise, temperate, 9 Contented with an old estate, Which no foul avarice did increase, Nor wanton luxury make less. While yet but young his father died, And left him to a happy guide; Not Lemuel's mother with more care Did counsel or instruct her heir, Or teach with more success her son The vices of the time to shun. An heiress she; while yet alive, All that was hers to him did give; 20 And he just gratitude did show To one that had obliged him so; Nothing too much for her he thought, By whom he was so bred and taught. So (early made that path to tread, Which did his youth to honour lead) His short life did a pattern give How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.

The virtues of a private life Exceed the glorious noise and strife 30 Of battles won; in those we find The solid int'rest of mankind.

Approved by all, and loved so well, Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.



EPITAPH ON COLONEL CHARLES CAVENDISH.[1]

Here lies Charles Ca'ndish; let the marble stone That hides his ashes make his virtue known. Beauty and valour did his short life grace, The grief and glory of his noble race! Early abroad he did the world survey, As if he knew he had not long to stay; Saw what great Alexander in the East, And mighty Julius conquer'd in the West; Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he came To find at home occasion for his fame; 10 Where dark confusion did the nations hide, And where the juster was the weaker side. Two loyal brothers took their sov'reign's part, Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art; The elder[2] did whole regiments afford; The younger brought his conduct and his sword. Born to command, a leader he begun, And on the rebels lasting honour won. The horse, instructed by their general's worth, Still made the king victorious in the north. 20 Where Ca'ndish fought, the Royalists prevail'd; Neither his courage nor his judgment fail'd. The current of his vict'ries found no stop, Till Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop. Equal success had set these champions high, And both resolved to conquer or to die. Virtue with rage, fury with valour strove; But that must fall which is decreed above! Cromwell, with odds of number and of fate, Removed this bulwark of the church and state; 30 Which the sad issue of the war declared, And made his task, to ruin both, less hard. So when the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown, The boundless torrent does the country drown. Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;— Strew bays and flowers on his honoured grave!