When cruel cares, by faithless subjects bred,
Too closely press'd his sacred peaceful head;
With them t' have pointed her destroying dart,
And through the brain found passage to the heart.
Deep-wounding plagues avenging Heaven bestow
On those curs'd heads to whom this loss we owe !
On all who Charles's heart affliction gave,
And sent him to the sorrows of the grave!

Now, painter, (if thy griefs can let thee) draw The saddest scenes that weeping eyes e'er saw; How on his royal bed that woful day

The much-lamented mighty monarch lay;
Great in his fate, and ev'n o'er that a king,
No terrour could the Lord of Terrours bring.
Through many steady and well-manag'd years
He 'ad arm'd his mind 'gainst all those little fears,
Which common mortals want the power to hide,
When their mean souls and valued clay divide.
He 'ad study'd well the worth of life, and knew
Its troubles many, and its blessings few:
Therefore unmov'd did Death's approaches see,
And grew familiar with his Destiny;
Like an acquaintance entertain'd his Fate,
Who, as it knew him, seem'd content to wait,
Not as his gaoler, but his friendly guide,
While he for his great journey did provide.
Oh, couldst thou express the yearnings of his mind
To his poor mourning people left behind!
But that I fear will ev'n thy skill deceive, [ceive.
None but a soul like his such goodness could con-
For though a stubborn race deserving ill,
Yet would he show himself a father still.
Therefore he chose for that peculiar care,
His crown's, his virtue's, and his mercy's heir,
Great James, who to his throne does now succeed,
And charg'd him tenderly his flocks to feed;
To guide them too, too apt to run astray,
And keep the foxes and the wolves away.

Here, painter, if thou canst, thy art improve,
And show the wonders of fraternal love;
How mourning James by fading Charles did stand,
The dying grasping the surviving hand;
How round each other's necks their arms they cast,
Moan'd with endearing murmurings, and embrac'd;
And of their parting pangs such marks did give,
'Twas hard to guess which yet could longest live.
Both their sad tongues quite lost the power to speak,
And their kind hearts seem'd both prepar'd to break.
Here let thy curious pencil next display,
How round his bed a beauteous offspring lay,
With their great father's blessing to be crown'd,
Like young fierce lions stretch'd upon the ground,
And in majestic silent sorrow drown'd.

This done, suppose the ghastly minute nigh, And paint the griefs of the sad standers-by; Th' unweary'd reverend father's pious care, Offering (as oft as tears could stop) a prayer. Of kindred nobles draw a sorrowing train,

Describe her prostrate to the throne above,
Pleading with prayer the tender cause of love:
Show troops of angels hovering from the sky;
(For they, whene'er she call'd, were always nigh)
Let them attend her cries, and hear her moan,
With looks of beauteous sadness like her own,
Because they know her lord's great doom is seal'd,
And cannot (though she asks it) be repeal'd.

By this time think the work of Fate is done,
So any further sad description shun.
Show him not pale and breathless on his bed,
"Twould make all gazers on thy art fall dead;
And thou thyself to such a scene of woe
Add a new piece, and thy own statue grow.
Wipe therefore all thy pencils, and prepar●
To draw a prospect now of clearer air.
Paint in an eastern sky new dawning day,
And there the embryos of Time display;
The forms of many smiling years to come,
Just ripe for birth, and labouring from their womb;
Each struggling which shall eldership obtain,
To be first grac'd with mighty James's reign.
Let the dread monarch on his throne appear,
Place too the charming partner of it there.
O'er his their wings let Fame and Triumph spread,
And soft-ey'd Cupids hover o'er her head;
In his, paint smiling, yet majestic grace,
But all the wealth of beauty in her face.
Then from the different corners of the Earth
Describe applauding nations coming forth,
Homage to pay, or humble peace to gain,
And own auspicious omens from his reign.
Set at long distance his contracted foes
Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose:
Draw shame or mean despair in all their eyes,
And terrour lest th' avenging hand should rise.
But where his smiles extend, draw beauteous Peace,.
The poor man's cheerful toils, the rich man's ease;
Here, shepherds piping to their feeding sheep,
Or stretch'd at length in their warm huts asleep;
There jolly hinds spread through the sultry fields,
Reaping such harvests as their tillage yields;
Or shelter'd from the scorchings of the Sun,
Their labours ended, and repast begun;
Rang'd on green banks, which they themselves did
Singing their own content, and ruler's praise.
Draw beauteous meadows, gardens, groves, and
bowers,

[raise,

pain;

How from each groan of his, deriving smart,
Each fetch'd another from a tortur'd heart.
Mingled with these, his faithful servants place,
With different lines of woe in every face; [eyes,
With downcast heads, swoln breasts, and streaming
And sighs that mount in vain the unrelenting skies.
But yet there still remains a task behind,
In which thy readiest art may labour find.
At distance let the mourning queen appear,
(But where sad news too soon may reach her ear)

But Heaven such injur'd merit did regard;
(As Heaven in time true virtue will reward)
So to a throne by Providence he rose,
And all whoe'er were his, were Providence's foes.

THE ENCHANTMENT,

I DID but look and love a-while, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will,

And now I have no power.

To sigh, and wish, is all my ease; Sighs, which do heat impart, Enough to melt the coldest ice,

Yet cannot warm your heart.

O! would your pity give my heart
One corner of your breast,
"Twould learn of yours the winning art,
And quickly steal the rest.

THE

POET'S COMPLAINT OF HIS MUSE:

OR,

A SATIRE AGAINST LIBELS.

Si quid habent veri vatum præsagia, vivam.

To the right honourable Thomas earl of Ossory, baron of Moor Park, knight of the most noble order of the garter, &c.

MY LORD,

THOUGH never any man had more need of excuse for a presumption of this nature than I have now, yet, when I have laid out every way to find one, your lordship's goodness must be my refuge: and therefore I humbly cast this at your feet for protection, and myself for pardon.

My lord, I have great need of protection; for to the best of my heart I have here published in some measure the truth, and I would have it thought honestly too: (a practice never more out of countenance than now) yet truth and honour are things which your lordship must needs be kind to, because they are relations to your nature, and never left you.

Twould be a second presumption in me to

ODE.

To a high hill where never yet stood tree, Where only heath, coarse fern, and furzes grow, Where (nipt by piercing air)

The flocks in tatter'd fleeces hardly gaze,

Led by uncouth thoughts and care, Which did too much his pensive mind amaze, A wandering bard, whose Muse was crazy grown, Cloy'd with the nauseous follies of the buzzing town, Came, look'd about him, sigh'd, and laid him down; 'Twas far from any path, but where the Earth Was bare, and naked all as at her birth, When by the word it first was made,

Ere God had said,

Let grass, and herbs, and every green thing grow, With fruitful trees after their kind, and it was so. The whistling winds blew fiercely round his head, Cold was his lodging, hard his bed; Aloft his eyes on the wide Heavens he cast, Where we are told Peace only 's found at last: And as he did its hopeless distance see, Sigh'd deep, and cry'd, "How far is Peace from me!" Nor ended there his moan: The distance of his future joy Had been enough to give him pain alone; But who can undergo

Down his afflicted face

Despair of ease to come, with weight of present woe!
The trickling tears had stream'd so fast a pace,
As left a path worn by their briny race.

Swoln was his breast with sighs, his well-
Whilst the poor trunk (unable to sustain
Proportion'd limbs as useless fell,
Itself) lay rackt, and shaking with its pain.
I heard his groans as I was walking by,
And (urg'd by pity) went aside, to see

Had

What the sad cause could be

[high.

press'd his state so low, and rais'd his plaints so On me he fixt his eyes. I crav'd, Why so forlorn; he vainly rav'd. Peace to his mind I did commend: But, oh! my words were hardly at an end, When I perceiv'd it was my friend, My much-lov'd friend; so down I sat, And begg'd that I might share his fate: I laid my check to his, when with a gale

If I have ventured at a hint of the present sufferings of that great prince mentioned in the latter end of this paper, with favour from your lordship I hope to add a second part, and do all those great and good men justice, that have in his calamities stuck fast to so gallant a friend and so good a master. To write and finish which great subject faithfully, and to be honoured with your lordship's patronage in what I may do, and your approbation, or at least pardon, in what I have done, will be the greatest pride of,

my lord,

your most humble admirer and servant,

THOMAS OTWAY.

"From thence, sad discontent, uneasy fears, And anxious doubts of what I had to do,

Grew with succeeding years.

The world was wide, but whither should I go?
I, whose blooming hopes all wither'd were,
Who'd little fortune, and a deal of care?
To Britain's great metropolis I stray'd,

Where Fortune's general game is play'd;
Where honesty and wit are often prais'd,
But fools and knaves are fortunate and rais'd;
My forward spirit prompted me to find

A converse equal to my mind:

But by raw judgment easily misled, (As giddy callow boys

Are very fond of toys)

I miss'd the brave and wise, and in their stead On every sort of vanity I fed.

Gay coxcombs, cowards, knaves, and prating fools,
Bullies of o'ergrown bulks and little souls,
Gamesters, half wits, and spendthrifts (such as
think

Mischievous midnight frolics, bred by drink,
Are gallantry and wit,

Because to their lewd understandings fit)
Were those wherewith two years at least I spent,
To all their fulsome follies most incorrigibly bent;
Till at the last, myself more to abuse,

I grew in love with a deceitful Muse.

"No fair deceiver ever us'd such charms,

T' ensnare a tender youth, and win his heart:
Or, when she had him in her arms,
Secur'd his love with greater art.

I fancy'd, or I dream'd (as poets always do)
No beauty with my Muse's might compare.
Lofty she seem'd, and on her front sat a majestic air,
Awful, yet kind; severe, yet fair.
Upon her head a crown she bore

Of laurel, which she told me should be mine:
And round her ivory neck she wore

A rope of largest pearl. Each part of her did shine
With jewels and with gold,
Numberless to be told;

Which in imagination as I did behold,

And lov'd, and wonder'd more and more,

Said she, 'These riches all, my darling, shall be thine,
Riches which never poet had before.'

She promis'd me to raise my fortune and my name,
By royal favour, and by endless fame;
But never told

How hard they were to get, how difficult to hold.
Thus by the arts of this most sly
Deluder was I caught,

To her bewitching bondage brought.

Eternal constancy we swore,

A thousand times our vows were doubled o'er :
And as we did in our entrancements lie,

I thought no pleasure e'er was wrought so high,
No pair so happy as my Muse and I.

VOL. VIII.

"Ne'er was young lover half so fond
When first his pusillage he lost,
Or could of half my pleasure boast.
We never met but we enjoy'd,
Still transported, never cloy'd.
Chambers, closets, fields, and groves,
Bore witness of our daily loves;
And on the bark of every tree

You might the marks of our endearments see.
Distichs, posies, and the pointed bits

Of satire (written when a poet meets
His Muse's caterwauling fits)

You might on every rhind behold, and swear
I and my Clio had been at it there.

Nay, by my Muse too I was blest
With offsprings of the choicest kinds,
Such as have pleas'd the noblest minds,
And been approv'd by judgments of the best.
But in this most transporting height,

Whence I look'd down, and laught at Fate, All of a sudden I was alter'd grown;

I round me look'd, and found myself alone;
My faithless Muse, my faithless Muse, was gone:
I try'd if I a verse could frame:
Oft I in vain invok'd my Clio's name.

The more I strove, the more I fail'd,
Ichaf'd, Ibit my pen,curst my dull scull, and rail'd,
Resolv'd to force m' untoward thought, and at the
last prevail'd.

A line came forth, but such a one, No travelling matron in her child-birth pains, Full of the joyful hopes to bear a son, Was more astonish'd at th' unlook'd-for shape Of some deform'd baboon, or ape, Than I was at the hideous issue of my brains. I tore my paper, stabb'd my pen, And swore I'ad never write again, Resolv'd to be a doating fool no more. But when my reckoning I began to make,

I found too long I 'ad slept, and was too late awake; I found m' ungrateful Muse, for whose false sake I did myself undo,

Had robb'd me of my dearest store, My precious time, my friends, and reputation too; And left me helpless, friendless, very proud, and poor.

"Reason, which in base bonds my folly had enthrall'd, I straight to council call'd;

Like some old faithful friend, whom long ago
I had cashier'd, to please my flattering fair.
To me with readiness he did repair,
Express'd much tender cheerfulness, to find
Experience had restor'd him to my mind;

And loyally did to me show,

How much himself he did abuse,

Who credited a flattering, false, destructive, treacherous Muse.

I ask'd the causes why. He said,
"Twas never known a Muse e'er staid
When Fortune fled; for Fortune is a bawd
To all the Nine that on Parnassus dwell,
Where those so fam'd delightful fountains swell
Of poetry, which there does ever flow;

And where wit's lusty, shining god
Keeps his choice saraglio.

So whilst our fortune smiles, our thoughts aspire,
Pleasure and fame 's our business, and desire,

Then, too, if we find

A promptness in the mind,

The Muse is always ready, always kind.

U

But if th' old harlot, Fortune, once denies Her favour, all our pleasure and rich fancy dies, And then th' young, slippery jilt, the Muse, too from us flies.

"To the whole tale I gave attention due; And, as right search into myself I made, I found all he had said

Was very honest, very true.

O how I hugg'd my welcome friend! And much my Muse I could not discommend! For I ne'er liv'd in Fortune's grace,

She always turn'd her back, and fled from me apace, And never once vouchsaf'd to let me see her face.

Then, to confirm me more,

He drew the veil of dotage from my eyes: 'See here, my son,' said he, 'the valued prize; Thy fulsome Muse behold, be happy, and be wise.' I look'd, and saw the rampant, tawdry quean, With a more horrid train

Than ever yet to satire lent a tale,

Or haunted Chloris in the Mall.

The first was he who stunk of that rank verse
In which he wrote his Sodom Farce;

A wretch whom old diseases did so bite,
That he writ bawdry sure in spite,
To ruin and disgrace it quite.
Philosophers of old did so express
Their art, and show'd it in their nastiness.

Next him appear'd that blundering sot,
Who a late Session of the Poets wrote.
Nature has mark'd him for a heavy fool;

By 's flat broad face you'll know the owl.
The other birds have hooted him from light;
Much buffeting has made him love the night,
And only in the dark he strays;

Still wretch enough to live, with worse fools spends his days,

And for old shoes and scraps repeats dull plays.

Meagre her looks, and sunk her eyes, Yet mischiefs study'd, discords did devise. She appear'd humble, but it was her pride: Slow in her speech, in semblance sanctify'd. Still when she spoke she meant another way;

And when she curs'd, she seem'd to pray.
Her hellish charms had all a holy dress,
And bore the name of godliness,
All her familiars seem'd the sons of Peace.
Honest habits they all wore,

In outward show most lamb-like and divine:
But inward of all vices they had store,

Greedy as wolves, and sensual too as swine. Like her, the sacred scriptures they had all by heart, Most easily could quote, and turn to any part, Backward repeat it all, as witches their prayers do,

And, for their turn, interpret backward too. Idolatry with her was held impure, Because, besides herself, no idol she 'd endure. Though not to paint, she 'ad arts to change the And alter it in heavenly fashion. [face, Lewd whining she defin'd a mark of grace, And making ugly faces was mortification.

Her late dead pander was of well-known fame, Old Presbyter Rebellion was his name: She a sworn foe to king, his peace, and laws, So will be ever, and was call'd (bless us!) the Good Old Cause.

"A time there was (a sad one too)

When all things wore the face of woe,
When many horrours rag'd in this our land,
And a destroying angel was sent down,
To scourge the pride of this rebellious town.
He came, and o'er all Britain stretch'd his conquering
hand:

Till in th' untrodden streets unwholesome grass
Grew of great stalk, its colour gross,
And melancholic poisonous green;

Lord Lampoon and Monsieur Song,

cn

Who sought her love, and promis'd for 't, To make her famous at the court. The city poet too was there, In a black satin cap and his own hair, And begg'd that he might have the To beget a pageant on her For the city's next lord-mayor. Her favours she to none deny'd: They took her all by turns aside. Till at the last up in the rear there came, The poets' scandal, and the Muses' shame, A beast of monstrous guise, and Libel was his name. But let me pause, for 'twill ask time to tell How he was born, how bred and where, and where he now does dwell."

He paus'd, and thus renew'd his tale.
"Down in an obscure vale,

'Midst fogs and fens, whence mists and vapours rise,

Where never Sun was seen by eyes,

Under a desert wood,

Which no man own, but all wild beasts were bred, And kept their horrid dens, by prey far forag'd fed, An ill-pil'd cottage stood,

Built of men's bones slanghter'd in civil war,
By magic art brought thither from afar,

There liv'd a widow'd witch,

That us'd to mumble curses eve and morn,

Like one whom wants and care had worn;

seen,

Where some murrain-murther'd hog, Poison'd cat, or straugled dog, In rottenness had long unbury'd laid, And the cold soil productive made. Birds of ill omen hover'd in the air, And by their crics bade us for graves prepare; And, as our destiny they seem'd t' unfold, Dropt dead of the same fate they had foretold. That dire commission ended, down there came Another angel with a sword of flame:

Desolation soon he made,

And our new Sodom low in ashes laid. Distractions and distrusts then did amongst us rise, When, in her pious old disguise,

This witch with all her mischief-making train Began to show herself again. The sons of Old Rebellion straight she summon'd all; Straight they were ready at her call: Once more th' old bait before their eyes she cast, That and her love they long'd to taste; And to her lust she drew them all at last. So Reuben (we may read of heretofore) Was led astray, and had pollution with his father's

whore.

"The better to conceal her lewd intent
In safety from observing eyes,
Th' old strumpet did herself disguise
In comely weeds, and to the city went,