Finch, full of kindness, generous as his blood,
Watchful to do, to modest merit, good;
Who have forsook the vile tumultuous town,
And for a taste of life to us come down;
With eager arms, how closely we embrace!
What joys in every heart, and every face!
The moderate table 's quickly cover'd o'er,
With choicest meats at least, though not with store:
Of bottles next succeeds a goodly train,
Full of what cheers the heart, and fires the brain:
Each waited on by a bright virgin glass,
Clean, sound, and shining like its drinker's lass.
Then down we sit, while every genius tries
'T" improve, till he deserves his sacrifice:
No saucy Hour presumes to stint delight, [night.
We laugh, love, drink, and when that 's done 'tis
Well warm'd and pleas'd, as we think fit we'll part,
Each takes th' obedient treasure of his heart,
And leads her willing to his silent bed,
Where no vexatious cares come near his head,
But every sense with perfect pleasure 's fed;
Till in full joy dissolv'd, each falls asleep
For, as to some good-nature I pretend,
I fear'd to read, lest I should not commend.
Lucretius english'd! 'twas a work might shake
The power of English verse to undertake.
This all men thought; but you are born, we find,
'T' outdo the expectations of mankind;
Since you 've so well the noble task perform'd,
Envy 's appeas'd, and Prejudice disarm'd:
For when the rich original we peruse,
And by it try the metal you produce,
Though there indeed the purest ore we find,
Yet still in you it something seems refin'd:
Thus when the great Lucretius gives a loose,
And lashes to her speed his fiery Muse;
Still with him you maintain an equal pace,
And bear full stretch upon him all the race;
But when in rugged way we find him rein
His verse, and not so smooth a stroke maintain;
There the advantage he receives is found,
By you taught temper, and to choose his ground.
Next, his philosophy you 've so exprest
In genuine terms, so plain, yet neatly drest,
With twining limbs, that still Love's posture keep, Those murderers that now mingle it all day
At dawn of morning to renew delight,
So quiet craving Love, till the next night:
Then we the drowsy cells of Sleep forsake,
And to our books our earliest visit make;
Or else our thoughts to their attendance call,
And there, methinks, Fancy sits queen of all;
While the poor under-faculties resort,
And to her fickle majesty make court;
The Understanding first comes plainly clad,
But usefully; no entrance to be had.
Next comes the Will, that bully of the mind,
Follies wat on him in a troop behind;
He meets reception from the antic queen,
Who thinks her majesty 's most honour'd, when
Attended by those fine-drest gentlemen.
Reason, the honest counsellor, this knows,
And into court with resolute virtue goes;
Lets Fancy see her loose irregular sway,
Then how the flattering follies sneak away!
This image, when it came, too fiercely shook
My brain, which its soft quiet straight forsook;
When waking as I cast my eyes around,'
Nothing but old loath'd vanities I found;
No grove, no freedom, and, what 's worse to me,
No friend; for I have none compar'd with thee.
Soon then my thoughts with their old tyrant Care
Were seiz'd; which to divert, I fram'd this prayer:
"Gods! life 's your gift, then season 't with such
fate,
That what ye meant a blessing prove no weight.
Let me to the remotest part be whirl'd,
Of this your plaything made in haste, the world;
But grant me quiet, liberty, and peace,
By day what 's needful, and at night soft ease;
The friend I trust in, and the she I love,
Then fix me; and if e'er I wish remove,
Make me as great (that 's wretched) as ye can.
Set me in power, the woefull'st state of man;
To be by fools misled, to knaves a prey,
But make life what I ask, or take 't away."
TO MR. CREECH,
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.
SIR, when your book the first time came abroad,
I must confess I stood amaz'd and aw'd ;
In schools, may learn from you the easy way
To let us know what they would mean and say:
If Aristotle's friends will show the grace
To wave for once their statute in that case.
Go on then, sir, and since you could aspire,
And reach this height, aim yet at laurels higher:
Secure great injur'd Maro from the wrong
He unredeem'd has labour'd with so long
In Holbourn rhyme, and, lest the book should fail,
Expos'd with pictures to promote the sale:
So tapsters set out signs, for muddy ale.
You 're only able to retrieve his doom,
And make him here as fam'd as once at Rome:
For sure,
when Julius first this isle subdued,
Your ancestors then mixt with Roman blood;
Some near ally'd to that whence Ovid came,
Virgil and Horace, those three sons of Fame;
Since to their memory it is so true,
And shows their poetry so much in you.
Go on in pity to this wretched isle,
Which ignorant poetasters do defile
With lousy madrigals for lyric verse;
Instead of comedy with nasty farce.
Would Plautus, Terence e'er, have been so lewd
T have drest Jack-pudding up to catch the crowd?
Or Sophocles five tedious acts have made,
To show a whining fool in love betray'd
By some false friend or slippery chambermaid,
Then, ere he hangs himself, bemoans his fall
In a dull speech, and that fine language call?
No, since we live in such a fulsome age,
When nonsense loads the press, and choaks the stage;
When blockheads will claim wit in Nature's spite,
And every dunce, that starves, presumes to write,
Exert yourself, defend the Muse's cause,
Proclaim their right, and to maintain their laws
Make the dead ancients speak the British tongue;
That so each chattering daw, who aims at song,
In his own mother-tongue may humbly read
What engines yet are wanting in his head
To make him equal to the mighty dead;
For of all Nature's works we most should scorn
The thing who thinks himself a poet born,
Unbred, untaught, he rhymes, yet hardly spells,
And senselessly, as squirrels jangle bells.
Such things, sir, here abound; may therefore you
Be ever to your friends, the Muses, true!
May our defects be by your powers supply'd, Till, as our envy now, you grow our pride; Till by your pen restor'd, in triumph borne, The majesty of Poetry return!
SPOKEN UPON HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK
COMING TO THE THEATRE, FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1682.
WHEN too much plenty, luxury, and ease,
Had surfeited this isle to a disease;
When noisome blains did its best parts o'erspread,
And on the rest their dire infection shed;
Our great Physician, who the nature knew
Of the distemper, and from whence it grew,
Fix'd, for three kingdoms' quiet, sir, on you:
He cast his searching eyes o'er all the frame,
And finding whence before one sickness came,
How once before our mischiefs foster'd were,
Knew well your virtue, and apply'd you there:
Where so your goodness, so your justice sway'd,
You but appear'd, and the wild plague was stay'd.
When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred,
New-form'd Rebellion durst rear up its head,
Answer me all: Who struck the monster dead?
See, see, the injur'd prince, and bless his name,
Think on the martyr from whose loins he came;
Think on the blood was shed for you before,
And curse the parricides that thirst for more.
His foes are yours, then of their wiles beware:
Lay, lay him in your hearts, and guard him there,
Where let his wrongs your zeal for him improve;
He wears a sword will justify your love.
With blood still ready for your good t' expend,
And has a heart that ne'er forgot his friend.
His duteous loyalty before you lay,
And learn of him, unmurmuring, to obey.
Think what he 'as borne, your quiet to restore;
Repent your madness, and rebel no more.
No more let Boutefeus hope to lead petitions, Scriveners to be treasurers; pedlars, politicians; Nor every fool, whose wife has tript at court, Pluck up a spirit, and turn rebel for 't.
In lands where cuckolds multiply like ours, What prince can be too jealous of their powers, Or can too often think himself alarm'd? They're mal-contents that every where go arm'd: And when the horned herd 's together got, Nothing portends a commonwealth like that.
Cast, cast your idols off, your gods of wood, Ere yet Philistines fatten with your blood: Renounce your priests of Baal with amen faces, Your Wapping feasts, and your Mile-end high places. Nail all your medals on the gallows' post, In recompense th' original was lost: At these, illustrious repentance pay, In his kind hands your humble offerings lay: Let royal pardon be by him implor'd, Th' atoning brother of your anger'd lord: He only brings a med'cine fit t' assuage A people's folly, and rouz'd monarch's rage. An infant prince, yet labouring in the womb, Fated with wondrous happiness to come, He goes to fetch the mighty blessings home: Send all your wishes with him, let the air With gentle breezes waft it safely there, The seas, like what they 'll carry, calm and fair:
Let the illustrious mother touch our land Mildly, as hereafter may her son command; While our glad monarch welcomes her to shore, With kind assurance she shall part no more.
Be the majestic babe then smiling born, And all good signs of fate his birth adorn, So live and grow, a constant pledge to stand Of Cæsar's love to an obedient land.
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,
ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, in the year 1682.
ALL you, who this day's jubilee attend,
And every loyal Muse's loyal friend,
That come to treat your longing wishes here,
Turn your desiring eyes, and feast them there..
Thus falling on your knees with me implore,
May this poor land ne'er lose that presence more!
But if there any in this circle be,
That come so curst to envy what they see,
From the vain fool, that would be great too soon,
To the dull knave that writ the last lampoon!
Let such, as victims to that beauty's fame,
Hang their vile blasted heads, and die with shame.
Our mighty blessing is at last return'd,
The joy arriv'd for which so long we mourn'd:
From whom our present peace we expect increas'd,
And all our future generations blest.
Time, have a care: bring safe the hour of joy,
When some blest tongue proclaims a royal boy:
And when 'tis born, let Nature's hand be strong;
Bless him with days of strength, and make them
Till charg'd with honours we behold him stand,
Three kingdoms' banners waiting his command,
His father's conquering sword within his hand:
Then th' English lions in the air advance,
And with them roaring music to the dance,
Carry a Quo Warranto into France.
TO MRS. BEHN'S CITY HEIRESS, 1682.
How vain have prov'd the labours of the stage,
In striving to reclaim a vicious age!
Poets may write, the mischief to impeach;
You care as little what the poets teach,
As you regard at church what parsons preach.
But where such follies and such vices reign,
What honest pen has patience to refrain?
At church, in pews, ye most devoutly snore,
And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar;
Ye go to church, to glout and ogle there,
And come to meet, more lewd, convenient here:
With equal zeal ye honour either place,
And run so very evenly your race,
Y' improve in wit just as ye do in grace.
It must be so; some demon has possest
Our land, and we have never since been blest,
Y' have seen it all, and heard of its renown,
In reverend shape it stalk'd about the town,
Six yeomen tall attending on its frown.
Sometimes, with humble note and zealous lore,
"Twould play the apostolic function o'er:
But Heaven have mercy on us when it swore!
Whene'er it swore, to prove the oaths were true,
Out of his mouth at random halters flew
Round some unwary neck, by magic thrown,
Though still the cunning devil sav'd its own:
For when th' enchantment could no longer last,
The subtle Pug, most dextrously uncast,
Left awful form for one more seeming pious,
And in a moment vary'd to defy us;
From silken doctor, home-spun Ananias:
Left the lewd court, and did in city fix,
Where still by its old arts it plays new tricks,
And fills the heads of fools with politics.
This demon lately drew in many a guest,
To part with zealous guinea for-no feast.
Who, but the most incorrigible fops,
For ever doom'd in dismal cells, call'd shops,
To cheat and damn themselves to get their livings,
Would lay sweet money out in sham thanksgivings?
Sham plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er;
But who e'er paid for a sham treat before?
Had you not better sent your offerings all
Hither to us, than Sequestrators' Hall?
I being your steward, justice had been done ye;
I could have entertain'd you worth your money.
OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.
IN storms when clouds the Moon do hide,
And no kind stars the pilot guide,
Show me at sea the boldest there,
Who does not wish for quiet here.
For quiet, friend, the soldier fights,
Bears weary marches, sleepless nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold;
Which can't be bought with hills of gold.
Since wealth and power too weak we find,
To quell the tumults of the mind;
Or from the monarch's roofs of state
Drive thence the cares that round him wait:
Happy the man with little blest,
Of what his father left possest;
No base desires corrupt his head,
No fears disturb him in his bed.
What then in life, which soon must end,
Can all our vain designs intend?
From shore to shore why should we run,
When none his tiresome self can shun?
For baneful Care will still prevail,
And overtake us under sail,
'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Outrun the roe, outfly the wind.
If then thy soul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels Fate's sudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes slow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy stock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horses and chariots for thy ease,
Rich robes to deck and make thee please.
For me, a little cell I choose,
Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse,
Which soft Content does best adorn,
Shunning the knaves and fools I scorn.
A SONG. TO A SCOTCH TUNE.
I LOVE, I doat, I rave with pain,
No quiet's in my mind,
Though ne'er could be a happier swain,
Were Sylvia less unkind.
For when, as long her chains I've worn,
I ask relief from smart,
She only gives me looks of scorn;
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly store,
May offer heaps of gold,
But surely I a Heaven adore,
Too precious to be sold;
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize,
For wealth, and not desert;
And my poor sighs and tears despise ?
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
When, like some panting, hovering dove,
I for my bliss contend,
And plead the cause of eager Love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a healer's part,
"Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart.
When, on my lonely, pensive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all ease denies;
With some sad dream I start,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rising, through the path I rove,
That leads me where she dwells,
Where to the senseless waves my Love
Its mournful story tells:
With sighs I dew and kiss the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand sighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conquest 's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you 've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;
For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curse thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
TO N. LEE'S CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
WHAT think ye meant wise Providence, when first
Poets were made? I'd tell you, if I durst,
That 'twas in contradiction to Heaven's word,
That when its spirit o'er the waters stirr'd,
When it saw all, and said that all was good,
The creature poet was not understood:
For, were it worth the pains of six long days,
To mould retailers of dull third-day plays,
That starve out threescore years in hopes of bays?
'Tis plain they ne'er were of the first creation,
But came by mere equivocal generation;
Like rats in ships, without coition bred,
As hated too as they are, and unfed.
Nature their species sure must needs disown,
Scarce knowing poets, less by poets known.
Yet this poor thing, so scorn'd and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Disabled wasting whore-masters are not
Prouder to own the brats they never got,
Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
T'adopt some base-born song that 's not their own.
Spite of his state, my lord sometimes descends
To please the importunity of friends.
The dullest he, thought most for business fit,
Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;
And though he sinks with his employs of state,
Till Common Sense forsake him, he 'll translate.
The poet and the whore alike complains,
Of trading quality, that spoil their gains;
The lords will write, and ladies will have swains!
Therefore all you who have male issue born
Under the starving sign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their stars in time,
And warn them early from the sin of rhyme:
Tell them how Spenser starv'd, how Cowley mourn'd,
How Butler's faith and service was return'd;
And if such warning they refuse to take,
This last experiment, O parents, make!
With hands behind him see th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his side;
Then lead him to some stall that does expose
The authors he loves most; there rub his nose,
Till, like a spaniel lash'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,
To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;
Till he against his nature learn to strive, And get the knack of dulness how to thrive.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.
WHAT horrour 's this that dwells upon the plain,
And thus disturbs the shepherds' peaceful reign?
A dismal sound breaks through the yielding air,
Forewarning us some dreadful storm is near.
The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray,
The early larks forsake their wandering way,
And cease to welcome-in the new-born day.
Each nymph possest with a distracted fear,
Disorder'd hangs her loose dishevell'd hair.
Diseases with her strong convulsions reign,
And deities, not known before to pain,
Are now with apoplectic seizures slain.
Hence flow our sorrows, hence increase our fears,
Each humble plant does drop her silver tears.
Ye tender lambs, stray not so fast away,
To weep and mourn let us together stay:
O'er all the universe let it be spread,
That now the shepherd of the flock is dead.
The royal Pan, that shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's
eternal sleep!
Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly
Aloft where the soft milky way does lie;
Mopsus, who Daphnis to the stars did sing,
Shall join with you, and thither waft our king.
Play gently on your reeds a mournful strain,
And tell in notes, through all th' Arcadian plain,
The royal Pan, the shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's
eternal sleep!
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