THOMAS FLATMAN.   portrait of Thomas Flatman   

POEMS AND SONGS, BY THOMAS FLATMAN.  
The Fourth Edition, With many Additions and Amendments.  
—— Me quoque vatem  
Dicunt pastors, sed non Ego credulus illis.  Virgil. 
LONDON, Printed for Benjamin took, at the Ship in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1686.   

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, etc. In humble acknowledgement of His Princely Favours The POEMS are with all Dutiful Respect DEDICATED By his GRACE's Ever Obliged, and most Obedient Servant, Thomas Flatman.   

To the READER.  
WHen I was prevailed upon to make a Fourth Publication of these Poems with a great many Additions, it was told me, That without a Preface the Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it a Debt, and in this Age the Bill of Fare was as necessary as the Entertainment. To be Civil therefore, and to Comply with Expectation, instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in general, or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of a Poet in particular, and without such artificial Embellishments as use to be the Ornament of Prefaces, as Say of Philosophers, Ends of Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welsh, or Italian, Be it known unto the Reader, That in my poor Opinion Poetry has a very near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of the Ambling-Saddle; It's a good Invention for smoothing the Trott of Prose; That's the Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to the Pains of the Mind, contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or bad Usage in the World. To be serious, 'tis an Innocent Help to Shame a Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath either pleased or vexed me beyond my power of expressing either my Satisfaction or Indignation in downright Prose, I found it seasonable for Rhyming; and I believe from what follows it may be discerned when 'twas Fair Wether, when Changeable, and when the Quicksilver fell down to Storm and Tempest. As to the Measures observed by me, I always took a peculiar delight in the Pindaric strain, and that for two Reasons, First, it gave me a liberty now and then to correct the saucy forwardness of a Rhyme, and to lay it aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at any time too short for my Stanza, (and it will often happen so in Versisying) I had then opportunity to fill it up with a Metaphor little to the purpose, and (upon occasion) to run that Metaphor stark mad into an Allegory, a practice very frequent and of admirable use amongst the Moderns, especially the Nobless of the Faculty. But in good earnest, as to the Subjects, which came in my way to write upon, I must declare that I have chosen only such as might be treated within the Rules of Decency, and without offence either to Religion or good Manners. The Caution I received (by Tradition) from the Incomparable Mr. Cowley, and him I must ever acknowledge but to imitate, if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve the name of Good or Indifferent. I have not vanity enough to prescribe how a Muse ought to be Courted, and I want leisure to borrow from some Treatises I have seen, which look like so many Academies of Compliments for that purpose. I have known a man, who when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises than Scaramuccio, or a Quaker at a Meeting when his Turn came to mount; his breast heaved, his hair stood on end, his eyes stared, and the whole man was disordered; and truly when he had done, any body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he was possessed with an evil Spirit. Another that seemed like Nostradamus' (when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesy,) he sat upon his Divining Tripos, his elbow on his knee, his Lamp by his side, all the avenues of light stopped, full of expectation when the little faint flames should steal in through a crevice of the Shutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extreme Melancholy Madrigals. I have had the happiness to hear of a Third too, whose whole life was Poetical, he was a Walking Poem, and his way was this; finding that the fall of the Leaf was already upon him, and prudently foreseeing that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder, he carried always about him one of Raimund' Lully's Repositories, a piece of Mathematical Paper, and in what Company soever he came, the Spoon was always ready for the Civet-Cat, nothing scaped him that fell from a Wit: At night his custom was to digest all that he had pirated that Day, under proper Heads; This was his Arsenal, his inexhaustible Magazine; so that upon occasion he had no more to do, than to give a snap, or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the sutures of his Head, to turn over his Hint-Book, and the Matter was at hand, his business (after that piece of Legerdemain) was only Tacking, and Tagging: I never saw but One of this Author's Compositions, and really It troubled me, because It put me in mind, how much time I had misspent in Coffeehouses, for there was nothing in It, but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little recollection,) a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had plucked his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech, Others that Hector their Muses: Some that Diet their Pegasus, give him his Heats and Air for the Course; Others that endeavour to stop up his broken wind with Medicinal Ale and Biscuit; But these for the most part are men of Industry; Rhyming is their proper Business, they are fain to labour hard, and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood, I wish 'em good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of myself and a few Friends whom I very well love: and if the question should be asked why these Productions are exposed, I may truly say, I could not help it; One unlucky Copy, like a Bellweather, stole from me into the Common, and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing, it should be the first Copy of the Book, but therein I had the greatest advantage given me that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much for Preface and Poetry, till some very powerful Star shall overrule my present Resolution.   


On the Excellent POEMS Of my most Worthy Friend, Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN.  

YOU happy Issue of a happy Wit,  
As ever yet in charming numbers writ,  
Welcome into the Light, and may we be  
Worthy so happy a Posterity.  
We long have wished for something Excellent;  
But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:  
For though we have been gratified 'tis true,  
From several hands with things both fine and new,  
The Wits must pardon me, if I profess,  
That till this time the over-teeming Press  
Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:  
Nor is ti all, to have a share of Wit,  
There must be Judgement too to manage it;  
For Fancy's like a rough, but ready Horse,  
Whose mouth is governed more by skill than force;  
Wherein (my Friend) you do a Mastery own,  
If not particular to you alone;  
Yet such at least as to all eyes declares  
Your Pegasus the best performs his Airs.  
Your Muse can humour all her Subjects so,  
That as we read we do both feel and know;  
And the most firm impenetrable breast  
With the same passion that you writes possessed.  
Your Lines are Rules, which who shall wool observe  
Shall even in their Errors praise deserve:  
The boiling Youth, whose blood is all on fire,  
Pushed on by Vanity, and hot desire,  
May learn such Conduct here, men may approve  
And not excuse, but even applaud his Love.  
Ovid, who made an ART of what to all  
Is in itself but too too natural,  
Had he but read your Verse, might then have seen  
The Style of which his Precepts should have been;  
And (which it seems he knew not) learned from thence  
To reconcile Frailty with Innocence.  
The Love you writ, Virgins and Boys may read,  
And never be debauched but better bred;  
For without Love, Beauty would bear no price,  
And Dulness, than Desire's a greater vice:  
Tour greater Subjects with such force are writ  
So full of sinewy Strength, as well as Wit,  
That when you are Religious, our Divines  
May emulate, but not reprove your Lines:  
And when you reason, there the learned Crew  
May learn to speculate, and speak from you.  
You not profane, no obscene language use  
To smat your Paper, or defile your Muse.  
Your gayest things, as well expressed, as meant  
Are equally both Quaint, and Innocent.  
But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such  
That Pindar's Lyre from his own skilful touch,  
ne'er yielded such an Harmony, nor yet  
Verse keep such time on so unequal feet.  
So by his own generous confession  
Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone:  
And (which in Copying seldom does befall)  
The Ectype's better thanth ' Original.   

But whilst your Fame I labour to send forth,  
By the ill-doing it I could your worth,  
In something all mankind unhappy are,  
And you as mortal too must have your share;  
'Tis your misfortune to have found a Friend,  
Who hurts and injures where he would commend.  
But let this be your comfort, that your Bays  
Shall flourish green, maugre an ill couched Praise.   
CHARLES COTTON Esq;   

To my Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN Upon the Publication of his POEMS.  

I.  
As when a Prince his Standard does erect,  
And calls his Subjects to the Field,  
From such as early take his side,  
And readily obedience yield,  
He is instructed where he may suspect,  
And where he safely may confide;  
So mighty Friend;  
That you may see  
A perfect evidence of Loyalty,  
No business I pretend;  
From all th' Encumbrances of humane life,  
From nourishing the sinful people's strife,  
And the increasing weaknesses of Age.   

II.  
Domestic Care, the Minds incurable Disease  
I am resolved I will forget,  
Ah! could I hope the restless pain  
Would now entirely cease,  
And never more return again,  
My thoughts I would in other order set;  
By more than protestations I would show,  
Not the Sum total only of the Debt,  
But the particulars of all I owe.   

III.  
This I would do: But what will our desire avail  
When active heat and vigour fail?  
'Tis well thou hast more youthful Combatants than I,  
Right able to protect thy Immortality:  
If Envy should attaque thy spotless name,  
(And that attaques the best of things  
And into rigid Censure brings  
The most undoubted Registers of Fame)  
Their fond Artillery let them dispense,  
Piercing Wit and Murdering Eloquence,  
Noble Conceit and manly Sense,  
Charming Numbers let 'em shine  
And dazzle dead in every line  
The most malicious of thy Foes,  
Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;  
I (thy decrepit Subject) only can resign  
The little life of Art is left, to ransom thine:  
Fumbling's as bad in Poetry,  
And as Ridiculous, as 'tis in Gallantry:  
But if a Dart I may prevent,  
Which at my Friend's repuce was meant  
Let them then direct at Me;  
By dying in so just a War,  
I possibly may share  
In thy Infallible Eternity.   

iv  
But dearest Friend  
(Before it be too late)  
Let us a while expostulate,  
What heat of Glory called you on,  
Your learned Empire to extend  
Beyond the Limits of your own Dominion?  
At home, you were already crowned with Bays:  
Why Foreigh Trophies do you seek to raise?  
Poet's Arcana's have of Government,  
And tho' the Homagers of your own Continent  
Out of a Sense of duty do submit,  
Yet Public Print, a jealousy creates  
And intimates a laid design  
Unto the Neighbouring Potentates.  
Now into all your secret Arts they pry,  
And weigh each hint by rules of policy,  
Offensive Leagues they twine,  
In Councils, Rota's, and Cabals they sit,  
Each Petty Burgess thinks it fit  
The Corporation should combine,  
Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit,  
And straight declare for quite abjuring it.   

V  
Hence then must you prepare for an Invasion:  
Tho not from such as are reclaimed by Education;  
In the main points all European Wits agree,  
All allow Order, Art, and Rules of Decency,  
And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet  
A Beauty such, or such a Wit.  
I fear the Pagan and the Barbarous,  
A Nation quite Antipodes to us;  
The Infidel unlettered Crew (I mean)  
Who call that only Wit,  
Which is indeed but the Reverse of it;  
Creatures in whom Civility ne'er shone,  
But (unto Nature's contradiction)  
It is their Glory to be so obscene,  
You ' l think the Legion of th' unclean  
Were from the Swine, (to which they were condemned) released.  
And had these verier Swine, (than them) possessed.   

VI  
If these should an advantage take  
And on thy Fame a Depredation make,  
You must submit to the unhappiness;  
These are the common Enemies of our Belief and Art,  
And by hostility possessed  
The World's much greater part:  
All things with them are measured by success:  
If the Battle be not won;  
If the Author do not sell;  
Into their dull capacities it will not sink,  
They cannot with deliberation think  
How bravely the Commander led them on,  
No nor wherein the Book was written well:  
When, ('tis a thing impossible to do,)  
He cannot find his Army courage, (Sir) nor you  
Your Readers, Learning, Wit, and Judgement too.   
Robert Thompson LL. D.   

To my Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, On the Publishing of these his POEMS.  

LEt not (my Friend) th' incredulous Sceptic Man  
Dispute what Potent Art and Nature can!  
Let him believe, the Birds that did bemoan  
The loss of Zeuxis Grapes in Queru'lous Tone,  
Were Silenced by a Painted Dragon, found  
A Telesme to restrain their chattering sound,  
And that one made a Mistress could enforce  
A Neighing sigh, even from a Stallion Horse!  
Let old Timanthes now unveil the Face  
Of his Atrides, thou'lt give Sorrow grace!  
Now may Parrhasius let his Curtain stand!  
And great Protogenes take off his Hand!  
For all that Lying Greece and Latium too  
Have told us of, Thou (only thou) makest true.  
And all the Miracles which they could show,  
Remain no longer Faith; but Science now.  
Thou dost those things that no man else durst do,  
Thou Paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too!  
The Soul and Voice!  
Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent,  
To break the Second great Commandment:  
And them persuade an Adoration gived  
In Picture, will as grateful be to Heaven  
As one in Metre. Th' Art is in Excess;  
But yet thy Ingenuity makes it less.  
With Pen and Pencil thou dost all outshine,  
In Speaking Picture, Poesy Divine.  
Poets, Creators are! You made us Know  
Those are Above, and Dread those are Below;  
But 'tWonder you such things can Dare,  
That Painter, Poet, and a Prophet are.  
The Stars themselves, think it no scorn to be  
Placed, and Directed in their Way by Thee.  
Thou knowst their Virtue, and their Situation,  
The Fate of Years, and every great Mutation,  
With the same Kindness let them look on Earth;  
As when they gave thee first thy happy Birth!  
To sober Saturn Aspects, Cynthia bright,  
Resigning Hers, to give us thy New Light.  
The Gentle Venus risen with Mercury,  
(Presage of Softness in thy Poesy)  
And Jove, and Mars in Amicable Trine  
Do still give Spirit to thy Polished Line.  
Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control:  
Only thyself and Heaven can Paint thy Soul.   
FRAN. BARNARD M. D.   

To his esteemed Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publishing of his POEMS.  

YOur Poems (Friend) come on the public Stage  
In a Debauched, an a Censorious Age;  
Where nothing now is counted Standard Wit,  
But what's Profane, Obscene, or 's bad as it.  
For our great Wits, like Gallants of the times,  
(And such they are) court only those lose Rhimes,  
Which, like their Misses, Patched and Painted are;  
But scorn what Virtuous is and truly Fair;  
Such as your Muse is, who with Careful Art  
For all but such, hath wisely framed a Part.   

One while (methinks) under some Gloomy Shade.  
I see the Melancholy Lover laid,  
Pleasing himself in that his Pensive Fit  
With what you have on such Occasion writ.   

Another while (methinks) I seem to hear  
'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their Care,  
And steal themselves out from the busy Throng,  
Your pleasant Songs in solemn Consort Sung.   

Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine  
Lay by his other Books, to look on thine,  
And from thy serious and Divine Review  
See what our Duty is, and his own too.   

Yet, worthy Friend, you can't but guests what doom  
Is like to pass on what you have writ, by some;  
But there are others, now your Book comes forth,  
Who (I am sure) will prise it as 'tis worth,  
Who know it fully fraught with Staple Ware,  
Such as the Works of the great Cow are,  
And 'mongst our rarest English Poems, Thine  
Next unto His, immortally shall shine.   
RICH NEWCOURT.   

To my Worthy Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publishing of his POEMS.  

Rude, and unpolished as my lines can be,  
I must start forth into the world with Thee.  
That which, yet Private, did my wonder raise,  
Now 'tis made Publiqu ' challenges my praise:  
Such miracles thy charming Verse can do,  
Where e'er it goes, It draw's me with it too.   

This is a kind of Birthday to thy Muse!  
Transported with delight I cannot choose  
But bid Her Welcome to the Light, and tell,  
How much I value what is writ so well;  
Tho' Thou reap'st no advantage by my Rhyme,  
More than a Taper helps the Day to shine.  
Thus in dull Pomp does th' empty Coach attend  
To pay respect to some departed Friend!  
The difference of Regard in this does lie,  
That Honour's Dust, Mine that which cannot Die:  
For what can blast the labours of thy Pen,  
While Wit and Virtue are allowed by men?   

Thou entertainest the World with such a Feast,  
So cleanly and so elegantly dressed,  
So stored with laudable varieties  
As may a modest Appetite suffice;  
Whoever is thy Guest is sure to find  
Something or other that may please his mind.   

Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires  
Her bosom warmed with supernat'ral fires;  
In noble flights with Pindar, soars above;  
Dallies sometimes with not-indecent Love,  
Thence down into the Grave does humbly creep,  
And renders Death desirable as Sleep.  
The Debonair, the Melancholy here  
Find matter for their Mirth, ease for their Care.   

Since such Provision's made for all that come,  
He must be squeamish that goes Empty home;  
If these Refections cannot do him good,  
'Tis 'cause his Stomach's vicious, not the Food.   
FRANCIS KNOLLYS Esq;   

TO THE AUTHOR On his excellent POEMS.  

I.  
STrange Magic of thy wit, and style,  
Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile!  
Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear  
Condoling our disastrous state,  
Touched with a sense of our hard fate,  
We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear,  
But he the mournful Song so sweetly sings,  
That more of Pleasure than Regret it brings.  
With such becoming grief  
The Trojan Chief  
Troy's Conflagration did relate,  
Whilst even the sufferers in the Firedrew near  
And with a greedy ear  
Devoured the story of their own subverted state.   

II.  
Kind Heaven (as to her darling Son) to Thee  
A double Portion did impart,  
A gift of Painting and of Poesy:  
But for thy Rivals in the Painter's Art,  
If well they Represent, they can effect  
No more, nor can we more expect.  
But more than this Thy happy Pencils give;  
Thy draughts are more than Representative,  
For, if we'll credit our own eyes, they Live!  
Ah! worthy Friend couldst thou maintain the State  
Of what with so much ease thou dost Create,  
We might reflect on Death with Scorn!  
But Pictures like th' Originals decay!  
Of Colours those consist, and these of Clay;  
A like composed of Dust, to Dust alike return!   

III.  
Yet 'tis our Happiness to see  
Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny  
Encountered, Vanquished, and Disarmed by thee.  
For if thy Pencils fail,  
Change thy Artillery  
And thou'rt secure of Victory,  
Employ thy Quill and thou shalt still prevail.  
The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres  
Thy Fancy's Imagery, and spares  
The meanest thing that bears  
Th' Impression of thy Pen;  
Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were,  
Stamped with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then '  
He knows them by that Character to be  
Predestinate and set apart for Immortality.   

iv  
If native Lustre in thy Themes appear,  
Improved by thee it shines more clear:  
Or if thy Subject's void of native Light,  
Thy Fancy need but dart a beam  
To gild thy Theme,  
And make the rude mass beautiful and bright.  
Thou vary'st oft thy Strains, but still  
Success attends each strain:  
Thy verse is always lofty as the Hill,  
Or pleasant as the Plain.  
How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves!  
Whose Nymphs and Swains are in their Loves  
As innocent, and yet as kind as Doves.  
But most She moves our Wonder and Delight,  
When She performs her lose Pindariqu' flight,  
Oft to their outmost reach She will extend  
Her towering Wings to soar on high,  
And then by just degrees descend:  
Oft in a swift straight Course She glides,  
Obliquely oft the air divides,  
And oft with wanton play hangs hovering in the Sky   

V.  
Whilst Sense of duty into my artless Muse  
Th' ambition would infuse  
To mingle with those Nymphs that Homage pay,  
And wait on Thine in her Triumphant way,  
Defect of merit checks her forward pride,  
And makes her dread t'approach thy Chariot side;  
For 'twere at lest a rude Indecency  
(If not Profane) t'appear  
At this Solemnity,  
Crowned with no Laurel wreath (as others are)  
But this we will presume to do,  
At distance, to attend the show,  
Officious to gather up  
The Scattered Bays, if any drop  
From others Temples, and with those  
A plain Plebeian Coronet compose.  
This, as your Livery, she'd wear, to hid  
Her Nakedness, not gratify her Pride!  
Such was the Verdant dress  
Which the Offending Pair did frame  
Of plaited Leaves, not to express  
Their Pride i'th' Novel-Garb, but to conceal their shame.   
N. TATE   

To my dear Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN, Upon the Publication of his POEMS. Pindariq' Ode.  

I.  
WIthin the haunted thicket, where  
The feathered Choristers are met to play;  
And celebrate with voices clear,  
And Accents sweet, the praise of May:  
The Ousel, Thrush, and speckled Lark,  
And Philomela, that loves the dawn and dark:  
These (the inspired throng)  
In numbers smooth, and strong  
Adorn their noble Theme with an immortal Song,  
While Woods, and Vaults, the Brook and neighbouring Hill,  
Repeat the varied close, and the melodious Trill.   

II.  
Here feast your Ears, but let their Eye  
Wander, and see one of the lesser fry  
Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig,  
Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big,  
Pirk up his tail, and hop between  
The boughs; by moving, only to be seen,  
Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes,  
As he doth meditate his tunes:  
At last (composed) his little head he rears,  
Towards (what he strives to imitate the Spheres;  
And chirping then gins his best,  
Falls on to Pipe among the rest;  
Deeming that all's not worth a rush,  
Without his Whistle from the bush.   

III.  
Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,  
That echoed Thy clear Name,  
Which all must know, who e'er did hear,  
Of Cowley or Orinda's fame;  
I heard the Genius, with surprising Grace,  
Would visit us with his fair offspring, gay  
As is the morning spring in May;  
But fairer much, and of immortal race.   

iv  
Delighted greatly, as I listening stood,  
The sound came from each corner of the wood;  
It both the Shrubs, and Cedars shaked,  
And my drowsy Muse awaked;  
Strange that the sound should be so shrill,  
That had its passage through a Quill.  
Then I resolved Thy praises to rehearse,  
The wonders of Thy Pen, among the Crowd  
Of thy learned Friends that sing so loud:  
But 'twas not to be sung, or reached in verse.  
By my weak notes, scarce to be heard,  
Or if they could, not worth regard;  
Desisting therefore I must only send  
My very kind well wishes to my Friend.   
Octau. Pulleyn.    

THE CONTENTS.  

On the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory. Pindaric Ode 1  
To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda. Pindaric Ode 8  
The review to Dr. W. S. Pindaric Ode 14  
To my Worthy Friend Mr. Sam. Woodford on his Excellent Version of the Psalms. Pindaric Ode 27  
On the Death of the Truly Valiant George Duke of Albermarle. Pindaric Ode 32  
The Retirement. Pindaric Ode, made in the time of the great Sickness 1665. 43  
Translated out of a part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon 48  
A thought of Death 55  
Psalm 39 verses 4, and 5. 56  
Hymn for the Morning 57  
Anthem for the Evening 58  
Death. ASong 59  
The Happy Man 61  
On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks 62  
An Explanation of an Emblem engraven by U. H. 64  
For Thoughts 6●  
Against Thoughts 70  
A Dooms-Day-Thought 76  
Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt 80  
Translated 82  
Psalms the 15. Paraphrased 85  
Job 88  
Nudus Redibo 89  
An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich 90  
An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich 93  
Pastoral Ibid.  
On the Death of Mr. Pel. Humfries, a Pastoral Song 98  
The Mistake 99  
The Incredulous 100  
Weeping at parting, Song 101  
The Desperate Lover 103  
The Fatigue, A Song 106  
The Resolve, Song 107  
Love's Bravo, Song 110  
The Expectation, Song 111  
Coridon converted, Song 112  
The Humourist, Song 113  
Fading Beauty, Song 114  
A Dialogue, Chloris and Parthenissa 118  
A Dialogue, Orpheus and Eurydice Ibid.  
The Batchelor's Song 120  
The Batchelor's Song, Second part 121  
An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love 122  
Advice to an Old Man of 63 about to marry a Girl of 16, Song 123  
The 'Slight, Song 124  
The Penitent, Song 126  
The Defiance, Song 127  
The Surrender, Song 129  
The Whim, Song 130  
The Renegado, Song 131  
Phyllis withdrawn 132  
The Malcontent, Song 134  
The Indifferent, Song 135  
The Harbour, Song 136  
The Unconcerned, Song 137  
The Immovable, Song 138  
The Wish, Song 139  
The Cordial made in the year 1637. 141  
Celadon on Delia singing, Song 143  
The Advice, Song 144  
To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon, on his most unintelligible Poems 146  
To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorn on his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving 149  
On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc, to the Worthy Translator Charles Cotton Esq; 150  
A Character of a Belly-God, Catius and Horace 152  
The Disappointment, Pindaric Ode 160  
On Mrs. E. Mountagues Blushing in the Cross Bath. A Translation 162  
Il infido 163  
Il Immaturo, Epitaph 165  
On Mrs. Dove, Epitaph 166  
Lucretius 166  
Paraphrased 167  
On Dr. Brown ' s Travels 168  
On Poverty 169  
Urania to her Friend Parthenissa. A Dream 171  
On the Death of the Earl of Rochester, Pastoral 173  
On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles 176  
Laodamia to Protesilaus: One of Ovid's Episties Translated 179  
To the Excellent Master of Music Signior Pietro Reggio, on his Book of Songs 189  
In the Temple Church. Epitaph on Sir John King 191  
On the Death of my dear Brother Mr. Richard Flatman. Pindaric Ode 193  
A Song on New-years-day before the King 201  
On the King's return to Whitehal after his Summer's Progress 1684. 203  
To Mr. Isaac Walton on his publication of Thealma 206  
Pastoral Dialogue, Castara and Parthenia 208  
Castabella going to Sea, Song 211  
On the Death of my Worthy Friend Mr. John Oldham, Pindaric Pastoral Ode 212  
On Sir John Micklethwaits Monument in St. botolph's Aldersgate Church London 217  
On the Death of the Illustrious Prince Rupert, Pindaric Ode 221  
Poema in obitum illustrissimi principis Ruperti Latinè redditum 230  
On the much Lamented Death of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles II. of blessed Memory, Pindaric Ode 239  
To his Sacred Majesty King James II. 247   

ODES of HORACE.  
Book the Second, Ode 19 251  
Book the Third, Ode 8. 253  
Book the Third, Ode 9 255  
Book the Third, Ode 12. 256  
Book the Third, 17. 257  
Book the Third, Ode 19 258  
Book the Third, Ode 20. 260  
Book the Third, Ode 21. 261  
Book the Third, Ode 22. 262  
Book the Third, Ode 3. 263  
Book the Fourth, Ode 1. 264  
Book the Fourth, Ode 10. 266  
Book the Fourth, Ode 11. 267  
Epode the Third, 269  
Epode the Sixth, 270  
Epode the Tenth, 271    

POEMS.  

On the DEATH of the RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS EARL of OSSORY. Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza i.  
No more!— Alas that bitter word, No more!  
The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind,  
The universal Darling of Mankind,  
The Noble OSSORY is now No more!  
The Mighty Man is fallen—  
From Glory's lofty Pinnacle,  
Meanly like one of Us, He fell,  
Not in the hot pursuit of Victory,  
As Gallant Men would choose to die;  
But tamely, like a poor Plebeian, from his Bed  
To the dark Grave a Captive led;  
Emasculating Sighs, and Groans around,  
His Friends in Floods of Sorrow drowned;  
His awful Truncheon, and bright Arms laid by,  
He bowed his glorious Head to Destiny.   

II.  
Celestial Powers! how unconcerned you are!  
No black Eclipse, or Blazing-Star  
Presaged the Death of this Illustrious Man,  
No Deluge, no, nor Hurricane;  
In her old wont course Nature went on,  
As if some common thing were done,  
One single Victim to Death's Altar's come,  
And not in OSSORY an whole Hecatomb.  
Yet, when the Founder of Old Rome expired,  
When the Pellëan Youth resigned his Breath,  
And when the great Dictator stooped to Death,  
Nature and all her Faculties retired:  
Amazed she started when amazed she saw  
The breaches of her ancient Fundamental Law,  
Which kept the World in awe:  
For men less brave than Him, her very heart did ache,  
The labouring Earth did quake,  
And Trees their fixed Foundations did for sake;  
Nature in some prodigious way  
Gave notice of their fatal Day:  
Those lesser Griefs with pain she thus expressed,  
This did confound, and overwhelm her Breast.   

III.  
Shrink ye Crowned Heads, that think yourselves secure,  
And from your mouldering Thrones look down,  
Your greatness cannot long endure,  
The King of Terrors claims you for his own;  
You are but Tributaries to his dreadful Crown:  
Renowned, Serene, Imperial, most August,  
Are only high and mighty Epithets for Dust.  
In vain, in vain so high  
Our towering expectations fly,  
While th' Blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,  
Appear, and promise Fruit, then fade away.  
From valiant OSSORY'S ever Loyal Hands,  
What did we not believe!  
We dreamed of yet unconquered Lands  
He to his Prince could give,  
And neighbouring Crowns retrieve:  
Expected that he would in Triumph come  
Laden with Spoils, and Africa Banners home,  
As if an Hero's years  
Were as unbounded as our fond Desires.   

iv  
Lament, Lament, you that dare Honour love,  
And court her at a Noble rate  
(Your Prowess to approve,)  
That dare religiously upon Her wait,  
And blush not to grow Good, when you grow Great,  
Such Mourners suit His Virtue, such His State.  
And you, brave Souls, who for your country's good  
Did wondrous things in Fields, and Seas of Blood,  
Lament th' undaunted Chief that led you on:  
Whose exemplary Courage could inspire  
The most degenerate Heart, with Martial-English Fire.  
Your bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress  
With an indulgent tenderness;  
Touched with a melting Sympathy,  
Who shall your Wants supply?  
Since He, your good Samaritan is gone.  
O Charity! thou richest Boon of Heaven,  
To Man, in pity given!  
(For when wellmeaning Mortals give,  
The Poor's, and their own Bowels they relseve;)  
Thou makest us with alacrity to die,  
Missed and bewailed like Thee, large-hearted O S. SORT.   

V  
Arise, ye blessed Inhabitants above,  
From your Immortal Seats arise,  
And on our Wonder, on our Love  
Gaze with astonished Eyes.  
Arise! Arise! make room,  
Th' exalted Shade is come.  
See where He cones! what Princely Port He bears!  
How Godlike He appears!  
His shining Temples round  
With Wreaths of everlasting Laurels bound!  
As from the bloody Field of Mons He came,  
Where He out-fought th' Hyperboles of Fame.  
See how the Guardian-Angel of our Isle  
Receives the Deified Champion with a Smile!  
Welcome, the Guardian-Angel says,  
Full of Songs of Joy, and Praise,  
Welcome Thou art to me,  
And to these Regions of Serenity!  
Welcome, the Winged Choir resounds,  
While with loud Euge's all the Sacred place abounds.    

To the Memory of the Incomparable ORINDA. Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza I.  
ALong Adieu to all that's bright,  
Noble or brave in Womankind;  
To all the Wonders of their Wit,  
And Trophies of their Mind:  
The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone:  
To th' Altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown;  
There's nought on earth, but Ashes left behind;  
E'er since th' amazing sound was spread,  
Orinda's dead;  
Every soft and fragrant word,  
All that Language could afford;  
Every high and lofty thing  
That's wont to set the Soul on wing,  
No longer with this worthless world would stay.  
Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told,  
Along the shore the dismal tidings rolled;  
The lesser Gods their Fanes forsaken,  
Confounded with the mighty stroke,  
They could not overlive that fatal day,  
But sighed and groaned their gasping Oracles away.   

II.  
How rigid are the Laws of Fate!  
And how severe that black Decree!  
No sublunary thing is free,  
But all must enter th' Adamantine Gate:  
Sooner, or later must we come  
To Nature's dark retiring Room:  
And yet 'tis pity, Is it not?  
The Learned, as the Fool should die,  
One, full as low, as t'other lie,  
Together blended in the general lot!  
Distinguished only from the common Crowd  
By an hindged Coffin or an Holland Shrowded,  
Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud  
Alas Orinda! even Thou,  
Whose happy Verse made others live,  
And certain Immortality could give;  
Blasted are all thy blooming Glories now,  
The Laurel withers o'er thy brow:  
Methinks it should disturb Thee to conceive  
That when poor I, this artless breath resign,  
My dust should have as much of Poetry as Thine!   

III.  
Too soon we languish with desire  
Of what we never could enough admire.  
On th' billows of this World sometimes we rise  
So dangerously high,  
We are to Heaven too nigh:  
When all in rage,  
(Grown hoary with one minute's age,)  
The very selfsame fickle wave,  
Which the entrancing Prospect gave,  
Swollen to a Mountain, sinks into a Grave.  
Too happy Mortals, if the Powers above  
As merciful would be,  
And easy to preserve the thing we love,  
As in the giving they are free!  
But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,  
They fix a flaming Sword 'twixt us and Paradise!  
A weeping evening blur's a smiling day,  
Yet why should heads of Gold have feet of clay?  
Why should the man that waved th' Almighty wand,  
That led the murmuring Crowd  
By Pillar and by Cloud,  
Shivering atop of Airy Pisgah stand  
Only to see, but never, never tread the Promised Land.   

iv  
Throw your Swords and Gauntlets by,  
You daring Sons of War!  
You cannot purchase e'er you die  
One honourable Scar,  
Since that fair hand that guilded all your Bays;  
That in Heroic numbers wrote your praise,  
That you might safely sleep in Honour's Bed,  
Itself, alas! is withered, cold, and dead:  
Cold and dead are all those charms  
That burnished your victorious arms;  
Those useless things hereafter must  
Blush first in Blood, and then in Rust:  
No oil, but that of her smooth words can serve  
Weapon and Warrior to preserve.  
Expect no more from this dull Age  
But folly or Poctick rage,  
Short-lived nothings of the Stage,  
Vented to day, and cried to morrow down;  
With her the Soul of Poesy is gone,  
Gone, while our expectations flew  
As high a pitch, as she has done,  
Exhaled to Heaven like early dew,  
Betimes the little shining drops are flown,  
 th' drowsy world perceived that Manna was come down.   

V  
You of the Sex that would be fair,  
Exceeding lovely, hither come,  
Would you be pure as Angels are,  
Come dress you by Orinda's Tomb,  
And leave your flattering Glass at home.  
Within that Marble Mirror see,  
How one day such as she  
You must, and yet alas! can never be!  
Think on the heights of that vast Soul,  
And then admire, and then condole.  
Think on the wonders of her generous Pen,  
'Twas she made Pompey truly Great;  
Neither the purchase of his sweat  
Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again:  
With envy think, when to the grave you go,  
How very little must be said of you,  
Since all that can be said of virtuous Woman was her due.    

The Review. Pindaric Ode to the Reverend Dr. WILLIAM SANCROFT, now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.  

Stanza 1.  
WHen first I stepped into th' alluring Maze  
To tread this world's mysterious ways  
Alas! I had nor guide, nor clue,  
No Ariadne lent her hand,  
Not one of Vertue's Guards did bid me stand,  
Or asked me what I meant to do,  
Or whither I would go:  
This Labyrinth so pleasant did appear,  
I lost myself with much content,  
Infinite hazards underwent,  
Out straggled Homer's crafty Wanderer,  
And ten years more than he, in fruitless Travels spent;  
The one half of my life is gone,  
The shadow the Meridian past;  
Death's dismal Evening drawing on,  
Which must with damps and mists be over cast,  
An Evening, that will surely come,  
'Tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.   

II.  
Had I but hearty believed,  
That all the Royal Preacher said, was true,  
When first I entered on the Stage,  
And Vanity so hotly did pursue;  
Convinced by his experience, not my age,  
I had myself long since retrieved,  
I should have let the Curtam down,  
Before the Fool's part had begun:  
But I throughout the tedious Play have been  
Concerned in every busy Scene;  
Too too inquisitive I tried  
Now this, anon another Face,  
And then a third, more odd, took place,  
Was every thing, but what I was.  
Such was my Protean folly, such my pride,  
Befooled through all the Tragicomedy,  
Where others met with hissing, to expect a Plaudite.   

III.  
I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,  
Searching for happiness in Love,  
And finding Venus painted with a Dove,  
A little naked Boy hard by,  
The Dove, which had no gall,  
The Boy no dangerous Arms at all;  
They do thee wrong (great Love) said I,  
Much wrong, great Love!— scarce had I spoke  
E'er into my unwary bosom came  
An inextinguishable flame:  
From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke,  
That left me more than Thunder struck;  
She carries tempest in that lovely name:  
Love's mighty and tumultuous pain  
Disorder's Nature like an Hurricane.  
Yet could ned I believe such storms could be,  
When I launched forth to Sea;  
Promised myself a calm, and easy way,  
Though I had seen before,  
Piteous ruins on the shore,  
And on the naked Beach Leander breathless lay.   

iv  
To extricate myself from Love  
Which I could ill obey, but worse command,  
I took my Pencils in my hand,  
With that Artillery for Conquest strove,  
Like wise Pygmalion then did I  
Myself design my Deity;  
Made my own Saint, made my own Shrine:  
If she did frown, one dash could make her smile,  
All bicker one easy stroke could reconcile,  
Plato feigned no Idea so divine:  
Thus did I quiet many a froward day,  
While in my eyes my Soul did play,  
Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile;  
Till on a day, but then I knew not why,  
A tear fallen from my eye,  
Washed out my Saint, my Shrine, my Deity:  
Prophetic chance; the lines are gone,  
And I must mourn o'er what I doted on:  
I find even Giotto's Circle has not all perfection.   

V  
To Poetry I then inclined;  
Verse that emancipates the mind,  
Verse that unbends the Soul;  
That Amulet of sickly same,  
Verse that from wind articulates a Name;  
Verse for both Fortune's fit, to smile and to condole.  
‛ Ere I had long the Trial made,  
A serious thought made me afraid:  
For I had heard Parnassus sacred Hill,  
Was so prodigiously high,  
It's barren Top so near the sky;  
Thd Aether there  
So very pure, so subtle, and so rare,  
'Twould a Chamaeleon kill,  
The Beast that is all Lungs, and seeds on Air:  
Poets the higher up that Hill they go,  
Like Pilgrims, share the less of what's below:  
Hence 'tis they ever go repining on,  
And murmur more than their own Helicon.  
I heard them curse their Stars in ponderous Rhimes  
And in grave numbers grumble at the times;  
Yet where th' Illustrious Cowley led the way,  
I thought it great discretion there to go astray.   

VI  
From liberal Arts to the litigious Law,  
Obedience, not Ambition, did me draw;  
I looked at awful Quoif, and Scarlet Gown  
Through others Optics, not my own:  
Untie the Gordian Knot that will,  
I see no Rhetoric at all  
In them that learnedly can brawl,  
And fill with mercenary breath the spacious Hall;  
Let me be peaceable, let me be still.  
The solitary Tisbite heard the wind,  
With strength and violence combined,  
That rend the Mountains, and did make  
The solid Earth's Foundations shake,  
He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise,  
But found what he expected in the small still voice.   

VII.  
Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest,  
But I must try  
A pitch more high,  
To read the starry Language of the East;  
And with Chaldean Curiosity  
Presumed to solve the Riddles of the Sky;  
Impatient till I knew my doom,  
Dejected till the good direction come,  
I ripped up Fate's forbidden Womb,  
Nor would I stay till it brought forth  
An easy and a natural birth,  
But was solicitous to know  
The yet misshapen Embryo,  
(Preposterous crime!)  
Without the formal Midwifery of time:  
Fond man! as if too little grief were given  
On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven!  
Permits himself with fear to be unmanned,  
Belshazzar-like, grows wan and pale,  
His very heart gins to fail,  
Is frighted at that Writing of the hand,  
Which yet nor he, not all his learned Magicians understand.   

VIII.  
And now at last what's the result of all?  
Should the strict Audit come,  
And forth ' Account too early call;  
A numerous heap of cyphers, would be found the total Sum.  
When incompassionate Age shall blow  
The delicate Amira's brow,  
And draw his furrows deep and long,  
What hardy Youth is he  
Will after that a Reaper be,  
Or sing the Harvest Song?  
And what is Verse, but an effeminate vent  
Either of Lust or Discontent?  
Colours will starve, and all their Glories die,  
Invented only to deceive the eye;  
And he that wily Law does love,  
Much more of Serpent has than Dove,  
There's nothing in Astrology,  
But Delphic ambiguity;  
We are misguided in the Dark, and thus  
Each Star becomes an Ignis fatuus:  
Yet pardon me ye glorious Lamps of light,  
IT was one of you that led the way,  
Dispelled the gloomy night,  
Became a Phosphor to th' Eternal day,  
And showed the Magis where the Almighty Infant lay.   

IX.  
At length the doubtful Victo y's won,  
It was a cunning Ambuscade  
The World for my felicities had laid;  
Yet now at length the day's our own,  
Now Conquerour-like let us new Laws set down.  
Henceforth let all our Love Seraphic  
The sprightly and the vigorous flame  
On th' Altar let it ever burn,  
And sacrifice its ancient name:  
A Tablet on my heart, next I'll prepare  
Where I would draw the Holy Sepulchre,  
Behind it a soft Landscape I would lay  
Of melancholy Golgotha!  
On th' Altar let me all my spoils lay down,  
And if I had one, there I'd hang my Laurel Crown.  
Give me the Pandects of the Law Divine,  
Such was the Law made Moses face to shine.  
Thus beyond Saturn's heavy Orb I'll tower,  
And laugh at his malicious power:  
Raptur'd in Contemplation thus I'll go  
Above unactive Earth, and leave the Stars below.   

X.  
Tossed on the wings of every wind,  
After these hoverings to and fro;  
(And still the waters higher grow)  
Not knowing where a resting place to find,  
Wither for Sanctuary should I go  
But (Reverend Sir) to you?  
You that have triumphed o'er th' impetuous flood,  
That Noah-like, in bad times durst be good,  
And the stiff Torrent manfully withstood,  
Can save me too;  
One that have long in fear of drowing been,  
Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin;  
Do you but reach out a propitious hand  
And charitably take me in,  
I will not yet despair to see dry land,  
'Tis done;— and I no longer fluctuate,  
I've made the Church my Ark, and Zions Hill my Ararat,    

To my Reverend Friend, Dr. SAM. WOODFORD, On his Excellent Version of the PSALMS. Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza I.  
SEe (worthy Friend) what I would do;  
(whom neither Muse nor Art inspire)  
That have no Friend in all the sacred Choir,  
To show my kindness for your Book, and you,  
Forced to disparage, what I would admire;  
Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now,  
Since the great Pindar's greatest Son  
From the ingrateful Age is gone,  
Cowley has bid th' ingrateful Age adieu;  
Apollo's rare Columbus, he  
Found out new worlds of Poesy:  
He, like an Eagle, soared aloft,  
To seize his noble Prey;  
Yet as a Dove's, his Soul was soft,  
Quiet as Night, but bright as Day:  
To Heaven in a fiery Chariot he  
Ascended by Seraphic Poëtry;  
Yet which of us dull Mortals since can find  
Any inspiring Mantle, that He left behind?   

II.  
His powerful numbers might have done you right;  
He could have spared you immortality,  
Under that Chieftain's Banners you might fight  
Assured of Laurels, and of Victory  
Over devouring Time, and Sword, and Fire,  
And Jove's important Ire:  
My humble Verse would better sing  
David the Shepherd, than the King:  
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one  
(Though of the meaner sort,)  
Of them that may approach a Prince's Throne,  
If 'twere but to be seen at Court.  
Such (Sir) is my ambition for a Name,  
Which I shall rather take from you, than give,  
For in your Book I cannot miss of Fame,  
But by contact shall live.  
Thus on your Chariot Wheel shall I  
Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's Fly,  
Who from th' Olympian Race new come,  
And now triumphantly flown home,  
To's neighbours of the swarm, thus, proudly said,  
Don't you remember what a dust I made!   

III.  
Where e'er the Son of Jesse's Harp shall sound,  
Or Israel's sweetest Songs be sung,  
(Like Sampson's Lion sweet and strong)  
You and your happy Muse shall be renowned,  
To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes  
His last deliverance from all his Foes.  
Blood thirsty Saul less barbarous than they,  
His person only sought to kill;  
These would his deathless Poems slay,  
And sought immortal blood to spill,  
To sing whose Songs in Babylon would be  
A new Captivity:  
Deposed by these Rebels, you alone  
Restored the Glorious David to his Throne.  
Long in disguise the Royal Prophet lay,  
Long from his own thoughts banished,  
ne'er since his death till this illustrious day  
Was Sceptre in his hand, or Crown placed on his Head:  
He seemed as if at Gath he still had been  
As once before proud Achish he appeared,  
His Face besmeared,  
With spittle on his sacred Beard,  
A laughingstock to the insulting Philistine.  
Dressed in their Rhimes, he looked as he were mad,  
In Tissue you, and Tyrian Purple have him clad.    

On the Death of the truly valiant GEORGE Duke of ALBEMARLE. Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza  
NOw blush thyself into confusion,  
Ridiculous Mortality!  
With indignation to be trampled on  
By them that court Eternity;  
Whose Generous Deeds, and Prosperous State  
Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate,  
Whose every Trophy, and each Laurel wreath  
Depends upon a little Breath;  
Confined within the narrow bounds of Time,  
And of uncertain Age,  
With doubtful hazards they engage,  
Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;  
Their Glories are eclipsed by Death.  
Hard circumstances of Illustrious Men  
Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains  
Within the Body's chains.  
(Nature, that rigorous Tamburlaine.)  
Stout Bajazet disdained the barbarousrage  
Of that insulting Conqueror,  
Bravely himself usurped his own expiring power,  
By dashing out his Brains against his Iron Cage.   

II.  
But 'tis indecent to complain,  
And wretched Mortals curse their Stars in vain,  
In vain they waste their tears for them that die,  
Themselves involved in the same destiny,  
No more with sorrow let it then be said  
The glorious Albemarle is dead.  
Let what is said of Him triumphant be,  
Words as gay, as is His Fame,  
And as manly as his Name,  
Words as ample as his Praise,  
And as verdant as his Bays,  
An Epinition, not an Elegy.  
Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe  
Thy gloomy Verse can any splendours give,  
Or make him one small Moment longer live?  
Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;  
Or misbecoming numbers sing;  
What Tribute to his memory canst thou pay,  
Whose Virtue saved a Crown, and could oblige a King?   

III.  
Many a year distressed Albion lay  
By her unnatural Offspring torn,  
Once the World's terror, than its scorn,  
At home a Prison, and abroad a Prey:  
Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kills  
And mutual blood did spill;  
Usurpers then, and many a Mushroom Peer  
Within her Palaces did domincer;  
There did the Vulture build his Nest,  
There the Owls, and Satyrs rest,  
By Zim and Ohim all possessed;  
Till England's Angel Guardian, Thou,  
With pity, and with anger moved  
For Albion thy belov'd,  
(Olive Chaplets on thy brow)  
With bloudless hands upheld'st her drooping head,  
And with thy Trumpets call'st her from the dead.  
Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun!  
That Royal Lamp, by Thee did first appear  
Ushered into our happy Hemisphere;  
O may it still shine bright and clear!  
No Cloud, nor Night approach it, but a constant Noon!   

iv  
Nor thus did thy undaunted Valour cease,  
Or whither with unactive peace:  
Scarce were our Civil broils allayed,  
While yet the wound of an intestine War  
Had left a tender Scar,  
When of our new Prosperities afraid,  
Our jealous Neighbours fatal Arms prepare;  
In floating Groves the Enemy drew near.  
Loud did the Belgian Lion roar,  
Upon our Coasts th' Armada did appear,  
And boldly durst attempt our Native Shore,  
Till his victorious Squadrons checked their pride,  
And did in Triumph o'er the Ocean ride.  
With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke  
He did their Insolence restrain,  
And gave his dreadful Law to all the Main,  
Whose surly Billows trembled when he spoke,  
And put their willing necks under his Yoke.  
This the stupendious Vanquisher has done,  
Whose high Prerogative it was alone  
To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envied Throne.   

V  
Then angry Heaven began to frown,  
From Heaven a dreadful Pestilence came down,  
On every side did Lamentations rise;  
Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,  
All was plaint, and all was moan!  
The pious Friend with trembling love,  
Scarce had his latest kindness done,  
In sealing up his dead Friends eyes,  
 with his own surprising Fate he strove,  
And wanted one to close his own.  
Death's Iron Sceptre bore the sway  
O'er our Imperial Golgotha;  
Yet he with kind, though unconcerned eyes,  
Durst stay and see those numerous Tragedies.  
He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape,  
Herd him in Volleys talk aloud,  
Beheld his Grandeur in a glittering Crowd,  
And unamazed seen him in Cannons gape:  
Ever unterrified his Valour stood  
Like some tall Rock amidst a Sea of Blood:  
'Twas Loyalty from Sword and Pest kept him alive,  
The safest Armour, and the best Preservative.   

VI  
The flaming City next implored his Aid,  
And seasonably prayed  
His force against the Fire, whose Arms the Seas obeyed;  
Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread,  
Then those goodly Fabrics fell,  
Temples themselves promiscuously there  
Dropped down, and in the common ruin buried were,  
The City turned into one Mongibel:  
The haughty Tyrant shook his curled head,  
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.  
Then every cheek grew wan and pale  
Every heart did yield and fail:  
Nought but thy Presence could its Power suppress.  
Whose stronger light put out the less.  
As London's noble Structures rise,  
Together shall His Memory grow,  
To whom that beauteous Town so much does owe.  
London! joint Favourite with Him Thou were't;  
As both possessed a room within one heart,  
So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join,  
Respect his great Friends ashes, for He wept o'er Thine.   

VII.  
Thus did the Duke perform his mighty Stage,  
Thus did that Atlas of our State,  
With his Prodigious Acts amaze the Age,  
While Worlds of wonders on his shoulders fate;  
Full of Glories, and of Years,  
He trod his shining, and immortal way,  
Whilst Albion compassed with new floods of tears  
Besought his longer stay.  
Profane that Pen, that dares describe thy bliss,  
Or write thine Apotheosis!  
Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove,  
Entrusted with their Armies and their Love.  
In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve,  
Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve,  
Who, to express his Gatitude to Thee,  
Scorned those ill-natured arts of Policy.  
Happy had Bellisarius been  
(Whose forward fortune was his sin)  
By many Victories undone,  
He had not lived neglected, died obscure,  
If for thy Prince those Battles he had won,  
Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.   

VIII.  
Among the Gods, those Gods that died like Thee,  
As great as theirs, and full of Majesty  
Thy sacred Dust shall sleep secure,  
Thy Monument as long as theirs endure:  
There, free from Envy, Thou with them,  
Shalt have thy share of Diadem;  
Among their Badges shall be set  
Thy Garter and thy Coronet;  
Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have  
A Mausolaeum in thy Prince's breast,  
There thine embalmed name shall rest,  
That Sanctuary shall thee save,  
From the dishonours of a Regal Grave:  
And every wondrous History,  
Read by incredulous Posterity,  
That writes of him, shall honourably mention thee  
Who by an humble Loyalty hast shown,  
How much sublimer gallantry, and renown  
'Tis to restore, than to usurp a Monarch's Crown.    

The Retirement. Pindaric Ode made in the time of the Great Sickness, 1665.  

Stanza I.  
IN the mild close of an hot Summer's day,  
When a cool Breeze had fanned the Air,  
And Heaven's face looked smooth and fair;  
Lovely as sleeping Infants be,  
That in their slumber smiling lie  
Dandled on their Mother's Knee,  
You hear no cry,  
No harsh, nor inharmonious voice,  
But all is innocence without a noise:  
When every sweet, which the Sun's greedy Ray  
So lately from us drew,  
Began to trickle down again in dew;  
Weary, and faint, and full of thought,  
Though for what cause I knew not well,  
What I allied, I could not tell,  
I sat me down at an aged Poplar's root,  
Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast,  
All the impertinently busi'd-wolrd inclined to rest.   

II.  
I listened heedfully around,  
But not a whisper there was found.  
The murmuring Brook hard by,  
As heavy, and as dull as I,  
Seemed drowsily along to creep;  
It ran with undiscovered pace,  
And if a Pibble stopped the lazy race,  
'Twas but as if it started in its sleep.  
Echo herself, that ever lent an ear  
To any piteous moan,  
Want to groan with them that groan,  
Echo herself was speechless here.  
Thrice did I sigh, Thrice miserably cry,  
Ai me! the Nymph ai me! would not reply,  
Or churlish, or she was asleep for company.   

III.  
There did I sit and sadly call to mind  
Farneze and near, all I could find,  
All the Pleasures, all the Cares,  
The Jealousies, the Fears,  
All the incertainties of thirty years,  
From that most inauspicious hour  
Which gave me breath;  
To that in which the fair Amira's power  
First made me wish for Death:  
And yet Amira's not unkind;  
She never gave me angry word,  
Never my mean address abhorred;  
Beauteous her face, beauteous her mind:  
Yet something dreadful in her eyes I saw  
Which ever kept my faltering tongue in awe,  
And gave my panting Soul a Law.  
So have I seen a modest Beggar stand,  
Worn out with age, and being oft denied,  
On his heart he laid his hand;  
And though he looked as if he would have died  
The needy Wretch no Alms did crave:  
He durst not ask for what he feared he should not have   

IV.  
I thought on every pensive thing,  
That might my passion strongly move,  
That might the sweetest sadness bring;  
Oft did I think on Death, and oft of Love,  
The triumphs of the little God, and that same ghastly King  
The ghastly King, what has he done?  
How his pale Territories spread!  
Straight scantlings now of consecrated ground  
His swelling Empire cannot bond,  
But every day new Colonies of dead  
Enhance his Conquests, and advance his Throne.  
The mighty City saved from storms of War,  
Exempted from the Crimson Flood,  
When all the Land overflowed with blood,  
Stoop's yet once more to a new Conqueror:  
The City which so many Rival bred,  
Sackcloth is on her loins, and ashes on her head,   

V.  
When will the frowning Heaven begin to smile?  
Those pitchy clouds be overblown,  
That hid the mighty Town,  
That I may see the mighty Pyle!  
When will the angry Angel cease to slay;  
And turn his brandished Sword away  
From that illustrious Golgotha,  
London, the great Aceldama!  
When will that stately Landscape open lie,  
The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye!  
That heap of Pyramids appear,  
Which now, too much like those of Egypt are:  
Eternal Monuments of Pride and Sin,  
Magnificent and tall without, but dead men's bones within.    

Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon.  

I.  
AFter a blustering tedious night,  
The winds now hushed and the black tempest o'er,  
Which th' crazy vessel miserably tore,  
Behold a lamentable sight!  
Rolling far off, upon a briny wave,  
Compassionate Philander spied  
A floating Carcase ride,  
That seemed to beg the kindness of a Grave.   

II.  
Sad, and concerned Philander then  
Weighed with himself the frail, uncertain state  
Of silly, strangely disappointed men,  
Whose projects are the sport of Fate.  
Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate Wife  
In a strange Country far away,  
Expects some happy day,  
This ghastly thing, the comfort of her life:   

III.  
His Son it may be dreads no harm,  
But kindly waits his Father's coming home,  
Himself secure, he apprehends no storm,  
But fancies that he sees him come.  
Perhaps the good old man, that kissed this Son,  
And left a blessing on his head,  
His arms about him spread,  
Hopes yet to see him  his Glass be run.   

iv  
These are the Grand Intrigues of Man,  
These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires  
Restless, and swelling like the Ocean  
From his birth till he expires,  
See where the naked, breathless body lies  
To every puff of wind a slave,  
At the beck of every Wave,  
That once perhaps was fair, rich, slout, and wise!   

V  
While thus Philander pensive said,  
Touched only with a pity for Mankind,  
At nearer view, he thought he knew the Dead,  
And called the wretched Man to mind:  
Alas, said he, art thou that angry Thing,  
That with thy looks didst threaten Death,  
Plagues and Destruction breath,  
But two days since, little boneath a King!   

VI  
Ai me! where is thy fury now,  
Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power,  
O most ridiculously dreadful thou!  
Exposed for Beasts and Fishes to devour.  
Go sottish Mortals, let your Breasts swell high,  
All your Designs laid deep as Hell,  
A small mischance can quell,  
Out-witted by the deeper Plots of Destiny.   

VII.  
This haughty Lump a while before  
Soothed up itself, perhaps with hopes of Life,  
What it would do, when it came safe on shore,  
What for Its Son, what for Its Wife;  
See where the Man, and all his Politics lie.  
Ye Gods! what Gulfs are set between,  
What we have, and what we ween,  
Whilst lulled in dreams of years to come, we die!   

VIII.  
Nor are we liable alone,  
To misadventures on the merciless Sea,  
A thousand other things our Fate bring on,  
And Shipwrecked every where we be.  
One in the tumult of a Battle dies  
Big with conceit of Victory,  
And routing th' Enemy,  
With Garlands decked, himself the Sacrifice.   

IX.  
Another, while he pays his vows  
On bended knees, and Heaven with tears invokes,  
With adorations as he humbly bows,  
While with Gums the Altar smokes,  
In th' presence of his God, the Temple falls;  
And thus religious in vain  
The flattered Bigot slain,  
Breathes out his last within the sacred Walls.   

X.  
Another with Gay Trophies proud,  
From his triumphant Chariot overthrown,  
Makes pastime for the Gazers of the Crowd,  
That envied him his purchased Crown.  
Some with full meals, and sparkling Bowls of Wine,  
(As if it made too long delay)  
Spur on their fatal Day,  
Whilst others, (needy Souls) at theirs repine.   

XI.  
Consider well, and every place  
Offers a ready Road to thy long home,  
Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face  
Th' Ambassadors of Death do come.  
By open force or secret Ambuscade,  
By unintelligible ways,  
We end our anxious days,  
And stock the large Plantations of the Dead.   

XII.  
But (some may say) 'tis very hard  
With them, whom heavy chance has cast away,  
With no solemnities at all interred,  
To roam unburied on the Sea:  
No— 'tis all one where we receive our doom,  
Since, somewhere, 'tis our certain lot.  
Our Carcases must rot,  
And they whom heaven covers need no Tomb.    

A Thought of DEATH.  

When on my sick Bed I languish,  
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,  
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,  
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,  
My Soul just now about to take her flight  
Into the Regions of eternal night;  
Oh tell me you,  
That have been long below,  
What shall I do!  
What shall I think, when cruel Death appears,  
That may extenuate my fears!  
Methinks I hear some Gentle Spirit say,  
Be not fearful, come away!  
Think with thyself that now thou shalt be free,  
And find thy long expected liberty;  
Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be  
Than in this Vale of Tears, and Misery.  
Like Caesar, with assurance then come on,  
And unamazed attempt the Laurel Crown,  
That lies on th'other side Death's Rubicon.    

Psalm XXXiX. Verse 4, 5.  

VERSE IU.  
Lord let me know the Period of my Age,  
The length of this my weary Pilgrimage,  
How long this miserable Life shall last,  
This Life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!   

VERSE V.  
Thou by a Span measur'st these days of mine,  
Eternity's the spacious bound of Thine:  
Who shall compare his little Span with thee,  
With Thine Incomprehensibility.  
Man born to trouble leaves this World with pain,  
His best Estate is altogether vain.    

Hymn for the Morning.  

Awake my Soul! Awake mine eyes!  
Awake my drowsy faculties;  
Awake and see the new born Light  
Spring from the darksome womb of Night!  
Look up and see th' unwearied Sun,  
Already has his Race begun:  
The pretty Lark is mounted high,  
And sings her Matins in the Sky.  
Arise my Soul! and thou my voice  
In Songs of Praise, early rejoice!  
O Great Creator! Heavenly King!  
Thy Praises let me ever sing!  
Thy Power has made, thy Goodness kept  
This fenceless Body while I slept,  
Yet one day more haste given me  
From all the Powers of darkness free:  
O keep my heart from Sin secure,  
My life unblameable and pure,  
That when the last of all my Days is come,  
Cheerful and I may wait my Doom.    

Anthem for the Evening.  

Sleep! downy sleep! come close my eyes,  
Tired with beholding Vanities!  
Sweet slumbers come and chase away  
The tolis and follies of the day:  
On your soft bosom will I lie,  
Forget the World, and learn to die.  
O Israel's watchful Shepherd spread  
Tents of Angels round my Bed;  
Let not the Spirits of the Air,  
While I slumber, me ensnare;  
But save thy Suppliant free from harms,  
Clasped in thine everlasting Arms.  
Clouds and thick darkness is thy Throne,  
Thy wonderful Pavilion:  
Oh dart from thence a shining Ray,  
And then my midnight shall be Day!  
Thus when the morn in Crimson dressed,  
Breaks through the Windows of the East,  
My hymns of thankful Praises shall rise  
Like Incense or the morning Sacrifice.    

DEATH.  
SONG.  

Oh the sad day,  
When Friends shall shake their heads and say  
Of miserable me,  
Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath,  
See how he struggles with the pangs of Death!  
When they shall say of these poor eyes,  
How hollow, and how dim they be!  
Mark how his Breast does swell and rise,  
Against his potent Enemy!  
When some old Friend shall step to my Bedside,  
Touch my i'll face, and thence shall gently slide,  
And when his next Companions say,  
How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away,  
Answering only with a lift up hand,  
Who can his Fate withstand?  
Then shall a gasp or two do more  
Than e'er my Rhetoric could before,  
Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!    

The Happy Man.  

PEaceful is he, and most secure,  
Whose heart, and actions all are pure;  
How smooth and pleasant is his way.  
Whilst Life's Meander slides away  
If a fierce Thunderbolt do fly,  
This Man can unconcerned lie;  
Knows 'tis not levelled at his head,  
So neither noise, nor flash can dread:  
Though a swift Whirlwind tear in sunder  
Heaven above him, or Earth under;  
Though the Rocks on Heaps do tumble,  
Or the World to Ashes crumble,  
Though the stupendious Mountains from on high  
Drop down, and in their humble Valleys lie;  
Should the unruly Ocean roar,  
And dash its Foam against the Shore;  
He finds no Tempest in his Mind,  
Fears no Billow, feels no Wind:  
All is serene, and quiet there,  
There's not one blast of troubled Air,  
Old Stars may fall, or new ones blaze,  
Yet none of these his Soul amaze;  
Such is the man can smile at irksome death,  
And with an easy sigh give up his breath.    

ON Mr. JOHNSON'S Several Shipwrecks.  

HE that has never yet acquainted been  
With cruel Chance, nor Virtue naked seen.  
Stripped from th' advantages (which Vices wear)  
Of happy, plausible, successful, fair;  
Nor learned how long the lowering cloud may last,  
Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast,  
Till she her native glories does recover,  
And shines more bright, after the Storm is over;  
To be informed, he need no further go,  
Than this Divine Epitome of woe.  
In Johnson's Life, and Writings he may find,  
What Homer in his Odysseys designed,  
A virtuous Man, by miserable fate,  
Rendered ten thousand ways unfortunate;  
Sometimes within a leaking Vessel tossed,  
All hopes of life, and the loved Shore quite lost,  
While hidden Sands, and every greedy Wave,  
With horror gaped themselves into a Grave:  
Sometimes upon a Rock with fury thrown,  
Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan;  
Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand,  
Exposed to th' mercy of a Barbarous Land:  
Such was the Pious Johnson, till kind Heaven  
A blessed End to all his toils had given:  
To show that virtuous men, though they appear  
But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.    

An Explanation of an EMBLEM Engraven by V H.  

SEest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them?  
And that gay thing the Diadem?  
The Wheel and Balance, which are tied  
To th' Gold, black Clouds on either-side?  
Seest thou the winged Trumpeters withal,  
That kick the World's blue tottering Ball?  
The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,  
Those fragments of a Skeleton?  
The Bays, the Palms, the Fight men,  
And written Scroul?— Come tell me then,  
Did thy o'ercurious eye  see  
An apt Scheme of Misery?  
What's all that Gold, and what those sparkling Stones  
To that bald Scull, to those Eross Bones?  
What mean those Braves (whom we adore)  
To slain the Earth with purple gore?  
Sack stately Towns, silk Banners spread,  
Gallop their Coursers o'er the Dead?  
Far more than this? and all to sway  
But till those sands shall glide away.  
For when the Bubble World shall fly  
With stretched-out Plumes, when the brisk eye  
Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,  
And th' Angels Trumpets pierce our ears,  
What's haughty Man, or those fine things,  
Which Heaven calls Men, though Men style Kings?  
Vain World adieu! and farewell fond renown!  
Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown!    

For THOUGHTS.  

I.  
Thought! What are they?  
They are my constant Friends,  
Who, when harsh Fate its dull brow bends,  
Uncloud me with a smiling Ray,  
And in the depth of midnight force a day.   

II.  
When I retire, and slay  
The busy throngs of Company!  
To hug myself in privacy;  
O thediscourse! the pleasant talk,  
Twixt us (my thoughts) along a lonely walk!   

III.  
You, like the stupifying Wine  
The dying Malefactors sip  
With shivering lip,  
T' abate the rigour of their Doom,  
By a less troublous cut to their long home;  
Make me slight Crosses, though they piled up lie,  
All by th' enchantments of an ecstasy.   

iv  
Do I desire to see  
The Throne and Majesty  
Of that proud one,  
Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun?  
Those can conduct me where such Toys reside,  
And waft me cross the Main, sans Wind and Tide.   

V  
Would I descry  
Those radiant Mansions 'bove the Sky,  
Invisible by Mortal eye?  
My Thoughts, my Thoughts can lay  
A shining Track thereto,  
And nimbly fleeting go:  
Through all the eleven Orbs can shove away,  
These two, like Jacob's Ladder, are  
A most Angelic thoroughfare.   

iv  
The Wealth that shines  
In th' Oriental Mines;  
Those sparkling Gems which Nature keeps  
Within her Cabinets, the Deeps,  
The Verdant Fields,  
The Rarities the rich World yields;  
Rare structures, whose each gilded spire  
Glimmers like Lightning; which, while men admire,  
They deem the neighbouring Sky on fire,  
These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes  
With Myriad of varieties.  
As on the front of Pisgah, I  
Can th' Holy Land through these my Optics spy.   

VII.  
Contemn we then  
The peevish rage of men,  
Whose violence ne'er can divorce  
Our mutual amity;  
Or lay so damned a Curse  
As Non-addresses, 'twixt my thoughts and me:  
For though I sigh in Irons, They  
Use their old freedom, readily obey;  
And when my bosome-friends desert me, stay.   

VIII.  
Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace  
My Privilege; make known  
The high prerogative I own,  
By making all allurements give you place;  
Whose sweet society to me,  
A Sanctuary and a Shield shall be  
'Gainst the full Quivers of my Destiny.    

Against THOUGHTS.  

I.  
INtolerable Racks!  
Distend my Soul no more,  
Loud as the Billows when they roar,  
More dreadful than the hideous thunder cracks.  
Foes inappeasable! that slay  
My best contents, around me stand,  
Each like a Fury, with a Torch in hand;  
And fright me from the hopes of one good Day.   

II.  
When I seclude myself, and say  
How frolic will I be,  
Unfettered from my Company  
I'll bathe me in felicity!  
In come these Guests,  
Which Harpy like defile my Feasts:  
Oh the damned Dialogues, the cursed talk  
'Twixt us (my Thoughts) along a sullen walk.   

III.  
You, like the poisonous Wine  
The Gallants quaff  
To make 'em laugh,  
And yet at last endure  
From thence the tortures of a Calenture,  
Fool me with feigned refections, till I lie  
Stark raving in a Bedlam ecstasy.   

iv  
Do I dread  
The Starry Throne and Majesty  
Of that High God,  
Who batters Kingdoms with an Iron Rod,  
And makes the Mountains stagger with a Nod?  
That sits upon the glorious Bow,  
Smiling at changes here below.  
These goad me to his grand Tribunal, where  
They tell me I with horror must appear,  
And antedate amazements by grim fear.   

V  
Would I descry  
Those happy Souls blest Mansions 'bove the Sky,  
Invisible by mortal eye,  
And in a noble speculation trace  
A journey to that shining place?  
Can I afford a sigh or two,  
Or breathe a Wish that I might thither go:  
These clip my Plumes, and chill my blazing Love  
That, O, I cannot, cannot soar above.   

VI  
The Fire that shines  
In Subterranean Mines,  
The Crystalled streams,  
The Sulphur Rocks that glow upon  
The torrid banks of Phlegeton;  
Those sooty Fiends which Nature keeps,  
Bolted and barred up in the deeps;  
Black Caves wide Chasms which who see confess  
Types of the Pit so deep, so bottomless!  
These mysteries, though I fain would not behold,  
You to my view unfold:  
Like an Old Roman Criminal, to the high  
Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I  
May so be hurried headlong down, and Die.   

VII.  
Mention not then  
The strength, and faculties of men;  
Whose Arts cannot expel  
These anguishes, this bosome-Hell.  
When down my aching head I lay,  
In hopes to slumber them away;  
Perchance I do beguile  
The Tyranny a while,  
One or two minutes, than they throng again,  
And reassault me with a trebled pain:  
Nay though I sob in Fetters, they  
Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day,  
And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.   

VIII.  
Hence, hence, (my Jailers) Thoughts be gone,  
Let my Tranquillities alone.  
Shall I embrace  
A Crocodile, or place  
My choice affections on the fatal Dart,  
That stabs me to the heart?  
I hate your cursed proximity,  
Worse than the venomed arrows heads that be  
Crammed in the quivers of my Destiny.    

A Doomsday Thought. Anno 1659.  

Judgement! two Syllables can make  
The haughtiest Son of Adam shake.  
'tis coming, and 'twill surely come,  
The dawning to that Day of Doom;  
O, th' morning blush of that dread day,  
When Heaven and Earth shall steal away,  
Shall in their pristine Chaos hid,  
Rather than th' angry Judge abide.  
'tis not far off; methinks I see  
Among the Stars some dimmer be;  
Some tremble, as their Lamps did fear  
A neighbouring Extinguisher,  
The greater Luminaries fail,  
Their Glories by Eclipses veil,  
Knowing e'er long their borrowed Light  
Must sink in th' Universal Night,  
When I behold a Mist arise,  
Straight to the same astonished Eyes,  
Th' ascending Clouds do represent,  
A Scene of th' smoking Firmament.  
Oft when I hear a blustering Wind  
With a tempestuous murmur joined,  
I fancy, Nature in this blast,  
Practices how to breathe her Last,  
Or sighs for poor Man's misery,  
Or pants for fair Eternity.  
Go to the dull Churchyard and see  
Those Hillocks of Mortality.  
Where proudest Man is only found  
By a small swelling in the Ground?  
What Crowds of Carcases are made  
Slaves to the Pickax and the Spade!  
Dig but a foot, or two, to make  
A Cold Bed, for thy dead Friends sake,  
'Tis odds but in that scantling room,  
Thou roob'st another of his Tomb,  
Or in thy delving smitest upon  
A Shinbone, or a Cranion.  
When th' Prison's full, what next can be  
But the Grand Goal-Delivery?  
The Great Assize, when the pale Clay  
Shall gape, and render up its Prey;  
When from the Dungeon of the Grave  
The meager Throng themselves shall heave,  
Shake off their Linen Chains, and gaze  
With wonder, when the world shall blaze,  
Then climb the Mountains, scale the Rocks,  
Force open the Deep's Eternal Locks,  
Beseech the Cliffs to lend an Ear,  
Obdurate they, and will not hear.  
What? ne'rea Cavern ne'er a Grot  
To cover from the common Lot?  
No quite forgotten Hold, toly  
Obscured, and pass the reckoning by?  
No— There's a quick all-piercing Eye  
Can through the Earth's dark Centre pry,  
Search into th' bowels of the Sea,  
And comprehend Eternity.  
What shall we do then, when the voice  
Of the shrill Trump with strong fierce noise  
Shall pierce our Ears, and summon all  
To th' Universe wide Judgment-Hall?  
What shall we do, we cannot hid,  
Nor yet that Scrutiny abide:  
When enlarged Conscience loudly speaks,  
And all our bosom-secrets breaks;  
When flames surround, and greedy Hell  
Gapes for a Booty, (who can dwell  
With everlasting Burn!) when  
Irrevocable words shall pass on Men;  
Poor naked Men, who sometimes, thought  
These frights perhaps would come to nought!  
What shall we do! we cannot run  
For Refuge, or the strict Judge shun.  
'Tis too late Then to think what Course to take;  
While we live Here, we must Provision make.    

Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt.  

I.  
NVnquam sitivi, quae vehit aureo  
Pactolus alveo flumina; quo magis  
Potatur Hermus, tanto avarae  
Mentis Hydrops sitibundus ardet.   

II.  
Frustrà caduci carceris incola  
Molirer Arces; quilibet angulus  
Sat ossa post manes reponet;  
Exiguum satis est Sepulchrum.   

III.  
Nil stemma penso, nil titulos moror,  
Cerásve aviti sanguinis indices,  
Sunt ista fatorum, inque Lethes  
Naufragium patientur undis.   

IV.  
Ergo in quieto pectoris ambitu  
Quid mens anhelas fulgura gloriae,  
Laudésque inanes, & loquacem  
Quae populi sedet ore, famam.   

V.  
Letho superstes gloria, somnii  
Dulcedo vana est, fama malignior,  
Nil tangit umbras, nec feretrum  
Ingreditur Popularis Aura.   

VI  
Mansura sector, sola sed invidi  
Expers Sepulchri sydera trajicit,  
Spernénsque fatorum tumultus  
Pellit humum generosa Virtus.   

VII.  
Praeceps novorum caetera mensium  
Consumet aetas, serâque temporis  
Delebit annosi vetustas  
Utopicae nova Regna Lunae.    

Translated.  

I.  
I Never thirsted for the Golden Flood,  
Which o'er Pactolus' wealthy sands does roll,  
From whence the covetous mind receives no good,  
But rather swells the dropsy of his Soul.   

II.  
On Palaces why should I set my Mind,  
Imprisoned in this body's mouldering clay?  
Ere long to poor six foot of Earth consigned,  
Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.   

III.  
Titles and Pedigrees, what are they to me,  
Or honour gained by our Forefathers toil,  
The sport of Fate, whose gaudiest Pageantry  
Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soil?   

iv  
Why then (my Soul) who fain wouldst be at ease,  
Should the World's glory dazzle thy bright Eye?  
Thyself with vain applause why shouldst thou please,  
Or dote on Fame, which Fools may take from Thee?   

V  
Praise after death is but a pleasant dream,  
The Dead fare ne'er the worse for ill report;  
The Ghosts below know nothing of a Name,  
Nor ever Popular caresses court.   

VI  
Give me the lasting Good, Virtue, that flies  
Above the Clouds, that tramples on dull Earth,  
Exempt from Fates tumultuous Mutinies,  
Virtue, that cannot need a second Birth.   

VII.  
All other things must bend their heads to Time,  
By Ages mighty Torrent born away,  
Hereafter no more thought on than my Rhyme,  
Or Faëry Kingdoms in Utopia.    

Psalm XV. Paraphrased.  

VERSE I.  
WHo shall approach the dread Jehovah's Throne  
Or dwell within thy Courts, O Holy One!  
That happy man whose feet shall tread the Road  
Up Sion's Hill, that holy Hill of God   

VERSE II.  
He that's devout and strict in all he does,  
That through the sinful world uprightly goes,  
The  heights from whence the great ones fall  
(Giddy with Fame) turn not his head at all:  
Stands firm on Honour's Pinnacle, and so  
Fears not the dreadful Precipice below.  
Of Conscience, not of Man, he stands in awe,  
Just to observe each tittle of the Law!  
His words and thoughts bear not a double part,  
His breast is open, and he speaks his heart.   

VERSE III.  
He that reviles not, or with cruel words  
(Deadly as venom, sharp as two-edged swords)  
Murders his Friends repute, nor dares believe  
That Rumour which his neighbor's soul may grieve:   

But with kind words embalms his bleeding Name,  
Wipes off the rust, and polishes his fame.   

VERSE IU.  
He in whose eyes the bravest sinners be  
Extremely vile, though robbed in Majesty;  
But if he spies a righteous man (though poor)  
Him he can honour, love, admire, adore:  
In Israel's humble Plains had rather stay,  
Than in the Tents of Kedar bear the sway:  
He that severely keeps his sacred Vow,  
No mental reservation dares allow,  
But what he swears, intends; will rather die,  
Lose all he has, than tell a solemn Lie.   

VERSE V.  
He that extorts not from the needy Soul,  
When Laws his Tyranny cannot control;  
He whom a thousand Empires cannot hire,  
Against a guiltless person to conspire.   

He that has these perfections, needs no more;  
What Treasures can be added to his store?  
The Pyramids shall turn to dust, to hid  
Their own vast bulk, and haughty Founder's pride.  
Leviathan shall die within his Deep;  
The eyes of Heaven close in eternal sleep;  
Consusion may o'er whelm both Sea, and Land;  
Mountains may tumble down, but he shall stand.    

JOB.  

FEw be the days that feeble man must breathe,  
Yet frequent Troubles antedate his death:  
Gay like a flower he comes, which newly grown,  
Fades of itself, or is untimely mown:  
Like a thin Aery shadow does he fly,  
Lengthening and shortening still until he die.  
And does Jehovah think on such a one,  
Does he behold him from his mighty Throne?  
Will he contend with such a worthless thing,  
Or Dust and Ashes into Judgement bring?   

Unclean, unclean is man even from the Womb,  
Unclean he falls into his drowsy Tomb.  
Surely, he cannot answer God, nor be  
Accounted pure, before such purity.    

Nudus Redibo.  

NAked I came, when I began to be  
A man among the Sons of Misery,  
Tender, unarmed, helpless, and quite forlorn,  
 since 'twas my hard fortune to be born:  
And when the space of a few weary days  
Shall be expired; then must I go my ways.  
Naked I shall return, and nothing have,  
Nothing wherewith to bribe my hungry Grave.   

Than what's the proudest Monarch's glittering Robe,  
Or what's he, more than I, that ruled the Globe?  
Since we must all without distinction die,  
And slumber both stark naked, He and I.    

AN ELEGY On the EARL of SANDWICH.  

IF there were aught in Verse, at once could raise,  
Or tender pity, or immortal praise,  
Thine Obsequies, brave Sandwich would require  
What ever would our nobler thoughts inspire;  
But since thou findest by thy unhappy fate,  
What 'tis to be unfortunately Great,  
And purchase Honour at too dear a rate:  
The Muse's best attempt, how e'er designed,  
Cannot but prove impertinently kind,  
Thy glorious Valour is a Theme too high  
For all the humble Arts of Poesy,  
To side with chance, and Kingdoms overrun  
Are little things Ambitious Men have done;  
But on a flaming Ship thus to despise  
That life, which others did so highly prize;  
To fight with Fire, and struggle with a Wave,  
And Neptune with unwearied Arms outbrave,  
Are deeds surpassing fabulous Chronicle.  
And which no future Age shall parallel;  
Leviathan himself's outdon by Thee,  
Thou greater wonder of the Deep, than he:  
Nor could the Deep thy mighty Ashes hold,  
The Deep that swallows Diamonds and Gold,  
Fame even thy sacred Relics, does pursue,  
Richer than all the Treasures of Peru:  
While the kind Sea thy breathless body brings  
Safe to the bed of Honour and of Kings.    

AN EPITAPH On the EARL of SANDWICH.  

Here lies the Dust of that illustrious Man,  
That triumphed o'er the Ocean;  
Who for his Country nobly courted Death,  
And dearly sold his glorious Breath,  
Or in a word, in this cold narrow Grave  
Sandwich the Good, the Great, the Brave,  
(Oh frail Estate of Sublunary things!)  
Lies equal here with England's greatest Kings.    

PASTORAL.  

I.  
At break of day poor Celadon  
Hard by his Sheepsolds walked alone,  
His Arms , his Head bowed down,  
His Oaten Pipe beside him thrown,  
When Thirsis hidden in a Thicket by,  
Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.   

II.  
What is it Celadon has done,  
That all his Happiness is gone!  
The Curtains of the dark are drawn,  
And cheerful morn gins to dawn,  
Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night,  
That can admit no beam of pleasant light.   

III.  
You pretty Lambs may leap and play  
To welcome the new kindled day,  
Your Shepherd harmless, as are you,  
Why is he not as frolic too?  
If such disturbance th' Innocent attend,  
How differs he from them that dare offend!   

iv  
Ye Gods! or let me die, or live,  
If I must die, why this reprieve?  
If you would have me live, O why  
Is it with me as those that die!  
I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set,  
My Cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.   

V  
Ye Gods! I never did withhold  
The fattest Lamb of all my Fold,  
But on your Altars laid it down,  
And with a Garland did it crown.  
Is it vain to make your Altar smoke?  
Is it all one, to please, and to provoke?   

VI  
Time was that I could sit and smile,  
Or with a dance the Time beguile:  
My soul like that smooth Lake was still,  
Bright as the Sun behind you Hill,  
Like yonder stately Mountain clear, and high,  
Swift, soft, and gay as the same Butterfly.   

VII.  
But now Within there's Civil War,  
In Arms my rebel Passions are,  
Their old Allegiance laid aside,  
The Traitors now in Triumph ride;  
That, many-headed Monster has thrown down  
Its lawful Monarch Reason from its Throne.   

VIII.  
See unrelenting Sylvia, see,  
All this, and more is long of Thee:  
For e'er I saw that charming face,  
Uninterrupted was my peace,  
Thy glorious beamy eyes have struck me blind,  
To my own Soul the way I cannot find.   

IX.  
Yet is it not thy fault nor mine  
Heaven is to blame, that did not shine  
Upon us both with equal Rays,  
It made thine bright, mine gloomy days;  
To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store,  
All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.   

X.  
Unlucky Stars poor Shepherds have,  
Whose Love is fickle Fortune's Slave:  
Those golden days are out of date,  
When every Turtle chose his Mate:  
Cupid that mighty Prince then uncontrolled,  
Now like a little Negroes bought and sold.    

On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries.  
Pastoral Song.  

Did you not hear the hideous Groan,  
The Shrieks, and heavy Moon  
That spread themselves o'er all the pensive Plain;  
And rend the breast of many a tender Swain?  
'Twas for Amintas, Dead and gone.  
Sing ye forsaken Shepherds, sing His Praise  
In careless Melancholy Lays,  
Lend Him a little doleful Breath:  
Poor Amintas! cruel death!  
'Twas Thou couldst make Dead words to live,  
Thou that dull Numbers couldst inspire  
With charming Voice, and tuneful Lyre,  
That Life to all, but to Thyself couldst give;  
Why couldst Thou not thy wondrous Art bequeath?  
Poor Amintas! Cruel Death!  
Sing pious Shepherds, while you may,  
Before th' approaches of the Fatal Day:  
For you yourselves that sing this mournful Song,  
Alas! e'er it belong,  
Shall, like Amintas, Breathless be,  
Though more forgotten in the Grave, that Herald    

The Mistake.  
SONG.  

I Herd a young Lover in terrible pain,  
From whence if he pleased, he might soon be re  
He swore, and he vowed again and again,  
He could not out live the turmoils of his breast;  
But, alas, the young Lover I found  
Knew little how cold Love would prove under ground;  
Why should I believe, prithee Love tell me why,  
Where my own Flesh and Blood must give me the Lie!  
Let'em rant while they will, and their Destinies brave,  
They'll find their flames vanish on this side the grave;  
For though all addresses on purpose are made  
To be huddled to bed,— 'tis ' nt meant, with a spade!    

The Incredulous.  
SONG.  

I'll ne'er believe for Strephon's sake  
That Love, (what e'er its fond pretences be)  
Is not a slave to mutability.  
The Moon and that alike of change partake:  
Tears are weak, and cannot bind;  
Vows, alas! but empty wind:  
The greatest Art that Nature gave  
To th' Amorous Hypocrite to make him kind,  
Long  he dies will take its leave.  
Had you but seen, as I have done,  
Strephon's tears, and heard his moan,  
How pale his Cheek, how dim his Eye,  
As if with Chloris he resolved to die;  
And when her spotless Soul was fled  
Herd his amazing praises of the Dead;  
Yet in a very little time address  
His flame t' another Shepherdess,  
In a few days giving his Love the Lie,  
You'd be as great an Infidel as I    

Weeping at Parting.  
SONG.  

I.  
Go, gentle Oriana, go,  
Thou seest the Gods will have it so;  
Alas! Alas! 'tis much in vain  
Of their ill usage to complain,  
To curse them when we want relief,  
Lessens our courage, not our grief:  
Dear Oriana, wipe thine Eye,  
The Time may come, that thou, and I  
Shall meet again, long, long to prove  
What Vigour absence adds to love,  
Smile Oriana then, and let me see,  
That look again, which stole my liberty.   

II.  
But say that Oriana die,  
And that sad moment may be nigh;  
The Gods that for a year can fever,  
If it please them can part us ever;  
They that refresh, can make us weep,  
And into Death can lengthen sleep.  
Kind Oriana should I hear  
The thing I so extremely fear,  
'Twill not be strange, if it be said,  
After a while, I too, am dead.  
Weep Oriana, weep, for who does know,  
Whether we e'er shall meet again below.    

The Desperate Lover.  

I.  
O Mighty King of Terrors, come!  
Command thy Slave to his long home:  
Great Sanctuary, Grave! to thee  
In throngs the miserable fly;  
Encircled in thy srozen arms,  
They bid defiance to their harms,  
Regardless of those ponderous little things,  
That discompose th' uneasy heads of Kings.   

II.  
In the cold Earth the Prisoner lies  
Ransomed from all his miseries,  
Himself forgotten, he forgets  
His cruel Creditors, and Debts;  
And there in everlasting peace  
Contentions with their Authors cease.  
A Turf of Grass or Monument of Stone  
Umpires the petty Competition.   

III.  
The disappointed Lover there,  
Breathes not a sigh, nor sheds a tear;  
With us (fond fools) he never shares  
In sad perplexities and cares;  
The Willow near his Tomb that grows  
Revives his Memory, not his Woes;  
Or rain, or shine, he is advanced above  
Th' affronts of Heaven, and stratagems of Love.   

iv  
Then, mighty King of Terrors, come,  
Command thy Slave to his long home.  
And thou, my Friend, that lov'st me best,  
Seal up these eyes that broke my rest;  
Put out the Lights, bespeak my Knell,  
And then eternally farewel.  
'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give,  
That none can force a desperate man to Live.    

The Fatigue.  
A SONG.  

ADieu fond World, and all thy Wiles,  
Thy haughty frowns, and treacherous smiles,  
They that behold thee with my eyes,  
Thy double dealing will despise:  
From thee, false World, my deadly Foe,  
Into some Desert let me go;  
Some gloomy melancholy Cave,  
Dark and silent as the Grave,  
Let me withdraw; where I may be  
From thine impertinencies free:  
There when I hear the Turtle groan,  
How sweetly would I make my moan!  
Kind Philomela would teach me there  
My sorrows pleasantly to bear:  
There could I correspond with none  
But Heaven, and my own breast alone?    

The Resolve.  
SONG.  

I.  
HAd Phyllis neither Charms, nor Graces  
More than the rest of women wear,  
Levelled by Fate with common faces,  
Yet Damon could esteem her fair.   

II.  
Good natured Love can soon forgive  
Those petty injuries of Time,  
And all th' affronts of years impute  
To her Misfortune, not her Crime.   

III.  
Wedlock puts Love upon the Rack,  
Makes it confess 'tis still the same  
In Icy Age, as it appeared,  
At first when all was lively flame.   

iv  
If Hymen's slaves, whose ears are bored,  
Thus constant by compulsion be,  
Why should not Choice endear us more  
Than them their hard Necessity?   

V  
Phyllis! 'tis true, thy Glass does run,  
But since mine too keeps equal pace,  
My silver hairs may trouble thee,  
As much as me thy ruin'd Face.   

VI  
Then let us constant be as Heaven,  
Whose Laws inviolable are,  
Not like those rambling Meteors there  
That foretell ills, and disappear.   

VII.  
So shall a pleasing calm attend  
Our long uneasy Destiny,  
So shall our Loves, and Lives expire  
From Storms and Tempests ever free.    

LOVE's Bravo.  
SONG.  

WHy should we murmur, why repine,  
Phyllis, at thy Fate, or mine?  
Like Prisoners, why do we those Fetters shake;  
Which neither thou, nor I can break?  
There is a better way to baffle Fate,  
If Mortals would but mind it,  
And 'tis not hard to find it:  
Who would be happy, must be desperate;  
He must despise those Stars that fright  
Only Fools that dread the night;  
Time and chance he must outbrave;  
He that crouches is their Slave.  
Thus the wise Pagans ill at ease,  
Bravely chastised their surly Deities.    

The Expectation.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHy did I ever see those glorious eyes  
My famished Soul to Tantalise?  
I hoped for Heaven, which I had lately seen,  
But ne'er perceived the Gulf between:  
In vain for bliss did my presumptions seek,  
My love so strong  
I could not hold my tongue,  
My heart so feeble that I durst not speak.   

II.  
Yet why do I my constitution blame;  
Since all my heart is out of frame!  
'Twere better (sure) my passions to appease,  
With hope to palliate my disease:  
And 'twill be something like Tranquillity,  
To hope for that  
I must not compass yet,  
And make a Virtue of Necessity.    

CORIDON Converted.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHen Coridon a Slave did lie,  
Entangled in his Phyllis Eye,  
How did he sigh! how did he groan!  
How melancholy was his tone!  
He told his Story to the Woods,  
And wept his Passion by the Floods;  
Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, too too blame,  
Regarded not his sufferings, nor his flame.   

II.  
Then Coridon resolved no more  
His Mistress Mercy to implore;  
How did he laugh, how did he sing!  
How did he make the Forest ring!  
He told his Conquests to the Woods,  
And drowned his passions in the Floods:  
Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, less severe  
Would have had him, but he would none of her.    

The Humourist.  
SONG.  

I.  
GOod faith I never was but once so mad  
To dote upon an idle woman's Face,  
And then alas! my fortune was so bad  
To see another chosen in my place;  
And yet I courted her, I'm very sure,  
With Love as true as his was, and as pure.   

II.  
But if I ever be so fond again  
To undertake the second part of Love,  
To reassume that most unmanlike pain,  
Or after shipwreck do the Ocean prove;  
My Mistress must be gentle, kind, and free,  
Or I'll be as indifferent as she.    

Fading Beauty.  
SONG.  

I.  
AS poor Aurelia sat alone,  
Hard by a Rivulets flowery side;  
Envious at Nature's newborn pride,  
Her slighted self, she thus reflected on.   

II.  
Alas! that Nature should revive  
These flowers, which after Winter's snow  
Spring fresh again, and brighter show,  
But for our fairer Sex so ill contrive!   

III.  
Beauty like theirs a short-lived thing,  
On us in vain she did bestow,  
Beauty that only once can grow,  
An Autumn has, but knows no second Spring.    

A DIALOGUE. Chloris and Parthenissa.  C. 

WHy dost thou all address deny?  
Hard hearted Parthenissa, why?  
See how the trembling Lovers come,  
That from thy lips expect their doom,   P. 

Cloris! I hate them all, they know,  
Nay I have often told them so;  
Their silly Politics abhorred:  
I scorn to make my Slave my Lord:   C. 

But Strephon's eyes proclaim his Love  
Too brave, tyrannical to prove.   P. 

Ah Cloris! when we lose our power  
We must obey the Conqueror.   C. 

Yet where a Gentle Prince bears sway,  
It is no bondage to obey.   P. 

But if like Nero, for a while,  
With arts of kindness he beguile;  
How shall the Tyrant be withstood!  
When he has writ his Laws in blood!   C. 

Love, Parthenissa, all commands,  
It fetters Kings in charming bands;  
Mars yields his Arms to Cupid's darts,  
And Beauty softens savage hearts,   

Chorus.  
If nothing else can pull the Tyrant down,  
Kill him with kindness, and the day's your own.    

A DIALOGUE. Orpheus and Eurydice.  Orpheus. 

EVrydice, my fair, my fair Eurydice!  
My love, my joy, my life, if so thou be  
In Pluto's Kingdom answer me; appear  
And come to thy poor Orpheus.—   Eur. 

Oh I hear,  
I hear, dear Orpheus, but I cannot come  
Beyond the bounds of dull Elysium.  
I cannot—   Or. 

And why wilt thou not draw near?  
Is there within these Courts a Shade so dear  
As he that calls thee?   Eur. 

No, there cannot be  
A thing so lovely in mine eyes as thee.   Orph. 

Why comes not then Eurydice?   Eur. 

The Fates,  
The Fates forbidden, and these eternal Gates  
Never unbarred, to let a Prisoner go,  
Deny me passage; nay, grim Cerberus too  
Stands at the door—   Orph. 

But cannot then  
They that o'er Lethe go, return again?   Eur. 

Never, oh never!—   Orph. 

Sure they may, let's try  
If Art can null the Laws of Destiny.  
My Lays compacted Thebes, made every Tree  
Loosen its roots to caper; come let's see  
What thou and I can do.   Chor. 

Perchance the throng  
Of Ghosts may be enchanted with a Song,  
And moved to Pity.—   Eur. 

Hark the Hinges move.  
The Gate's unbarred, I come, I come, my Love.   

Chorus.  
'Twas Music, only Music, could unspel  
Helpless, undone Eurydice from Hell.    

The Bachelor's Song.  

LIke a Dog with a Bottle, fast tied to his tail,  
Like Vermin in a Trap, or a Thief in a Jail,  
Like a Tory in a Bog,  
Or an Ape with a Clog:  
Such is the man, who when he might go free,  
Does his liberty lose,  
For a Matrimony noose,  
And sells himself into captivity.  
The Dog he does howl, when the Bottle does jog,  
The Vermin, the Thief, and the Tory in vain  
Of the Trap, of the Jail, of the Quagmire complain.  
But welfare poor Pug! for he plays with his Clog;  
And though he would be rid on't rather than his life,  
Yet he lugs it, and he hugs it, as a man does his Wife   

The Second Part.  
SONG.  

HOw happy a thing were a Wedding  
And a Bedding,  
If a Man might purchase a Wife  
For a twelve month and a day;  
But to live with her all a man's life,  
For ever and for ay,  
Till she grow as grey as a Cat,  
Good faith, Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.     

An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love.  
A SONG.  

YE Cats that at midnight spit love at each other,  
Who best feel the pangs of a passionate Lover,  
I appeal to your scratches, and your tattered fur,  
If the business of Love be no more than to Purr.  
Old Lady Grimalkin with her Goosberry eyes,  
Knew something when a Kitten, for why she was wise;  
You find by experience the Love fit's soon o'er,  
Puss! Puss! lasts not long, but turns to Cat whore.  
Men ride many Miles,  
Cats tread many Tiles,  
Both hazard their necks in the Fray,  
Only Cats, when they fall  
From a House, or a Wall,  
Keep their feet, mount their Tails, and away.    

Advice to an Old Man of sixty three, about to Marry a Girl of sixteen.  
SONG.  

I.  
NOw fie upon him! what is Man,  
Whose life at best is but a span?  
When to an Inch it dwindles down,  
Ice in his bones, Snow on his crown,  
That he within his crazy brain,  
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,  
That he, when Harvest comes should blow,  
And when 'tis time to reap, go sow,  
Who in imagination only strong,  
Though twice a Child, can never twice grow young.   

II.  
Nature did those design for Fools,  
That sue for work, yet have no Tools.  
What fellow▪ feeling can there be  
In such a strange disparity?  
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,  
Love dwells not there, but Interest:  
Alas Good Man! take thy repose,  
Get Ribbon for thy Thumbs, and Toes.  
Provide thee Flannel, and a sheet of Lead,  
Think on thy Coffin, not thy Bridal Bed.    

The SLIGHT.  
SONG.  

I.  
I Did but crave that I might kiss,  
If not her Lip, at least her Hand,  
The coolest Lover's frequent bliss,  
And rude is she that will withstand  
That inoffensive liberty:  
She (would you think it?) in a fume  
Turned her about and left the Room;  
Not she, she vowed, not she.   

II.  
Well Chariessa then said I,  
If it must thus for ever be,  
I can renounce my slavery,  
And since you will not, can be free,  
(Many a time she made me die,)  
Yet (would you think't?) I loved the more,  
But I'll not take't as heretofore,  
Not I, I'll vow, not I    

The PENITENT.  
SONG.  

I.  
HAd I but known some years ago  
What wretched Lovers undergo,  
The tempests and the storms that rise  
From their Beloved's dangerous eyes,  
With how much torment they endure  
That Ague, and that Calenture;  
Long since I had my error seen,  
Long since repent of my sin:  
Too late the Soldier dreads the Trumpets sound  
That newly has received his mortal wound.   

II.  
But so adventurous was I  
My Fortunes all alone to try,  
Needs must I kiss the burning light,  
Because it shined, because 'twas bright,  
My heart with youthful heat on fire,  
I thought some God did me inspire;  
And that blind zeal emboldened me,  
T' attempt Althaea's Deity.  
Surely those happy Powers that dwell above,  
Or never courted, or enjoyed their love.    

The Defiance.  
SONG.  

I.  
BE not too proud, imperious Dame,  
Your charms are transitory things,  
May melt, while you at Heaven aim,  
Like Icarus' Waxed Wings;  
And you a part in his misfortune bear,  
Drowned in a briny Ocean of despair.   

II.  
You think your beauties are above  
The Poet's Brain, and Painter's Hand,  
As if upon the Throne of Love  
You only should the World command:  
Yet know, though you presume your title true,  
There are pretenders, that will Rival you.   

III.  
There's an experienced Rebel, Time,  
And in his Squadrons Poverty;  
There's Age that brings along with him  
A terrible Artillery:  
And if against all these thou keep'st thy Crown,  
Th'Usurper Death will make thee lay it down.    

The surrender.  
SONG.  

I Yield, I yield! Divine Althaea, see  
How prostrate at thy feet I bow,  
Fond in love with my Captivity,  
So weak am I, so mighty thou!  
Not long ago I could defy,  
Armed with Wine and Company,  
Beauty's whole Artillery:  
Quite vanquished now by thy miraculous Charms,  
Here fair, Althaea, take my Arms,  
For sure he cannot be of Humane Race,  
That can resist so bright, so sweet a Face.    

The WHIM.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHy so serious, why so grave?  
Man of business, why so muddy?  
Thyself from Chance thou canst not save  
With all thy care and study.  
Look merrily then, and take thy repose;  
For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn,  
Since the World was as bad before thou wert born,  
And when it will mend who knows?  
And a thousand year hence 'tis all one,  
If thou layest on a Dunghill, or satst on a Throne.   

II.  
To be troubled, to be sad,  
Carking Mortal 'tis a folly,  
For a pound of Pleasure's not so bad  
As an ounce of Melancholy:  
Since all our lives long we travel towards Death,  
Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way,  
'Tis but dying at last; in our Race let us stay,  
And we shan't be so soon out of breath.  
Sat the Comedy out, and that done,  
When the Play's at an end, let the Curtain fall down.    

The RENEGADO.  
SONG.  

I.  
Removed from fair Vrania's eyes  
Into a Village far away:  
Fond Astrophil began to say,  
Thy Charms Urania I despise;  
Go bid some other Shepherd for thee die,  
That never understood thy Tyranny.   

II.  
Returned at length the amorous Swain,  
Soon as he saw his Deity,  
Adored again, and bowed his knee,  
Became her Slave, and wore her Chain.  
The Needle thus that motionless did lie,  
Trembles, and moves, when the loved Loadstone's nigh.    

PHYLLIS withdrawn.  

I.  
I Did see her, and she's snatched away,  
I find I did but happy seem;  
So small a while did my contentments stay,  
As short and pleasant as a dream:  
Yet such are all our satisfactions here,  
They raise our hopes, and them they disappear.   

II.  
Ill natured Stars, that evermore conspire  
To quench poor Strephon's flame,  
To stop the progress of his swift desire,  
And leave him but an Aery Name;  
Why art thou doomed (of no pretences proud)  
Ixion-like thus to embrace a Cloud?   

III.  
Yet why should Strephon murmur, why complain,  
Or envy Phyllis her delight,  
Why should her pleasures be to him a pain,  
Easier perhaps out of his sight?  
No, Strephon, no! If Phyllis happy be,  
Thou shouldst rejoice, what e'er becomes of Thee.   

iv  
Amidst the charming Glories of the Spring  
In pleasant Fields and goodly Bowers  
Indulgent Nature seems concerned to bring  
All that may bless her innocent hours,  
While thy disastrous Fate has tied thee down  
To all the noise and tumult of the Town.   

V  
Strephon that for himself expects no good  
To Phyllis wishes every where,  
A long serenity without a Cloud,  
Sweet as these smiles of th' Infant year.  
May Halcyons in her bosom build their Nest,  
What ever storms shall discompose my Breast.    

The Malcontent.  
SONG.  

PHyllis, O Phyllis! Thou art fond vain,  
My wavering thoughts thus to molest,  
Why should my pleasure be the only pain,  
That-must torment my easy breast?  
If with Prometheus I had stolen fire,  
Fire from above,  
As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love,  
I might deserve Jove's ire,  
A Vulture than might on my Liver feed,  
But now eternally I bleed,  
And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame,  
Who freely gav'st the Fuel and the Flame.    

The Indifferent.  
SONG.  

PRithee confess for my sake, and your own,  
Am I the Man or no?  
If I am he, thou canst not do't too soon,  
If not, thou canst not be too slow.  
If Woman cannot love, Man's folly's great  
Your Sex with so much zeal to treat;  
But if we freely proffer to pursue  
Our tender thoughts and spotless love,  
Which nothing shall remove,  
And you despise all this, pray what are you?    

The HARBOUR.  
SONG.  

OTedious hopes! when will the storm be o'er!  
When will the beaten Vessel reach the shore!  
Long have I striv'n with blustering winds and tides,  
Clouds o'er my head, Waves on my sides!  
Which in my dark adventures high did swell,  
While Heaven was black as Hell,  
O Love, tempestuous Love, yet, yet at last,  
Let me my Anchor cast,  
And for the troubles I have undergone,  
O bring me to a Port which I may call my own.    

The Vnconcerned.  
SONG.  

NOw that the World is all in a maze,  
Drums, and Trumpets rending heavens,  
Wounds a bleeding, Mortals dying,  
Widows and Orphans piteously crying;  
Armies marching, Towns in a blaze,  
Kingdoms and States at six and seven:  
What should an honest Fellow do,  
Whose courage, and fortunes run equally low!  
Let him live, say I, till his glass be run,  
As easily as he may;  
Let the Wine, and the Sand of his Glass slow together,  
For Life's but a Winter's day.  
Alas from Sun to Sun,  
The time's very short, very dirty the weather,  
And we silently creep away,  
Let him nothing do, he could wish undone;  
And keep himself safe from the noise of Gun.    

The Immovable.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHat though the Sky be clouded o'er,  
And heavens influence smile no more?  
Though Tempests rise, and Earthquakes make  
The giddy World's foundation shake?  
A gallant breast contemns the feeble blow  
Of angry Gods, and scorns what Fate can do.   

II.  
What if Alarms sounded be,  
And we must face our Enemy,  
If Cannons bellow out a death,  
Or Trumpets woe away our breath!  
'Tis brave amidst the glittering Throng to die,  
Nay, Sampson-like, to fall with Company.   

III.  
Then let the Swordman domineer,  
Ican, nor Pike, nor Musket fear;  
Clog me with Chains, your envies tyre,  
For when I will, I can expire;  
And when the puling sit of Life is gone,  
The worst that cruel man can do, is done.    

The WISH.  
SONG.  

I.  
NOt to the Hills where Cedars move  
Their cloudy head, not to the Grove  
Of Myrtles in th' Elysian shade,  
Nor Tempe which the Poets made;  
Not on the spicy Mountains play;  
Or travel to Arabia:  
I aim not at the careful Throne,  
Which Fortune's darlings sit upon;  
No, no, the best this fickle world can give,  
Has but a little, little time to live,   

II.  
But let me soar, O let me fly  
Beyond poor Earth's benighted eye,  
Beyond the pitch swift eagle's tower,  
Above the reach of humane Power;  
Above the Stars, above the way,  
Whence Phoebus darts his piercing Ray.  
O let me tread those Courts that are,  
So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,  
As neither thou, nor I must ever know  
On Earth, 'tis thither, thither would I go.    

The CORDIAL. In the Year 1657.  
SONG.  

I.  
DId you hear of the News (O the News) how it thunders!  
Do but see, how the blockheaded Multitude wonders!  
One fumes, and stamps, and stairs to think upon  
What others wish as fast, Confusion.  
One swears weare gone, another just agoing,  
While a third sits and cries,  
Till his half-blinded eyes,  
Call him pitiful Rogue for so doing.  
Let the tone be what 'twill that the mighty Ones utter,  
Let the cause be what 'twill why the poorer sort mutter;  
I care not what your State-confounders do,  
Nor what the stout repiners undergo:  
I cannot whine at any alterations.  
Let the Swede beat the Dane,  
Or be beaten again,  
What am I in the Crowd of the Nations?   

II.  
What care I if the North and South Poles come together;  
If the Turk, or the Pope's Antichristian, or neither;  
If fine Astroea be (as Naso said)  
From Mortals in a peevish fancy fled:  
Rome, when 'twas all on fire, her People mourning,  
'Twas an Emperor could stand  
With his Harp in his hand,  
Sing and play, while the City was burning.    

Celadon on Delia singing.  

ODelia! for I know 'tis she,  
It must be she, for nothing less could move  
My tuneless heart, than something from above.  
I hate all earthly Harmony:  
Hark, hark ye Nymphs, and Satyr's all around!  
Hark how the baffled Echo faints; see how she dies,  
Look how the winged Choir all gasping lies  
At the melodious sound;  
See, while she sings  
How they droop and hang their wings!  
Angelic Delia, sing no more,  
Thy Song's too great for mortal ear;  
Thy charming Notes we can no longer bear:  
O then in pity to the World give o'er,  
And leave us stupid as we were before.  
Fair Delia take the fatal choice,  
Or veil thy beauty, or suppress thy Voice.   

His passion thus poor Celadon betrayed,  
When first he saw, when first he heard the lovely Maid▪    

The Advice.  
SONG.  

I.  
POor Celia once was very fair,  
A quick bewitching Eye she had,  
Most neatly looked her braided hair,  
Her dainty Cheeks would make you mad,  
Upon her Lip did all the Grace's play,  
And on her Breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.   

II.  
Then many a doting Lover came  
From seventeen till twenty one,  
Each told her of his mighty flame,  
But she (forsooth) affected none.  
One was not handsome, t'other was not fine,  
This of Tobacco smelled, and that of Wine.   

III.  
But t'other day it was my Fate,  
To walk along that way alone,  
I saw no Coach before her Gate,  
But at the Door I heard her moan:  
She dropped a tear, and sighing, seemed to say,  
Young Ladies marry, marry while you may!    

TO Mr. SAM. AUSTIN Of Wadham Coll. OXON, On his most unintelligible Poems.  
SIR,  

IN that small inch of time I stole, to look  
On th' obscure depths of your mysterious Book,  
(Heaven bless my eyesight!) what strains did I see!  
What Steropegeretick Poetry!  
What Hieroglyphic words, what all,  
In Letters more than Cabalistical!  
We with our fingers may your Verses scan,  
But all our Noddles understand them can  
No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand  
That in 
* The Devil's hand-writing in Queen's Coll. Library at Oxford.  Queen's College Library does stand.  
The cutting Hanger of your wit I can't see,  
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:  
Thus a black Velvet Casket hides a Jewel;  
And a dark woodhouse, wholesome winter Fuel;  
Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,  
By boxing up his newfound Rarities;  
We dread Actaeon's Fate, dare not look on,  
When you do scour your skin in Helicon;  
We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall  
Of your strong▪ Mortared Poems; nor can all  
The small shot of our Brains make one hole in  
The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win.  
Open your meanings door, O do not lock it!  
Undo the Buttons of your smaller Pocket,  
And charitably spend those Angels there,  
Let them enrich and actuate our Sphere.  
Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us,  
Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.  
Had you but stolen your Verses, than we might  
Hope in good time they would have come to light;  
And felt I not a strange Poetic heat  
Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,  
Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em,  
Because they're things Quibus lumen ademptum.  
I thought to have commended something there,  
But all exceeds my commendations far:  
I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,  
And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare.  
Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus,  
You merit more than our praise: as for us  
The Beetles of our Rhimes shall drive full fast in,  
The wedges of your worth to everlasting,  
My Much Apocalyptiqu' friend Sam. Austin.    

TO MY Ingenious Friend Mr. WILLIAM FAITHORN On his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving.  

Should I attempt an Elegy, or Frame  
A Paper-structure to secure thy name,  
The lightning of one Censure, one stern frown  
Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown,  
But this thy Book prevents that fruitless pain.  
One line speaks purelier Thee, than my best strain.  
Those Mysteries (once like the spiteful mould,  
Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his Gold.)  
Thou dost unfold in every friendly Page,  
Kind to the present, and succeeding age.  
That Hand, whose curious Art prolongs the date  
Of frail Mortality, and baffles Fate  
With Brass and Steel, can surely potent be,  
To rear a lasting Monument for thee:  
For my part I prefer (to guard the Dead)  
A Copperplate beyond a Sheet of Lead.  
So long as Brass, so long as Books endure,  
So long as neat wrought Pieces, Thou 'rt secure.  
A [Faithorn sculpsit] is a charm can save  
From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave.    

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de MONTLUC. To the Worthy Translator, CHARLES COTTON, Esq;  

He that would aptly write of warlike men,  
Should make his Ink of Blood, a Sword his Pen;  
At least he must their Memories abuse,  
Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse:  
All (Sir) that I could say of this great Theme  
(The brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem;  
Whose Laurels too much native verdure have  
To need the Praises vulgar Chaplets crave:  
His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do,  
Grappled with Enemies, and Oblivion too;  
Hewed his own Monument, and graved thereon,  
It's deep and durable inscription.  
To you (Sir) whom the valiant Author owes,  
His second Life, and Conquest o'er his Foes;  
Ill natured Foes, Time and Detraction,  
What is a Stranger's Contribution!  
Who has not such a share of vanity,  
To dream that one, who with such industry  
Obliges all the World, can be obliged by me.    

A Character of a BELLY-GOD: Catius and Horace.  Horace. 

WHence Brother Case, and whither bound so fast?   Ca 

O, Sir, you must excuse me, I'm in haste,  
I dine with my (Lord Mayor) and can't allow  
Time for our eating Directory now:  
Though I must needs confess, I think my Rules  
Would prove Pythagoras and Plato Fools.   Hor. 

Grave Sir, I must acknowledge, 'tis a crime  
To interrupt at such a nick of time;  
Tet stay a little Sir, it is no Sin;  
You're to say Grace ere Dinner can begin;  
Since you at food such Virtuoso are,  
Some Precepts to an hungry Poet spare.   Ca 

I grant you Sir, next pleasure ta'en in eating  
Is that (as we do call it) of repeating;  
I still have Kitchen Systems in my mind,  
And from my Stomach's fumes a Brain well lined.   Hor. 

Whence, pray Sir, learned you those ingenuous Arts,  
From one at home, or hired from foreign parts?   Ca 

No names Sir (I beseech you,) that's foul play,  
We ne'er name Authors, only what they say.   

1.  
‛ For Eggs choose long, the round are out of fashion,  
‛ Unsavoury and distasteful to the Nation:  
‛  since the brooding Rump, they're addle too,  
‛ In the long Egg lies Cock a doodle-doo.   

2.  
‛ Choose Coleworts planted on a soil that's dry,  
‛ Even they are worse for th' wetting (verily.)   

3.  
‛ If Friend from far shall come to visit, than  
‛ Say thou wouldst treat the Wight with mortal Hen,  
‛ Do ned thou forthwith pluck off the cackling head,  
‛ And impale Corpse on Spit as soon as dead;  
‛ For so she will be tough beyond all measure,  
‛ And Friend shall make a trouble of a pleasure.  
‛ Steeped in good Wine let her her life surrender,  
‛ O then she'll eat most admirably tender.   

4.  
‛ Mushrooms that grow in meadows are the best;  
‛ For ought I know, there's Poison in the rest.   

5.  
‛ He that would many happy Summers see,  
‛ Let him eat Mulberries fresh off the Tree,  
‛ Gathered before the Sun's too high, for these  
‛ Shall hurt his Stomach less than Cheshire Cheese.   

6.  
‛ Aufidius (had you done so't had undone ye)  
‛ Sweetened his morning's draughts of Sack with Honey;  
‛ But he did ill, to empty veins to give  
‛ Corroding Potion for a Lenitive.   

7.  
‛ If any man to drink do thee inveigle in,  
‛ First wet thy whistle with some good Metheglin.   

8.  
‛ If thou art bound, and in continual doubt,  
‛ Thou shalt get in no more till some get out,  
‛ The Muscle or the Cockle will unlock  
‛ Thy Bodies trunk, and give a vent to knock.  
‛ Some say that Sorrel steeped in Wine will do  
‛ But to be sure, put in some Aloes too.   

9  
‛ All shellfish (with the growing Moon increased)  
‛ Are ever, when she fills her Orb, the best:  
‛ But for brave Oysters, Sir, exceeding rare,  
‛ They are not to be met with every where.  
‛ Your Wainfleet Oysters no man will prefer  
‛ Before the juicy Grass-green Colchester.  
‛ Hungerford Crawfish, match me, if you can,  
‛ There's no such Crawlers in the Ocean.   

10.  
‛ Next for your Suppers, you (it may be think)  
‛ There goes no more to't, but just eat and drink;  
‛ But let me tell you Sir, and tell you plain,  
 dress'em well requires a man of brain:  
‛ His Palate must be quick, and smart, and strong.  
‛ For Sauce, a very Critic in the Tongue.   

11.  
‛ He that pays dear for Fish, nay though the best,  
‛ May please his Fishmonger, more than his Guest,  
‛ If he be ignorant what sauce is proper,  
‛ There's Machiavelli in th' Menage of a Supper.   

12.  
‛ For Swines-flesh, give me that of the Wild Boar,  
‛ Pursued and hunted all the Forest o'er;  
‛ He to the liberal Oak ne'er quits his love,  
‛ And when he finds no Acorns, grunts at Jove.  
‛ The Hampshire Hog with Pease & Whey that's fed  
‛ Stied up, is neither good alive nor dead.   

13.  
‛ The tendrels of the Vine are Salads good,  
‛ If when they are in season understood.   

14.  
‛ If Servants to thy Board a Rabbit bring,  
‛ Be wise, and in the first place carve a Wing.   

15.  
‛ When Fish and Fowl are right, and at just age,  
HE Feeders curiosity t' assuage,  
‛ If any ask, who found the Mystery?  
‛ Let him inquire no further, I am he.   

16.  
‛ Some fancy Bread out of the Oven hot:  
‛ Variety the Glutton's happiest lot.   

17.  
‛ Its not enough the wine you have be pure,  
‛ But of your Oil as well you ought be sure.   

18.  
‛ If any fault be in the generous Wine,  
‛ Set it abroad all night, and 'twill refine,  
‛ But never strained, nor let it pass through Linen,  
‛ Wine will be worse for that, as well as Women.   

19  
‛ The Vintner that of Malaga and Sherry  
‛ With damned ingredients patcheth up Canary,  
‛ With segregative things, as Pigeons eggs,  
‛ Straight purifies, and takes away the dregs.   

20.  
‛ a o'ercharged Stomach roasted shrimps will ease,  
‛ The Cure by Lettuce is worse than the Disease.   

21.  
 quicken Appetite it will behoove ye  
 feed courageously on good Anchovie.   

22  
‛ Westphalia Ham, and the Bolognia Sausage,  
‛ For second or third course will clear a passage,  
‛ But Lettuce after Meals! fie on't, the Glutton  
‛ Had better feed upon Ram-ally▪ Mutton.   

23.  
'Twere worth one's while in Palace or in Cottage,  
‛ Right well to know the sundry sorts of Pottage;  
‛ There is your French Pottage, Nativity broth,  
‛ Yet that of Fetter-lane exceeds them both;  
‛ About a limb of a departed Tup  
‛ There may you see the green herbs boiling up,  
‛ And fat abundance o'er the furnace float,  
‛ Resembling whale-oil in a Greenland Boat.   

24.  
‛ The Kentish Pippin's best, I dare be bold,  
‛ That ever Blew-Cap Costard-monger sold.   

25.  
‛ Of Grapes, I like the Raisins of the Sun.  
‛ I was the First immortal Glory won,  
‛ By mincing Pickled Herrings, with these Raisin  
‛ And Apples; 'Twas I set the world a gazing,  
‛ When once they tasted of this Hogan Fish,  
‛ Pepper and Salt enamelling the Dish.   

26.  
' 'Tis ill to purchase great Fish with great matter,  
‛ And then to serve it up in scanty Platter;  
‛ Nor is it less unseemly some believe,  
‛ From Boy with greasy fist drink to receive,  
‛ But the Cup foul within's enough to make  
HE squeamish creature puke and turn up stomach.   

27.  
‛ Then Brooms and Napkins and the Flanders Tyle,  
‛ These must be had too, or the Feast you spoil,  
‛ Things little thought on, and not very dear,  
‛ And yet how much they cost one in a year!   

28.  
‛ Wouldst thou rub Alabaster with hands sable,  
‛ Or spread a Diaper Cloth on dirty Table?  
‛ More cost, more worship: Come: be a la mode  
‛ Embellish Treat, as thou would do an Ode.  
Hor. O learned Sir, how greedily I hear  
This elegant Diatriba of good cheer!  
Now by ' all that's good, by all provant you love,  
By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove;  
I do conjure thy gravity, let me see  
The man that made thee this Discovery;  
For he that sees th' Original' s more happy  
Than him that draws by an ill favoured Copy,  
O bring me to the man, I so admire!  
The Flint from whence broke forth these sparks of fire,  
What satisfaction would the Vision bring?  
If sweet the stream, much sweeter is the spring.    

The Disappointed. Pindaric ODE.  

Stanza I.  
OFt have I pondered in my pensive heart,  
When even from myself I've stolen away,  
And heavily considered many a day,  
The cause of all my anguish, and my smart:  
Sometimes besides a shady grove,  
(As dark as were my thoughts, as close as was my Love,)  
Dejected have I walked alone,  
Acquainting scarce myself with my own moan.  
Once I resolved undauntedly to hear,  
What 'twas my Passions had to say,  
To find the reason of that uproar there,  
And calmly, if I could, to end the fray:  
No sooner was my resolution known  
But I was all Confusion.  
Fierce Anger, flattering Hope, and black Despair,  
Bloody Revenge, and most ignoble Fear,  
Now altogether clamorous were;  
My breast a perfect Chaos grown,  
A mass of nameless things together hurled,  
Like th' formless Embryo of the unborn world,  
Just as its rousing from eternal night,  
Before the great Creator said, Let there be Light.   

II.  
Thrice happy than are beasts, said I,  
That underneath these pleasant Coverts lie,  
They only sleep, and eat, and drink,  
They never meditate, nor think;  
Or if they do, have not th' unhappy art  
To vent the overflowings of their heart;  
They without trouble live, without disorder, die  
Regardless of Eternity.  
I said, I would like them be wise,  
And not perplex myself in vain,  
Nor by't th' uneasy Chain,  
No, no, said I, I will Philosophise!  
And all th' ill natured World despise:  
But when I had reflected long,  
And with deliberation thought  
How few have practised, what they gravely taught  
(Tho' 'tis but folly to complain)  
I judged it worth a generous disdain,  
And brave defiance in Pindaric Song.    

ON Mrs. E. MONTAGVEs Blushing in the Cross-Bath.  
A Translation.  

I.  
A Midst the Nymphs (the glory of the flood)  
Thus once the beauteous Eagle stood,  
So sweet a tincture ere the Sun appears,  
The bashful ruddy morning wears:  
Thus through a Crystal wave the Coral glows,  
And such a Blush sits on the Virgin Rose.   

II.  
Ye envied Waters that with safety may  
Around her snowy Bosom play,  
Cherish with gentle heat that Noble Breast  
Which so much Innocence has blest,  
Such Innocence, as hitherto ne'er knew  
What Mischief Venus, or her Son could do.  
Then from this hallowed place  
Let the profane and wanton Eye withdraw,  
For Virtue clad in Scarlet strikes an awe  
From the Tribunal of a lovely Face.    

Il Infido.  

I Breath 'tis true, wretch that I am, 'tis true;  
But if to live, be only not to die;  
If nothing in that bubble Life be gay,  
But all t' a Tear must melt away;  
Let Fools and Stoics be cajoled, say I:  
Thou that lik'st Ease and Love, like me  
When once the world says, farewell both, to thee,  
What hast thou more to do  
Than in disdain to say, Thou foolish world, Adieu!   

II.  
There was a time, Fool that I was! when I  
Believed there might be something here below,  
A seeming Cordial to my drooping Heart  
That might allay my bitter smart:  
I called it Friend:— but O th' Inconstancy  
Of humane things! I tried it long,  
It's Love was fervent, and I fancied strong:  
But now I plainly see,  
Or 'tis withdrawn, or else 'twas all Hypocrisy.   

III.  
I saw thy much estranged eyes, I saw  
False Musidore thy formal altered Face,  
When thou betray'dst my seeming happiness,  
And coldly took'st my kind Address:  
But know that I will live; for in thy place  
Heaven has provided for me now  
A constant Friend, that dares not break a vow,  
That Friend will I embrace,  
And never more my overweening Love misplace.    

Il Immaturo. EPITAPH.  

BRave Youth, whose too too hasty Fate  
His Glories did anticipate,  
Whose active Soul had laid the great design  
To emulate those Heroes of his Line!  
He showed the world how great a Man  
Might be contracted to a Span;  
How soon our teeming expectations fail,  
How little tears and wishes can prevail:  
Can life hold out with these supplies  
He'd lived still in his Parents eyes,  
And this cold stone had ne'er said, Here he lies.    

ON Mrs. Dove, Wife to the Reverend Dr. Henry Dove. EPITAPH.  

'tIs thus— and thus farewell to all  
Vain Mortals do Perfection call;  
To Beauty, Goodness, Modesty,  
Sweet temper, and true Piety.  
The rest an Angel's Pen must tell;  
Long, Long, beloved Dust farewel.  
Those blessings which we highliest prise  
Are soon ravished from our Eyes.    

Lucretius.  

SEd jam nec Domus accipiet te laeta, nec Vxor  
Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati  
Praeripere, & tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.    

Paraphrased.  

WHen thou shalt leave this miserable life,  
Farewell thy house, farewel thy charming Wife,  
Farewell for ever to thy Soul's delight,  
Quite blotted out in everlasting night!  
No more thy pretty darling Babes shall greet thee  
By thy kind Name, nor strive who first shall meet thee.  
Their Kisses with a secret pleasure shall not move thee!  
For who shall say to thy dead Clay, I love thee!    

On the Eminent Dr. EDWARD BROWN'S TRAVELS.  

THus from a foreign Clime rich Merchants come,  
And thus unlade their Rarities at home:  
Thus, undergo an acceptable toil,  
With Treasures to enrich their native Soil.  
They for themselves, for others you unfold  
A Cargo swollen with Diamonds and Gold.  
With Indefatigable Travels, they  
The trading World; the Learned you survey;  
And for renown with great Columbus vie,  
In subterranean Cosmography.    

ON POVERTY.  

I.  
OPoverty! thou great & wise man's School!  
Mistress of Arts! and scandal to the Fool!  
heavens sacred Badge, which th' Heroes heretofore,  
(Bright Caravans of Saints and Martyrs) wore,  
To th' Host Triumphant valiant Souls are sent  
From those we call the Ragged Regiment:  
Sure Guide to everlasting Peace above,  
Thou dost th' impediments remove;  
Th' unnecessary Loads of Wealth and State,  
Which make men swell too big for the straight Gate.   

II.  
Thou happy Port, where we from storms are free,  
And need not fear (false world) thy Piracy.  
Hither for ease and shelter did retire  
The busy Charles, and wearied Casimire;  
Abjured their Thrones, and made a solemn Vow,  
Their radiant heads to thee should ever bow.  
Why should thy Tents so terrible appear  
Where Monarches Reformadoes were?  
Why should men call that state of Life forlorn,  
Which God approves of, and which Kings have born?   

III.  
Mad Luxury! what do thy Vassals reap  
From a Life's long debauch, but late to weep!  
What the cursed Miser, who would fain Ape thee,  
And wear thy Livery, Great Poverty!  
The prudent Wretch for future Ages cares,  
And hoards up sins for his impatient Heirs!  
Full little does he think the time will come  
When he is gone to his long Home,  
The Prodigal Youth for whom he took such pains  
Shall be thy Slave▪ and wear thy loathed Chains.   

iv  
Fair handmaid to Devotion, by whose aid,  
Our souls are all disrobed, all naked laid,  
In thy true Mirror men themselves do see  
Just what they are, not what they seem to be.  
The flattering World misrepresents our face,  
And cheats us with a Magnifying Glass,  
Our meanness nothing else does truly show,  
But only Death, but only Thou,  
Who teach our minds above this Earth to fly,  
And pant, and breath for Immortality.    

Urania to her Friend Parthenissa. A DREAM.  

IN a soft Vision of the night,  
My Fancy represented to my sight  
A goodly gentle Shade;  
Methought it moved with a Majestic Grace,  
But the surprising sweetness of its Face  
Made me amazed, made me afraid:  
I found a secret shivering in my heart,  
Such as Friends feel that Meet or Part:  
Approaching nearer with a timorous eye,  
Is then my Parthenissa Dead, said I?  
Ah Parthenissa! if thou yet are kind,  
As kind as when like me, Thou mortal wert,  
When thou, and I had equal share in either's heart,  
How canst thou bear that I am left behind!  
Dear Parthenissa! O those pleasant hours,  
That blest our innocent Amours!  
When in the common Treasury of one Breast,  
All that was Thine or Mine did rest.  
Dear Parthenissa!— Friend! what shall I say?  
Ah speak to thy Urania!  
O envious Death! nothing but thee I feared,  
No other Rival could estrange  
Her Soul from mine or make a Change.  
Scarce had I spoke my passionate fears,  
And overwhelmed myself in tears:  
But Parthenissa smiled, and then she disappeared.    

On the Death of the Earl of ROCHESTER. Pastoral.  

I.  
A Son his deathbed gasping Strephon lay,  
Strephon the wonder of the Plains,  
The noblest of th' Arcadian Swains;  
Strephon the Bold, the Witty, and the Gay:  
With many a sigh and many a tear he said,  
Remember me, ye Shepherds, when I'm dead.   

II.  
Ye trifling Glories of this world, Adicu,  
And vain applauses of the Age;  
For when we quit this Earthly Stage,  
Believe me, Shepherds, for I tell you true;  
Those pleasures which from virtuous deeds we have,  
Procure the sweetest slumbers in the Grave.   

III.  
Then since your fatal Hour must surely come,  
Surely your heads lie low as mine,  
Your bright Meridian Sun decline;  
Beseech the mighty Pan to guard you home,  
If to Elysium you would happy fly,  
Live not like Strephon, but like Strephon die.    

In obitum illustrissimi, ingeniosissimique JOANNIS, Comitis ROFFENSIS, Carmen Pastorale, Versu Leonino redditum.  

I.  
LEcto prostratus Strephon moribundus,  
Planitierum Strephon decus  
Princeps curantium pecus,  
Audax, facetus, Strephon & jucundus,  
Lugens pastoribus sic est affatus  
Memimini mei cum migratus.   

II.  
Honores mundi futiles valete,  
Plaudite aevi & fucata,  
Mortali scenâ nam mutatâ  
Fidem veriloquo adhibete  
Voluptas profluens ex virtute  
Sold obdormiscit cum salute.   

III.  
Cum nulla in mortem sit medela,  
In terram capita cuncta incurvabunt,  
Soles micantes declinabunt,  
Pan supplicetor pro tutelâ  
Beatorum ut recipiant chori:  
Strephon non doceat vivere sed mori.    

ON Dr. WOODFORD'S PARAPHRASE ON THE CANTICLES.  

I.  
WEll! since it must be, so let it be,  
For what do Resolutions signify,  
When we are urged to write by Destiny?   

II.  
I had resolved, nay, and I almost swore,  
My bedrid Muse should walk abroad no more:  
Alas! 'tis more than time that I give o'er.   

III.  
In the Recesses of a private Breast,  
I thought to entertain your charming Guest,  
And never to have boasted of my Feast.   

iv  
But see (my friend) when through the world you go,  
My Laquy-Verse must shadowlike pursue,  
Thin, and Obscure to make a Foil for you.   

V  
'Tis true, you cannot need my feeble Praise,  
A lasting Monument to your Name to raise,  
Well-known in Heaven by your Angeliqu' Lays.   

VI  
There in indelible Characters they are writ,  
Where no pretended Heights will easy sit,  
But those of serious consecrated Wit.   

VII.  
By immaterial defecated Love,  
Your Soul its Heavenly Origin does prove,  
And in least dangerous Raptures soars above.   

VIII.  
How could I wish (dear Friend!) unsaid again  
(For once I ranked myself with tuneful men)  
Whatever dropped from my unhallowed Pen!   

VIII.  
The trifling Rage of youthful heat, once past,  
Who is not troubled for his wit misplaced!  
All pleasant Follies breed regret at last.   

X.  
While Reverend Donn's, and noble Herbert's Flame  
A glorious immortality shall claim,  
In the most durable Records of Fame,   

XI.  
Our modish Rhimes, like Culinary Fire,  
Unctuous and Earthy, shall in smoke expire;  
In odorous Clouds your Incense shall aspire.   

VII.  
Let th' Pagan-world your pious verse defy,  
Yet shall they envy when they come to die,  
Your wiser Projects on Eternity.    

LAODAMIA to PROTESILAUS. ONE OF OVID'S Epistles Translated.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Protesilaus lying Windbound at Aulis, in the Grecian Fleet, designed for the Trojan War, his Wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to him.  

HEalth to the gentle Man of War, and may  
What Laodamia sends, the Gods convey.  
The Wind that still in Aulis holds my Dear,  
Why was it not so cross to keep him here?  
Let the Wind raise an Hurricane at Sea,  
Were he but safe and warm ashore with me.  
Ten thousand kisses I had more to give him,  
Ten thousand cautions, and soft words to leave him:  
In haste he left me, summoned by the Wind,  
(The Wind to barbarous Mariners only kind.)  
The Seaman's pleasure is the Lover's pain,  
(Protesilaus from my bosom ta'en!)  
As from my faltering tongue half speeches fell,  
Scarce could I speak that wounding word Farewell,  
A merry Gale (at Sea they call it so)  
Filled every Sail with joy, my breast with woe,  
There went my dear Protesilaus—  
While I could see Thee, full of eager pain,  
My greedy eyes epicurized on Thine,  
When Thee no more, but thy spread Sails I view,  
I looked, and looked, till I had lost them too;  
But when nor Thee, nor them I could descry,  
And all was Sea that came within my eye,  
They say (for I have quite forgot) they say  
I straight grew pale, and fainted quite away;  
Compassionate Iphiclus, and the good old man,  
My Mother too to my assistance ran;  
In haste cold water on my Face they threw,  
And brought me to myself with much ado.  
They meant it well, to me it seemed not so,  
Much kinder had they been to let me go;  
My anguish with my Soul together came,  
And in my heart burst out the former flame:  
Since which, my uncombed locks unheeded flow,  
Undressed, forlorn, I care not how I go;  
Inspired with Wine, thus Bacchus' frolic rout  
Staggered of old, and straggled all about.  
Put on, put on, the happy Ladies say,  
Thy Royal Robes, fair Laodamia.  
Alas! before Troy's Walls my Dear does lie,  
What pleasure can I take in Tyrian die?  
Shall Curls adorn my head, an Helmet thine?  
I in bright Tissues, thou in Armour shine?  
Rather with studied negligence I'll be  
As ill, if not disguised worse than thee.  
O Paris! raised by ruins! may'st thou prove  
As fatal in thy War, as in thy Love!  
O that the Grecian Dame had been less fair,  
Or thou less lovely hadst appeared to Her!  
O Menelaus! timely cease to strive,  
With how much blood wilt thou thy loss retrieve?  
From me, ye Gods, avert your heavy doom,  
And bring my Dear, laden with Laurels home:  
But my heart fails me, when I think of War,  
The sad reflection costs me many a tear:  
I tremble when I hear the very name  
Of every place where thou shalt fight for fame;  
Besides th' adventurous Ravisher well knew  
The safest Arts his Villainy to pursue;  
In noble dress he did her heart surprise,  
With gold he dazzled her unguarded Eyes,  
He backed his Rape with Ships and armed Men,  
Thus stormed, thus took the beauteous Fortress in.  
Against the power of Love and force of Arms  
There's no security in the brightest Charms.  
Hector I fear, much do I Hector fear,  
A Man (they say) experienced in War,  
My Dear, if thou hast any love for me,  
Of that same Hector prithee mindful be;  
Fly him be sure, and every other Foe,  
Lest each of them should prove an Hector too.  
Remember, when for fight thou shalt prepare,  
Thy Laodamia charged thee, Have a care;  
For what wounds thou receiv'st, are given to her.  
If by thy valour Troy must ruined be,  
May not the ruin leave one Scar on thee;  
Sharer in th' honour, from the danger free!  
Let Menelaus fight, and force his way  
Through the false Ravishers Troops t' his Helena.  
Great be his Victory, as his Cause is good.  
May he swim to her in his Enemies Blood.  
Thy Case is different.— may'st thou live to see  
(Dearest) no other Combatant but me!  
Ye generous Trojans, turn your Swords away  
From his dear Breast, find out a nobler Prey,  
Why should you harmless Laodamia slay?  
My poor good natured Man did never know  
What 'tis to fight, or how to face a Foe;  
Yet in Love's Field what wonders can he do?  
Great is his Prowess and his Fortune too;  
Let them go fight, who know not how to woe.  
Now I must own, I feared to let thee go,  
My trembling Lips had almost told thee so.  
When from thy Father's house thou didst withdraw,  
Thy fatal stumble at the door I saw,  
I saw it, sighed, and prayed the sign might be  
Of thy return a happy Prophecy!  
I cannot but acquaint thee with my fear,  
Be not too brave,— Remember,— Have a care,  
And all my dreads will vanish into Air.  
Among the Grecians some one must be found  
That first shall set his foot on Trojan ground;  
Unhappy she that shall his loss bewail,  
Grant, O ye Gods, thy courage then may fail.  
Of all the Ships be thine the very last,  
Thou the last Man that lands; there needs no haste  
To meet a potent, and a treacherous Foe;  
Thou'lt land I fear too soon, tho' ne'er so slow.  
At thy Return ply every Sail and Oar,  
And nimbly leap on thy deserted shore.  
All the day long, and all the lonely night,  
Black thoughts of thee my anxious Soul affright:  
Darkness, to other women's pleasures kind,  
Augments, like Hell, the torments of my mind.  
I court even Dreams, on my forsaken Bed,  
False Joys must serve, since all my true are fled.  
What's that same airy Phantom so like thee!  
What wail do I hear, what paleness see?  
I wake, and hug myself, 'tis but a Dream.—  
The Grecian Altars know I feed their flame,  
The want of hallowed Wine my tears supply,  
Which make the sacred fire burn bright and high.  
When shall I clasp thee in these Arms of mine,  
These longing Arms, and lie dissolved in thine?  
When shall I have thee by thyself alone,  
To learn the wondrous Actions thou hast done?  
Which when in rapturous words thou hast begun▪  
With many, and many a kiss, prithee tell on,  
Such interruptions grateful pauses are,  
A Kiss in Story's but an Halt in War.  
But, when I think of Troy, of winds and waves,  
I fear the pleasant dream my hope deceives:  
Contrary winds in Port detain thee too,  
In spite of wind and tide why wouldst thou go?  
Thus, to thy Country thou wouldst hardly come,  
In spite of wind and tide thou wentest from home.  
To his own City Neptune stops the way,  
Revere the Omen, and the Gods obey.  
Return ye furious Grecians, homeward fly,  
Your stay is not of Chance, but Destiny:  
How can your Arms expect desired success,  
That thus contend for an Adulteress?  
But, let not me forespeak you, no,— set Sail,  
And Heaven be friend you with a prosperous gale!  
Ye Trojans! with regret methinks I see  
Your first encounter with your Enemy;  
I see fair Helen put on all her Charms,  
To buckle on her lusty Bridegroom's Arms;  
She gives him Arms, and kisses she receives,  
(I hate the transports each to other gives.)  
She leads him forth, and she commands him come  
Safely victorious, and triumphant home;  
And he (no doubt) will make no nice delay,  
But diligently do what e'er she say.  
Now he returns!— see with what amorous speed  
She takes the ponderous Helmet from his head,  
And courts the weary Champion to her Bed.  
We Women, too too credulous alas!  
Think what we fear will surely come to pass.  
Yet, while before the Leaguer thou dost lie,  
Thy Picture is some pleasure to my Eye;  
That, I caress in words most kind and free,  
And lodge it on my Breast, as I would Thee.  
There must be something in it more than Art,  
'Twere very Thee, could it thy mind impart;  
I kiss the pretty Idol, and complain,  
As if (like Thee) it would answer me again.  
By thy return, by thy dear Self, I swear,  
By our Love's Vows, which most religious are,  
By thy beloved Head, and those grey Hairs  
Which time may on it Snow in future years,  
I come, where e'er thy Fate shall bid Thee go,  
Eternal Partner of thy Weal and Woe,  
So thou but live, though all the Gods say No.  
Farewell,— but prithee very careful be  
Of thy beloved Self (I mean) of me.    

TO THE Excellent Master of MUSIC SIGNIOR PIETRO REGGIO, On His BOOK of SONGS.  

Tho' to advance thy Fame, full well I know  
How very little my dull Pen can do;  
Yet, with all deference, I gladly wait,  
Enthronged amongst th' attendants on thy State:  
Thus when Arion, by his Friends betrayed,  
Upon his Understanding- Dolphin played,  
The Scaly People their Resentments showed  
By pleased Levaltoes on the wondering 'slud.  
Great Artist! Thou deserv'st our loudest Praise  
From th' Garland to the meanest branch of Bays;  
For Poets can but Say, Thou makest them Sing,  
And th' Embrio-words dost to Perfection bring;  
By us the Muse conceives, but when that's done,  
Thy Midwifery makes fit to see the Sun;  
Our naked Lines, dressed, and adorned by Thee,  
Assume a Beauty, Pomp, and Bravery;  
So awful and majestic they appear,  
They need not blush to reach a Prince's ear.  
Princes though to poor Poets seldom kind,  
Their Numbers turned to Air, with pleasure mind.  
Studied and laboured though our Poems be  
Alas! they die unheeded without Thee,  
Whose Art can make our breathless Labours live,  
Spirit and everlasting Vigour give.  
Whether we writ of Heroes and of Kings,  
In Mighty Numbers, Mighty Things,  
Or in an humble Ode express our Sense  
Of th' happy state of Ease and Innocence;  
A Country Life where the contented Swain  
Hugs his Dear Peace, and does a Crown disdain;  
Thy dextrous Notes with all our Thoughts comply,  
Can creep on Earth, can up to Heaven fly;  
In Heights and Cadences, so sweet, so strong.  
They suit a Shepherd's Reed, an Angel's Tongue.  
— But who can comprehend  
The raptures of thy voice, and miracles of thy hand?    

EPITAPH On the Incomparable Sir JOHN KING IN THE Temple-Church.  

HEic juxta jacet  
Johannes King Miles,  
Serenissimo Carolo Secundo  
In Legibus Angliae Consultus,  
Illustrissimo Jacobo Duci Eboracensi  
Sollicitator Generalis.  
Qualis, Quantúsve sis Lector,  
Profundum obstupesce;  
Labia digitis comprime,  
Oculos lachrymis suffunde.  
En! ad pedes tuos  
Artis & Naturae suprema Conamina,  
Fatorum Ludibria!  
Non ità pridem  
Erat Iste Pulvis omnifariàm Doctus,  
Musarum Gazophylacium,  
Eloquentiam calluit, claram, puram, innocuam,  
Legibus suae Patriae erat Instructissimus,  
Suis charus, Principibus gratus, Omnibus urbanus,  
Sui saeculi  
Ornamentum illustre, Desiderium irreparabile.  
Hinc disce Lector,  
Quantilla Mortalitatis Gloria  
Splendidissimis decorata Dotibus.  
Dulcem soporem agite  
Dilecti, Eruditi, Beati Cineres!   
Obiit Junii 29. 1677. Aetat. 38.   

ON THE DEATH Of my Dear Brother Mr. RICHARD FLATMAN. Pindariqu' Ode.  

Stanza I.  
UNhappy Muse! employed so oft  
On melancholy thoughts of Death,  
What hast Thou left so tender, and so soft  
As thy poor Master fain would breathe  
O'er this lamented Hearse?  
No usual flight of fancy can become  
My sorrows o'er a Brothers Tomb.  
O that I could be elegant in Tears,  
That with Conceptions, not unworthy Thee,  
Great as Thy merit, Vigorous as Thy years,  
I might convey Thy Elegy  
To th' Grief, and Envy of Posterity!  
A gentler Youth ne'er Crowned his Parents cares,  
Or added ampler Joy to their grey Hairs:  
Kind to his Friends, to his Relations Dear,  
Easei to all.— Alas what is there Here  
For Man to set his heart upon,  
Since what we dote on most, is soon gone!  
Ah me! I've lost a sweet Companion  
A Friend, A Brother All in One!   

II.  
How did it i'll my Soul to see thee lie  
Struggling with pangs in thy last Agony!  
When with a manly courage thou didst brave  
Approaching Death, and with a steady mind  
(Ever averse to be confined)  
Didst triumph o'er the Grave.  
Thou mad'st not womanish moan,  
But scornedst to give one groan:  
He that begs pity is afraid to Die,  
Only the Brave despise their Destiny.  
But when I call to mind how thy kind Eyes  
Were passionately fixed on mine,  
How, when thy faltering Tongue gave o'er,  
And I could hear thy pleasing Voice no more;  
How, when I laid my Cheek to thine,  
Kissed thy pale lips, and pressed thy trembling Hand,  
Thou, in return, smil'dst gently in my Face,  
And hugg'dst me with a close Embrace;  
I am amazed, I am unmanned.  
Something extremely kind I said would say,  
But through the tumult of my Breast,  
With too officious Love oppressed,  
I find my feeble words can never force their way.   

III  
Beloved Youth What shall I do!  
Once my Delight, my Torment now!  
How immaturely a●t thou snatched away!  
But Heaven shines on thee with many a glorious ray  
Of an unclouded, and immortal day,  
Whilst I lie grovelling here below  
In a dark stormy Night.  
The blustering storm of Life with thee is o'er,  
For thou art landed on that happy Shore,  
Where thou canst Hope, or Fear no more;  
Thence with compassion thou shalt see  
The Plagues, the Wars, the Fires, the Scarcity,  
The Devastations of an Enemy,  
From which thy early Fate has set thee free;  
For when thou wentest to thy Long home,  
Thou wert exempt from all the ills to come,  
And shalt hereafter be  
Spectator only of the Tragedy  
Acted on frail Mortality.  
So some one lucky Mariner  
From shipwreck saved by a propitious Star,  
Advanced upon a neighbouring Rock looks down,  
And sees far off his old Companions drown.   

iv  
There in a state of perfect ease,  
Of never interrupted happiness,  
Thy large illuminated mind  
Shall matter of eternal Wonder find;  
There dost thou clearly see, how, and from whence  
The Stars communicate their influence,  
The methods of th' Almighty Architect,  
How he consulted with himself alone  
To lay the wondrous Cornerstone,  
When He this goodly Fabric did erect.  
There, Thou dost understand  
The motions of the secret hand,  
That guides th' invisible Wheel,  
Which here, we ne'er shall know, but ever seel;  
There Providence, the vain man's laughing stock,  
The miserable goodman's stumbling block,  
Unfolds the puzzling Riddle to thy eyes,  
And it's own wise contrivance justifies.  
What timorous Man would ned be pleased to die,  
To make so noble a discovery?   

V  
And must I take my solemn leave  
Till time shall be no more!  
Can neither sighs, nor tears, nor prayers retrieve  
One cheerful hour!  
Must one unlucky moment sever  
Us, and our hopes, us and our joys for ever!—  
Is this cold Clod of Earth that endeared Thing  
I lately did my Brother call?  
Are these the Artful Fingers that might vie  
With all the Sons of harmony  
And overpower them all!  
Is this the studious comprehensive head  
With curious Arts so richly furnished!  
Alas! Thou, and thy glories all are gone,  
Buried in darkness, and oblivion.  
'Tis so— and I must follow thee,  
Yet but a little while, and I shall see thee,  
Yet but a little while I shall be with thee,  
Then some kind friend perhaps may drop one tear for me.    

CORIDON On the death of his dear ALEXIS, Ob. Jan. 28. 1682/ 3. Pastoral SONG. Set by Dr. BLOW.  

ALexis! dear Alexis! lovely Boy!  
O my Damon! O Palaemon! snatched away,  
To some far-distant Region gone,  
Has left the miserable Coridon  
Bereft of all his comforts, all alone!  
Have you not seen my gentle Lad,  
Whom every Swain did love,  
Cheerful, when every Swain was sad,  
Beneath the melancholy Grove?  
His face was beauteous as the dawn of day,  
Broke through the gloomy shades of night:  
O my anguish! my delight!  
Him (ye kind Shepherds) I bewail,  
Till my eyes, and heart shall fail.  
'tis He that's landed on that distant shore,  
And you and I, shall see him here no more.  
Return Alexis! O return!  
Return, return, in vain I cry;  
Poor Coridon shall never cease to mourn  
Thy too untimely, cruel destiny.  
Farewell for ever charming Boy!  
And, with Thee, all the ttansports of my Joy!  
Ye powers above, why should I longer live,  
To waste a few uncomfortable years,  
To drown myself in tears,  
For what my sighs, and prayers can ne'er retrieve?    

A SONG ON Newyears-day before the King, Car. 2. Set by Dr. BLOW, 1682/3,  

My trembling Song! awake! arise!  
And early tell thy tuneful Tale,  
Tell thy great Master, that the Night is gone;  
The feeble Phantoms disappear,  
And now the New Tear's welcome Sun  
O'er spreads the Eastern Skies;  
He smiles on every Hill, he smiles on every Vale.  
His glories fill our Hemisphere;  
Tell him Apollo greets Him well,  
And with his fellow Wanderers agrees  
To reward all his labours, and lengthen his days.  
In spite of the politic follies of Hell,  
And vain contrivance of the destinies.  
Tell Him a Crown of Thorns no more  
Shall His sacred temples gore,  
For all the rigours of His life are o'er.  
Wondrous Prince! designed to show  
What noble minds can bravely undergo,  
You are our wonder, you our love;  
Earth from beneath, Heaven from above,  
Call loud for Songs of Triumph, and of praise,  
Their voices, and their souls they raise;  
IO PAEAN do we sing▪  
Long Live, Long Live the King!  
Rise mighty Monarch, and ascend the Throne,  
'Tis yet, once more your own,  
For Lucifer, and all his Legions are overthrown:  
Son of the Morning, firstborn Son of Light,  
How wert thou tumbled headlong down,  
Into the dungeons of Eternal night!  
While th' Loyal Stars of the Celestial Choir  
Surrounded with immortal beams,  
Mingle their unpolluted flames,  
Their just Creator to admire:  
With awful reverence they adore Him,  
Cover their faces, and fall down before Him;  
And night and day for ever sing  
Hosannach, Hallelujah to th' Almighty King!    

ON The Kings Return to Whitehall, after his Summer's Progress, 1684.  
SONG.  Set by Mr. Henry Purcell. 

From those serene, and rapturous joys  
A Country life alone can give,  
Exempt from tumult, and from noise,  
Where Kings forget the troubles of their reigns,  
And are almost as happy as their humble Swains,  
By feeling that they live:  
Behold th' indulgent Prince is come  
To view the Conquests of His mercy shown  
To the new Proselytes of His mighty Town,  
And men, and Angels bid Him welcome Home;  
Not with an Helmet, or a glittering Spear  
Does He appear.  
He boast no Trophies of a cruel Conqueror,  
Brought back in triumph from a bloody War;  
But with an Olive branch adorned,  
As once the long expected Dove returned.  
Welcome as soft refreshing showers:  
That raise the sickly heads of drooping flowers:  
Welcome as early beams of light  
To the benighted Traveller,  
When he descries bright Phosphorus from afar,  
And all his fears are put to flight.  
Welcome, more welcome does He come  
Than life to Lazarus from his drowsy Tomb,  
When in his winding sheet, at his new birth,  
The strange surprising word was said— Come forth!  
Nor does the Sun more comfort bring,  
When he turns Winter into Spring,  
Than the blessed Advent of a peaceful King.   

Chorus.  
With Trumpets and Shouts we receive the World's Wonder,  
And let the Clouds echo His welcome with thunder,  
Such a Thunder as applauded what mortals had done,  
When they fixed on His Brows His Imperial Crown.    

TO Mr. ISAAC WALTON. On his Publication of THEALMA.  

Long had the bright Thealma lain obscure,  
Her beauteous charms that might the world  
Lay like rough Diamonds, in the Mine, unknown  
By all the sons of folly trampled on,  
Till your kind hand unveiled her lovely face,  
And gave her vigour to exert her rays:  
Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows,  
Except thyself, who charitably shows  
The ready road to Virtue, and to Praise,  
The way to many long, and happy days;  
The noble art of generous Piety,  
And how to compass an Euthanasie!  
Hence did he learn the skill of living well,  
The bright Thealma was his Oracle;  
Inspired Her, he knows no anxious cares  
In near a Century of happy years;  
Easie he lives, and easy shall he lie  
On the soft bosom of Eternity.  
As as long Spencer's noble flames shall burn,  
And deep devotion shall attend his urn;  
As long as Chalk hill's venerable name  
With humble emulation shall enslame  
Posterity, and fill the Rolls of fame,  
Your memory shall ever be secure,  
And long beyond our short-lived praise endure;  
As Phydias in Minerva's shield did live,  
And shared that immortality he alone could give.    

Pastoral Dialogue. CASTARA and PARTHENIA.  Parthenia. 

MY dear Castara, t'other day  
I heard an ancient Shepherd say,  
Alas for me! my time draws nigh,  
And shortly, shortly I must die!  
What meant the man? for lo! apace  
Torrents of tears ran down his face.   Castara. 

Poor harmless Maid! why wouldst thou know,  
What known, must needs create thee woe?  
'Twill cloud the Sunshine of thy days,  
And in thy soul such trouble raise,  
Thou'lt grieve, and tremble, and complain,  
And say that all thy beauty's vain.   Parthenia. 

Ah me! sure 'tis some dreadful thing  
That can so great disorder bring,  
Yet tell me, prithee tell me, do,  
For 'tis some ease the worst to know.   Castara. 

To die, (Parthenia) is to quit  
The World, and the Sun's glorious light,  
To leave our flocks, and fields for ever,  
To part, and never meet again, O never!  
After that cruel hideous hour,  
Thou, and I shall sing no more;  
In the cold Earth they will thee lay,  
And what thou dotest on shall be Clay.   Parthenia. 

Alas! why will they use me so,  
A Virgin that no evil do?   Castara. 

Roses whither, Turtles die,  
Fair, and kind as Thou and I.   Chorus amb. 

Then, since 'tis appointed to the dust we must go;  
Let us innocently live, and virtuously do,  
Let us love, let us sing, 'tis no matter, 'tis all one,  
If our Lamps be extinguished at midnight or noon.    

CASTABELLA Going to Sea.  
SONG.  Set by Mr. JAMES HART. 

I.  
HArk hark! methinks I hear the Seamen call,  
The boisterous Seamen say,  
Bright Castabella, come away!  
The Wind sits fair, the Vessels stout and tall,  
Bright Castabella come away!  
For Time and Tide can never stay.   

II.  
Our mighty Master Neptune calls aloud,  
The Zephyrs gently blow,  
The Tritons cry you are too slow,  
For every Seanymph of the glittering Crowd,  
Has Garlands ready to throw down  
When you ascend your watery Throne.   

III.  
See, see! she comes, she comes, and now adieu!  
Let's bid adieu to shore,  
And to all we feared before;  
O Castabella! we depend on you,  
On you our better fortunes lay,  
Whose eyes and voice the winds and Seas obey.    

On the Death of my worthy friend Mr. JOHN OLDHAM. Pindaric Pastoral Ode.  

Stanza I.  
UNdoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar fate,  
Ah miserable Astragon!  
Thou art condemned alone  
To bear the burden of a wretched life,  
Still in this howling wilderness to roam,  
Whilst all thy bosom friends unkindly go,  
And leave thee to lament them here below.  
Thy dear Alexis would ned stay,  
Joy of thy life, and pleasure of thine eyes,  
Dear Alexis went away,  
With an invincible surprise;  
Th' angelic Youth early disliked this state,  
And innocently yielded to his fate;  
Never did Soul of a Celestial birth,  
Inform a purer piece of Earth:  
O! that 'twere not in vain,  
To wish what's past might be retrieved again!  
Thy dotage, thy Alexis then  
Had answered all thy vows and prayers,  
And crowned with pregnant joys thy silver hairs,  
Loved to this day amongst the living sons of men.   

II.  
And thou, my friend, hast left me too,  
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even Thou!  
Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke  
In the Records of her eternal book,  
Whose disregarded worth, ages to come,  
Shall wail with indignation o'er thy Tomb.  
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice,  
Should need a satire, that the frantic Age  
Might tremble at the lash of thy Poëtick rage.  
Th' untutored world in after times  
May live uncensured for their crimes,  
Freed from the dreads of thy reforming Pen,  
Turn to old Chaos once again.  
Of all th' instructive Bards, whose more than The. ban lyre  
Can savage souls, with manly thoughts inspire,  
Menalcas worthy was to live:  
Tell me ye mournful Swains,  
Say you his fellow-shepherds that survive,  
Has my adored Menalcas left behind  
On all these penfive Plains  
A gentler shepherd with a braver mind?  
Which of you all did more Majestic show,  
Or wore the garland on a sweeter Brow?   

III.  
But wayward Astragon resolves no more  
The death of his Menalcas to deplore,  
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn  
Is altogether blest.  
There, no clouds overwhelm his breast,  
No midnight cares shall break his rest,  
For all is everlasting cheerful dawn.  
The Poets charming bliss,  
perfect ease and sweet recess,  
There shall he long possess.  
The treacherous world no more shall him deceive,  
Of hope and fortune he has taken leave;  
And now in mighty triumph does he reign  
O'er the unthinking Rabbles spite  
(His head adorned with beams of light)  
And the dull wealthy fools disdain.  
Thriee happy he, that dies the Muse's friend,  
He needs no Obelisque, no Pyramid  
His sacred dust to hid,  
He needs not for his memory to provide,  
For well he knows his praise can never end.    

ON Sir JOHN MICKLETHWAIT'S MONUMENT In S. Botolphs-Aldersgate-Church, London.  

M. S.  
Heic juxta, spe plenâ resurgendi situm est  
Depositum mortale  
JOANNIS MICKLETHW AITE Equitis,  
Serenissimo Principi Carolo TWO á Medicinâ,  
Qui cum primis solertissimus, fidissimus, felicissimus,  
In Collegio Medicorum Londinensium  
Lustrum integrum, & quod excurrit  
Praesidis Provinciam dignissimé ornavit:  
Et tandem emenso aetatis tranquillae stadio,  
Pietate sincerâ,  
Inconcussâ vitae integritate,  
Benignâ morum suavitate,  
Sparsâ passim Philanthrophia  
Spectabilis;  
Miserorum Asylum,  
Maritus optimus,  
Parens indulgentissimus  
Suorum luctus,  
Bonorum omnium Amor, & Deliciae,  
Septuagenarius senex,  
Caelo maturus,  
Fato non invitus cessit  
IV Kal. Augusti Anno salutis MDCLXXXII.  
Caetera loquantur  
Languentium deploranda suspiria,  
Viduarum, ac Orphanorum  
Propter amissum Patronum profundi gemitus,  
Pauperúmque,  
Nudorum jam, arque esurientium  
Importuna Viscera,  
Monumenta, hoc marmore longé perenniora.  
Maerens posuit pientissima Conjunx.   

M. S.  
Heic juxtá jacet  
THOMAS ROCK Armg. Salopiensis,  
Vitâ functus Januarii 3. Aetat. 62. 1678.  
En Lector!  
Cinerem non vulgarem,  
Virum veré magnum,  
Si prisca fides, pietasque primaeva,  
Si amicitiae faedera strictissima,  
Si pectus candidum, & sincerum,  
Ac integerrima Vita,  
Virum veré magnum conflare poterint.  
En hominem Cordatum!  
Calamitosae Majestatis  
(Furente nuperâ perduellium rabie)  
Strenuum assertorem,  
Obstinalum Vindicem!  
En animae generosae quantillum Ergastulum!  
O charum Deo Depositum!  
Vestrûm undequaquàm Inopes,  
Vestrûm quotcunque Viri praestantiores,  
Dolorem inconsolabilem,  
Desiderium, in omne aevum, irreparabile!    

On the DEATH OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT: Pindaric Ode.  

STANZA I.  
MAn surely is not what he seems to be;  
Surely ourselves we over-rate,  
Forgetting that like other Creatures, we  
Must bend our heads to Fate.  
Lord of the whole Creation, MAN,  
(How big the Title shows!)  
Trifles away a few uncertain Years,  
Cheated with Hopes, and racked with Fears,  
Through all Life's little Span,  
Then down to silence, and to darkness goes;  
And when we Die, the Crowd that trembling stood  
 while struck with the terror of a Nod,  
Shake off their wont reverence with their Chains,  
And at their pleasure use our poor Remains.  
Ah mighty Prince!  
Whom lavish Nature, and industrious Art  
Had fitted for Immortal Fame,  
Their utmost Bounty could no more impart;  
How comes it that Thy venerable Name  
Should be submitted to my Theme?  
Unkindly balked by the prime skilful men,  
Abandoned to be sullied by so mean a Pen!  
Tell me, ye skilful men, if you have read  
In all the fair Memorials of the Dead,  
A Name so formidably Great,  
So full of Wonders, and unenvied Love,  
In which all Virtues, and all Graces strove,  
So terrible, and yet so sweet;  
Show me a Star in Honour's Firmament,  
(Of the first magnitude let it be)  
That from the darkness of this World made free,  
A brighter lustre to this World has lent.  
Ye men of reading, show me one,  
That shines with such a beam as His.  
Rupert's a Constellation,  
Outvies Arcturus, and the Pleïades.  
And if the Julian Star of old out-shone  
The lesser Fires, as much as them the Moon,  
Posterity perhaps will wonder why  
An Hero more divine than He  
Should leave (after his Apotheosis)  
No Gleam of light in all the Galaxy  
Bright as the Sun in the full blaze of Noon.   

III.  
How shall my trembling Muse thy Praise rehearse!  
Thy Praise too lofty e'vn for Pindar's Verse!  
Whence shall she take her daring flight,  
That she may soar aloft  
In numbers masculine and soft,  
In numbers adequate  
To thy Renowns Celestial height!  
If from thy Noble Pedigree,  
The Royal Blood that sparkled in thy Veins  
A low Plebeian Eulogy disdains,  
And he blasphemes that meanly writes of Thee.  
If from thy Martial Deeds she boldly rise,  
And sing thy valiant Infancy,  
Rebellious Britain after felt full well,  
Thou from thy Cradle wert a Miracle.  
Swaddled in Armour, Drum's appeased thy Cries,  
And the shrill Trumpet sung thy Lullabies.  
The Babe Alcides thus, gave early proof  
In the first dawning of his Youth,  
When with his tender hand the Snakes he slew,  
What Monsters in his riper Years he would subdue.   

iv  
Great Prince, in whom Mars and Minerva joined  
Their last efforts to frame a mighty Mind,  
A Pattern for Brave men to come, designed:  
How did the Rebel Troops before thee fly!  
How of thy Genius stand in awe!  
When from the sulphurous Cloud  
Thou in Thunder gav'st aloud  
Thy dreadful Law  
To the presumptuous Enemy.  
In vain their traitorous Ensigns they displayed,  
In vain they fought, in vain they prayed,  
At thy victorious Arms dismayed.  
Till Providence for Causes yet unknown,  
Causes mysterious and deep,  
Connived a while, as if asleep,  
And seemed its dear Anointed to disown;  
The prosperous Villainy triumphed o'er the Crown,  
And hurled the best of Monarches from his Throne.  
O tell it not in Gath, nor Ascalon!  
The best of Monarches fell by impious Power,  
Th' unspotted Victim for the guilty bled.  
He bowed, he fell, there where he bowed he fell down dead;  
Baptised Blessed Martyr in his sacred gore.   

V  
Nor could those tempests in the giddy State,  
O mighty Prince, thy Loyalty abate.  
Though put to slight, thou foughtest the Parthian way,  
And still the same appearedst to be  
Among the Beasts, and scaly Fry,  
A Behemoth on Land, and a Leviathan at Sea;  
Still, wert thou Brave, still wert thou Good,  
Still firm to thy Allegiance stood  
Amidst the foamings of the popular 'slud.  
(Cato with such a constancy of mind,  
Espoused that Cause which all his Gods declined.)  
Till gentler Stars amazed to see  
Thy matchless and undaunted Bravery,  
Blushed and brought back the murdered Father's Son,  
Lest thou shouldst plant him in th'Imperial Throne,  
Thou with thy single hand alone.  
He that forgets the Glories of that Day,  
When CHARLES the Merciful returned,  
Ne'er felt the transports of glad Sion's Joy,  
When she had long in dust and ashes mourned:  
He never understood with what surprise  
She opened her astonished eyes  
To see the goodly Fabric of the second Temple rise.   

VI  
When CHARLES the Merciful his Entrance made  
The Day was all around serene,  
Not one ill-boding Cloud was seen  
To cast a gloomy shade  
On the triumphal Cavalcade.  
In that, his first, and happy Scene,  
The Powers above foretold his Halcyon Reign,  
In which, like them, He evermore should prove  
The kindest methods of Almighty Love:  
And when black Crimes His Justice should constrain,  
His pious Breast should share the Criminals pain:  
Fierce as the Lion can he be, and gentle as the Dove.  
Here stop my Muse,— the rest let Angels sing,  
Some of those Angels, who with constant care  
To His Pavilion, near attendants are,  
A Lifeguard given him by th' Omnipotent King,  
Th' Omnipotent King, whose Character He bears,  
Whose Diadem on Earth he wears;  
And may he wear it long, for many, many years.   

VII.  
And now (illustrious Ghost!) what shall we say?  
What Tribute to thy precious memory pay?  
Thy Death confounds, and strikes all Sorrows dumb.  
Kingdoms and Empires make their moan,  
Rescued by thee from Desolation;  
In Pilgrimage hereafter shall they come,  
And make their Offerings before thy Tomb,  
Great Prince, so feared abroad, and so adored at home.  
Jove's Bird that durst of late confront the Sun,  
And in the wanton Germane Banners played,  
Now hangs her Wing, and droops her Head,  
Now recollects the Battles thou hast won,  
And calls too late to thee for aid.  
All Christendom deplores the loss,  
Whilst bloody Mahomet like a Whirlwind flies,  
And insolently braves the ill-befriended Cross.  
Europe in blood, and in confusion lies,  
Thou in an easy good old age,  
Removed from this tumultuous Stage,  
Sleepest unconcerned at all its Rage,  
Secure of Fame, and from Detraction free:  
He that to greater happiness would attain,  
Or towards Heaven would swifter fly,  
Must be much more than mortal man,  
And never condescend to Die.   
Dec. 13. 1682.   

POEMA In OBITUM ILLUSTRISSIMI PRINCIPIS RUPERTI LATINE REDDITUM Non carmine PINDARICO (ut illud) sed, (ut vocatur,) LAPIDARIO (Quod est medium inter Oratoriam & Poesin) Videsis Emanuelem Thesaurum, in Patriarchis. AUTHORE ANONYMO.  

I.  
PRoculdubiò non sumus quod videmur,  
Et nosmet ipsos aequo plus aestimamus,  
Obliti quod, veluti Creatis omnibus,  
Et nobis etiam Fato succumbendum.  
Homo, totius Terrarum Orbis Dominus,  
(Heu quàm superbé, quam fastuosè sonat!)  
Paucos & incertos illudit annos,  
Nunc spe deceptus, nunc metu cruciatus,  
Per angustum Vitae curriculum,  
Tandem ad taciturnas labitur Tenebras.  
Et quandò morimur, quam citò Turba tremula,  
Jamdudum Natûs terrore percita,  
Venerationem solitam (cum Catenis) exuunt  
Et, ad libitum despectas tractant Reliquias.  
Potentissime Princeps!  
Quem prodiga Natura, & Ars industria  
Ad celebritatem immortalem adaptâssent,  
Cui plus addere non valuit ipsius ultima Benignitas;  
Vnde venit quod Nomen tuum Venerandum,  
Themati meo prostitueretur?  
Per Viros Doctiores ingratè neglectum,  
Et indoctâ meâ Musâ deliniri relictum!   

II.  
Dicite mihi, Viri peritiores, si legistis  
In pulchris Mortuorum Catalogis,  
Nomen adeò formidatè Magnum,  
Tantis Mirâclis & inaemulo amore refertum;  
In quo omnes Charites & Virtutes concertârunt.  
Adeò terribile, & adeò dulce Nomen.  
Ostendire mihi Stellam in Firmamento Honoris  
(Sit etiam Primoe Magnitudinis)  
Quae à tenebris hujus Mundi erepta  
Majorem Mundo fulgorem praestitit;  
O Viri eruditi, ostendite mihi unam,  
Quae tam splendido Radio effulget.  
Rupertus, est, Constellatio,  
Praelucens Arcturum & Pleiades.  
Et si olim Stella Juliana praefulsit  
Ignes minores, quantum illos Luna,  
Posteritas forsitan mirabitur, quare  
Hero illos multo Divinior,  
Nullum (post ejus Apotheosin)  
In Galaxîa jubar relinqueret  
Sole clarius Meridionali.   

III.  
Quo pacto Musa mea tremens laudes tuas recitabit?  
Laudes tuas, etiam Pindari Carmine excelsiores!  
Vnde volatum sumet audacem,  
 in altum sublevetur  
In Numeris Masculis & Blandis,  
In numeris adaequatis  
Coelesti Famae tuae sublimitati?  
Si à Nobili tuâ Genealogiâ  
Sanguis Regalis in Venice tuis scintillans  
Humilem & Plebeiam dedignatur Eulogiam,  
(Nam de Te modice loquens Blasphemat)  
Si à claris Bellicis facinoribus incipiet,  
Et Virilia incunabula decantet,  
Rebellis jamdudum sentivit Britannia,  
Quantis Mirandis Cunae tuae claruere,  
Loricis fasciatus, Tympana lachrymas demulserunt,  
Et Tubarum clangores somnum allicierunt:  
Sic olim Alcides praematurum dedit specimen  
In primo Infantiae Diluculo,  
Angues teneribus collidens manibus  
Qualia in aetate provectâ superaret Monstra.   

IV.  
Auguste Princeps, in quo Mars & Minerva suas  
Vires contulere ingentem formare Animum  
Praeclaris Posteris in Exemplar designatum,  
Quoties Turmae Rebelles coram te profugerunt  
Genii tui Numine terrefactae?  
Cum de Nube Sulphureâ  
Fulminibus dedisti sonoris  
Leges tuas tremendas  
Perduellibus insolentibus,  
Frustra vexilla explicârunt perfida  
Frustra pugnârunt, frustra fuderunt preces,  
Armis tuis Victricibus attonitae.  
Donec Superi, causis adhuc incognitis  
Causis secretis & profundis  
Conniuêre paulisper, quasi obdormientes,  
Et peramatum Christum suum dereliquisse videbantur.  
In Coronam triumphavit prosperum Nefas  
Et Regum optimum à Solio deturbavit,  
Ne annuntietis hoc in Gath aut Ascalon,  
Monarcharum optimus impiâ vi corruit,  
Immaculata Victima pro Sontibus fudit sangninem;  
Inclinavit se, cecidit, ubi inclinaverat cecidit mortuus  
Martyr beatus in Sacro suo Cruore Baptisatus.   

V.  
Nec valuerunt Turbines in Anarchiâ istâ vertiginosâ,  
Invicte Princeps, fidelitatem tuam vibrare,  
Nam retrocedens pugnasti more Parthico,  
Et semper Idem remansisti,  
Inter pecora, & pisces squammosas,  
In terrâ Behemoth, in mari Leviathan:  
Infractus adhue & adhuc Bonus  
Fidelitati firmiter perseverasti  
Inter fremitus Fluctuum Popularium.  
Sic olim Cato pari animi constantiâ  
Causam desponsavit, quam Dii omnes repudiârunt.  
Donec Planetae benigniores, stupentes aspicere  
Imparilem & impavidam tuam fortitudinem,  
Erubuerunt, & Percussi Patris filium reduxerunt,  
Ne tu illum in Solio Imperiali collocares,  
Tu unicâ tuâ manu solus.  
Qui Solis istius splendores oblitus fuerit  
Quo Clementissimus redivit Carolus,  
Nunquam sentivit laetae Siônis gaudia  
Cum diu pulvere & cineribus lugisset;  
Nunquam intellexit quali Raptu  
Oculos extollebat attonitos  
Templi Secundi Structuram renascentem videns.   

VI  
Cum Carolus Clemens introitum fecit  
Caelum erat undique serenum,  
Nulla male-ominosa Nubes apparuit  
Vmbram dare tenebricosam,  
In Equitatum istum Triumphalem.  
In illa primâ & felici Scenâ  
Praedixere Superi Regimen ejus Halcyoneum  
In quo sicut illi, in aeternum probaret  
Benignissimas Methodos praepotentis Amoris.  
Et cum magna flagitia Vindictam ejus provocarent;  
Pectus ejus humanius Rei compateretur poenas.  
 Leo ferox, mitis ut Columba.  
Hic sileat Musa— quod reliquum est Angeli praedicent  
Angeli isti qui assiduâ curâ  
Tentorio ejus quam proxime inserviunt  
Samotophylaces à Rege Omnipotente delegati,  
A Rege Omnipotente, cujus Majestatem praefert,  
Cujus in terrâ gerit Diadema  
Et diu gerat per multos, multos annos.   

VII.  
Quid autem, (Illustris Anima) quid dicemus?  
Quale Tributum Piae tuae Memoriae solvemus?  
Mors tua obtundit & mutum reddit Dolorem.  
Regna & Imperia lugubres planctus faciunt  
Ab extremâ Ruinâ per te redempta.  
Posthac è longe Peregrinantes venient,  
Et ad Tumulum tuum Oblationes tribuent,  
O Magne Princeps foris verende, & domi venerate!  
Jovis Alice, qui dudum Solem tentare ausus est,  
Et in mollibus Germanorum lusit vexillis,  
Nunc alas demittit, & caput declinat,  
Nunc repetit Victorias à Te potitas,  
Et serò nimis tuum implorat auxilium.  
Orbis Christianus deplorat Damnum,  
Dum truculentus Mahomet Turbinis instar volat  
Et impotenter bacchatur in male-sustentatam Crucem.  
Sanguine & ruinâ volutans Europa jacet.  
Tu in tranquillâ & plenâ senectute  
Semotus à tumultuoso Mundi Theatro  
Rabiosâ ejus insaniâ intactus dormis,  
Famae securus & ab omni obtrectatione liber.  
Qui ampliorem attineret felicitatem,  
Vel usque ad Coelos ocyus volaret,  
Oportet esse plusquam Mortalem,  
Nec unquam prorsus dignari mori.    

On the much lamented DEATH OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN LORD King Charles II. OF BLESSED MEMORY. A Pindaric Ode.  

STANZA I.  
ALas! Why are we tempted to complain,  
That Heaven is deaf to all our cries!  
Regardless of poor Mortals miseries!  
And all our fervent Prayers devoutly vain!  
'Tis hard to think th' immortal Powers attend  
Human affairs, who ravish from our sight  
The Man, on whom such Blessings did depend,  
heavens, and Mankind's Delight!  
The Man! O that opprobrious word, The Man!  
Whose measure of duration's but a Span,  
Some other name at Babel should have been contrived  
(By all the vulgar World t' have been received)  
A Word as near as could be to Divinity,  
Appropriate to Crowned Heads, who never ought to Die;  
Some signal Word that should imply  
All but the scandal of Mortality.  
'Tis fit, we little lumps of crawling Earth,  
Derived from a Plebeian birth,  
Such as our frail Foresathers were,  
Should to our primitive Dust repair;  
But Princes (like the wondrous Enoch) should be free  
From Death's unbounded Tyranny,  
And when their Godlike Race is run,  
And nothing glorious left undone,  
Never submit to Fate, but only Disappear.   

II.  
But, since th' eternal Law will have it so,  
That Monarches prove at last but finer Clay,  
What can their humble Vassals do?  
What Reverence; What Devotion can we pay,  
When these, our earthly Gods, are snatched away?  
Yes, we can mourn, Yes, we can beat our breast,  
Yes, we can call to mind those happy days  
Of Pleasure, and of Rest,  
When CHARLES the Merciful did reign,  
That Golden Age, when void of cares,  
All the long Summer's day,  
We Atoms in His beams might sport, and play:  
Yes, we can teach our Children to bewail  
His fatal Loss, when we shall fail,  
And make Babes learn in after days  
The pretty way of stammering out His Praise,  
His merited praise, which shall in every Age  
With all advantage flame,  
In spite of Furies, or infernal Rage,  
And imp the Wings, and stretch the Lungs of Fame.   

III.  
Excellent Prince, whom every Mouth did bless,  
And every bended knee adore,  
On whom we gazed with ecstasy of Joy  
(A Vision which did satisfy, but never cloy)  
From whom we dated all our happiness,  
And from above could ask no more,  
Our gladsome Cup was filled till it ran o'er.  
Our Land (like Eden) flourished in His time,  
Defended by an Angel's Sword,  
A terror 'twas to those abroad,  
But all was Paradise to those within:  
Nor could th' Old Serpent's Stratagem  
Ever supplant His well-watched Diadem.  
Excellent Prince, of whom we once did say  
With a triumphant noise,  
In one united voice,  
On that stupendious Day,  
Long live, Long live the King!  
And Songs of IO PAEAN sing,  
How shall we bear this Tragical Surprise,  
Now we must change Long Live, for Here He lies?   

iv  
Have you forgot? (but who can Him forget?)  
You watchful Spirits that preside  
O'er sublunary things,  
Who, when you look beneath, do  deride,  
Not without cause, some other petty Kings;  
Have you forgot the greatness of His mind,  
The bravery of His elevated Soul,  
(But He had still a Goshen there)  
When darkest Cares around His Royal heart did wind,  
As Waves about a steady Rock do roll:  
With what disdain He viewed  
The fury of the giddy multitude,  
And bore the Cross, with more than manly fortitude,  
As He had learned in Sacred Lore,  
His mighty Master had done long before.  
And you must ever own  
(Or else you very little know  
Of what we think below)  
That when the Hurricanes of th' State were o'er,  
When in His noon-tide blaze He did appear,  
His gentle awful brow  
Added fresh lustre to th' Imperial Crown,  
By Birthright, and by Virtue, more than once His own.   

V  
He was!— but what He was, how great, how good,  
How just, how He delighted not in blood,  
How full of pity, and how strangely kind,  
How hazardously constant to His Friend,  
In Peace how glorious, and in War how brave,  
Above the charms of Life, and terrors of the Grave:  
When late Posterity shall tell:  
What He has done shall to a Volume swell,  
And every Line abound with Miracle  
In that prodigious Chronicle.  
Forgive (unbodyed Sovereign) forgive,  
And from your shining Mansion cast an Eye  
To pity our officious Blasphemy,  
When we have said the Best we can conceive.  
Here stop (presumptuous Muse!) thy daring flight,  
Here hid thy baffled head in shades of night,  
Thou too obscure, thy dazzling Theme too bright,  
For what thou shouldst have said, (with grief struck dumb)  
Will more emphatically besupplyed  
By the joint Groans of melancholy Christendom.    

TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY King James II.  

DRead Prince! Whom all the world admires and fears,  
By Heaven designed to wipe away our tears,  
To heal our wounds, and drooping spirits raise,  
And to revive our former Halcyon days,  
Permit us to assure ourselves, that You,  
Your happy Brother's fortune will pursue,  
For what great thing is that You dare not do?  
Whose long known, unexampled Gallantry  
So  has shaken th' Earth, and curbed the haughty Sea.  
And may those Stars, that ever o'er You shone,  
Double their influence on Your peaceful Throne.  
May You in honourable Deeds outshine  
The brightest Heroes of Your Royal Line,  
That when Your Enemies shall the Sceptre see  
Grasped in a hand enured to Victory,  
The Rebels may like Lucifer fall down,  
Or fly, like Phantoms from the rising Sun.   Extremum Hunc Arethusa mihi concede Laborem. Virgil.  

ODES OF HORACE PARAPHRASED BY THOMAS FLATMAN.  

BOOK II. ODE XIX. Being half foxed he praiseth BACCHUS.  

IN a blind corner jolly Bacchus taught  
The Nymphs, and Satyr's Poetry,  
Myself (a thing scarce to be thought)  
Was at that time a slander by.  
And ever since the whim runs in my head,  
With heavenly frenzy I'm on fire;  
Dear Bacchus let me not be punished  
For raving, when thou didst inspire.  
Extatically drunk, I now dare sing  
Thy bigot Thyades, and the source  
Whence thy brisk Wine, Hony, and Milk did spring,  
Enchanelled by thy Sceptres force.  
Bold as I am, I dare yet higher fly,  
And sing bright Ariadne's Crown,  
Rejoice to see bold Pentheus' destiny,  
And grave Lycurgus tumbled down.  
Rivers, and Seas thine Empire all obey,  
When thou thy standard dost advance,  
Wild Mountaineers, thy Vassals, trim, and gay  
In tune and time stagger and dance.  
Thou when great Jove began to fear his throne;  
(In no small danger than he was)  
The mighty Rhoecus thou didst piss upon,  
And of that Lion mad'st an Ass.  
'Tis true, thy Talon is not War, but mirth;  
The Fiddle, not the Trumpet, thine;  
Yet didst thou bravely lay about thee then,  
Great Moderator, God of Wine.  
And when to Hell in triumph thou didst ride  
O'er Cerberus thou didst prevail,  
The silly Cur, Thee for his Master owned,  
And like a Puppy wagged his tail.    

Book III. ODE VIII. To MAECENAS.  

LEarned Maecenas, wonder not that I,  
(A Bachelor) invoke that Deity,  
Which at this Feast the married rout adore,  
And yearly do implore.  
They pray the gods to make their burden light,  
And that their yoke-fellows may never fight:  
I praise them, not for giving me a Wife,  
But saving of my life.  
By heaven redeemed, I scaped a falling Tree,  
And yearly own that strange delivery,  
Yearly rejoice, and drink the briskest Wine,  
Not spill it at their shrine.  
Come (my Maecenas) let us drink, and thus  
Cherish that life, those Powers have given us:  
A thousand Cups to Midwife this new birth,  
With inoffensive mirth,  
No State-affairs near my Maecenas come,  
Since all are fallen that fought victorious Rome.  
By Civil broils the Medes, our foes, will fall.  
The weakest to the Wall.  
Our fierce, and ancient Enemy of Spain  
Is now subdued, and tamely bears our chain.  
The Savage Scythian too gins to yield,  
About to quit the field.  
Bear they the load of Government that can;  
Thou, since a private, and good natured man,  
Enjoy th' advantage of the present Hour,  
For why shouldst thou look sour?    

BOOK III. ODE IX. HORACE and LYDIA.  Hor. 

WHile I was lovely in thine eye,  
And while no soft embrace but mine  
Encircled thy fair Ivory neck,  
I did the Persian King outshine.   Lyd. 

While Horace was an honest Lad,  
And Chloe less than Lydia loved,  
Lydia was then a matchless Lass,  
And in a sphere 'bove Ilia moved.   Hor. 

But Chloe now has vanquished me,  
That Lute and Voice who could deny?  
Methinks might I but save her life,  
I could myself even dare to die.   Lyd. 

Young Calais is my Gallant,  
He burns me with his flaming Eye,  
To save the pretty villians life,  
‛ Twice over I could dare to die.   Hor. 

But say I Lydia loved again,  
And would new-braze Love's broken chain?  
Say I should turn my Chloe off,  
And take poor Lydia home again?   Lyd. 

Why then though He a fixed Star,  
Thou lighter than a Cork shouldst be,  
Mad, and unquiet as the Sea,  
Yet would I live, and die with thee.    

Book III. ODE XII.  

NO more Love's subjects, but his slaves they be,  
That dare not o'er a Glass of Wine be free,  
But quit, for fear of friends, their liberty.  
Fond Neobule? thou art lazy grown,  
Away thy Needle, Web, and Distaff thrown,  
Thou hop'st thy work by Hebrus will be done,  
A sturdy Youth, and a rank Rider he,  
Can run a race, and box most manfully,  
Swim like a Duck, and caper like a Flea.  
He hunts the Stag, and all the Forest o'er  
With strength and craft pursues the savage Boar:  
He minds the sport, and thou desir'st no more.    

Book III. ODE XVII. To AELIUS LAMIA.  

BRave Aelius, sprung from an Heroic line,  
Whose Pedigree in long descents do shine,  
That add'st new glories to the Lamian Name,  
And rearest fresh Trophies to their fame!  
Descended from Prince Lamus, whose command  
Reach from the Formian walls, o'er Sea and Land;  
Well was he known our Ancestors among,  
Where gentle Lyris slides along.  
Great as thou art, time will not thee obey:  
Tomorrow's like to be a blustering day,  
Some tempest too is threatened from the East,  
As by th' unlucky Crow I guest:  
'Tis dry to day! Now lay thy fevel in,  
‛ Ere the unwelcome Season do begin,  
Good Victtuals get, and frolic friends together,  
Armour of proof against ill weather.    

Book III. ODE XIX. To TELEPHUS.  

1.  
THou poorest on Helvicus, and studiest in vain,  
How many years passed betwixt King, & King's reign,  
To make an old woman even twitter for joy  
At an Eighty eight story, or the scuffle at Troy:  
But where the good wine, and best fire is  
When the cruel North wind does blow,  
And the Trees do penance in Snow;  
Where the Poet's delight and desire is,  
Thou pitiful Book-worm ne'er troublest thy brain.   

2.  
Come Drawer some Claret, we'll drown this new Moon.  
More Candles t' improve this dull night into noon:  
Let the Healths, let the House, and the Glasses turn round,  
But no Tears, except those of the Tankard abound.  
Come! here's a good health to the Muses,  
Three brimmers to the three times three,  
And one to each Grace let there be;  
The triple skulled Dog by't him that refuses.   

3.  
Let's be mad as March-hares, call the Minstrels and Singers,  
Strike up there!— kick that Rogue— he has Chilblains on's fingers,  
Let that whoreson our neighbour, on his bags that lies thinking,  
Bear a part in the storm, but not the calm of our drinking.  
Come! bring us a Wench, or two, prithee,  
Thou Telephus look'st pretty fair,  
And hast a good thick head of hair,  
Fetch him Chloe, she's buxom, and loves to trade with thee;  
Call Glycera to me, for I am one of her Swingers.    

Book III. ODE XX. To PYRRHUS.  

DRy Pyrrhus, little dost thou know,  
What 'tis to make a Whelp forgo  
His Lioness,— faith 'twill not do!  
It will be so.   

Nearchus understands his game,  
If he resolves to quit his fame,  
What's that to you? To save his name  
You'll purchase shame.   

If before Peace, you War prefer,  
Shoot at his Butt— you'll find from her  
A Rowland for your Oliver,  
That I dare swear.   

He is a gay, and sanguine Man,  
His Periwig the wind does fan,  
And she will hug him, now and than,  
Do what you can.    

Book III. ODE XXI. To his Wine-Vessels.  

KInd Brother Butt! as old, and brisk, as I,  
(For we had both the same Nativity,)  
Whether to mirth, to brawls, or desperate Love,  
Or sleep, thy gentle power does move;  
By what, or name, or title dignified;  
Thou needest not fear the nicest test to 'bide:  
Corvinus, health since we may not refuse,  
Give down amain thy generous juice.  
Corvinus tho' a Stoic, will not balk  
Thy charms, for he can drink, as well as talk.  
Old Cato, though he often were morose,  
Yet he would sometimes take a Dose.  
O Wine! thou makest the thick-skulled fellow soft;  
Easest the Statesman, vexed with cares full oft;  
Unriddlest all intrigues with a free Bowl,  
Thou arrant picklock of the Soul!  
Thou dost our gasping, dying hopes revive,  
To Peasants, souls as big as Princes, give;  
Inspired by thee they scorn their slavish fears,  
And bid their Rulers shake their ears.  
All this, and more (great Bacchus) thou canst do,  
But if kind Venus be assistant too,  
Then bring more Candles to expel the night;  
Till Phoebus puts the Stars to flight.    

Book III. ODE XXII. Upon DIANA.  

GEntle Diana, Goddess bright,  
Who midwiv'st Infants into light,  
The Mountain's Deity tripartite,  
And Queen of Night,  
To thee I consecrate my Pine,  
Henceforth it shall be ever thine,  
Yearly I'll offer at this shrine  
The blood of Swine.    

Book III. ODE III. To VENUS.  

'TIs true, I was a sturdy Soldier once,  
And bravely under Cupid's banners fought:  
Disbanded now, his service I renounce,  
My warlike weapons serve for nought.  
Here! take my Helmet, Sword and Shield,  
My Bow, my Quiver, my Artillery;  
Chloe has beaten me quite out of th' field,  
And leads me in captivity.  
Great Venus! thou that knowst what I have been,  
How able, and how true a friend to Smocks!  
Revenge my quarrel on th' imperious Quean,  
And pay her with a Pox!    

Book iv ODE I. To VENUS.  

NO more of War:— Dread Cytherea, cease;  
Thy feeble Soldier sues for Peace.  
Alas I am not now that man of might,  
As when fair Cinara bade me fight.  
Leave Venus, leave! consider my grey hairs  
Snowed on by fifty tedious years.  
My Forts are slighted, and my Bulwarks down:  
Go, and beleaguer some strong Town.  
Make thy attempts on Maximus; there's game  
To entertain thy Sword, and Flame.  
There Peace and Plenty dwell: He's of the Court,  
Ignorant what 'tis to storm a Fort:  
There found a charge; he's generous and young,  
He's unconcerned, lusty and strong:  
He of thy silken Banners will be proud,  
And of thy Conquests talk aloud,  
His bags are full: the Lad thou may'st prefer  
To be thy Treasurer in War.  
He may erect Gold Statues to thy name:  
And be the Trumpet of thy same:  
Thy Deity the zealous youth will then invoke,  
And make thy beauteous Altars smoke.  
With Voice, and Instruments thy praise shall sound;  
Division he, and Love the ground,  
There, twice a day the gamesome company  
Of Lads and Lasses in debvoir to thee,  
Like Mars' Priests their numbers shall advance,  
And sweetly sing, and nimbly dance.  
But as for me! I'm quite dispirited,  
I court nor Maid, nor Boy to bed!  
I cannot drink, nor bind a Garland on,  
Alas! my dancing days are done!  
But hold— Why do these tears steal from my Eyes?  
My lovely Ligurinus, why?  
Why does my faltering tongue disguise my voice  
With rude, and inarticulate noise?  
O Ligurin! 'tis thou that break'st my rest,  
Methinks I grasp thee in my breast:  
Then I pursue thee in my passionate dreams  
O'er pleasant fields, and purling streams.    

Book iv ODE X. To LIGURINUS, a beauteous Youth.  

'TIs true, thou yet art fair (my Ligurine)  
No Down as yet environs cheek, or chin:  
But when those hairs which now do flow, shall fall,  
And when thy Rosy Cheeks turn wan and pale:  
When in thy Glass another Ligurine thou  
Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shalt know;  
Then thou (despised) shalt sing this piteous Song;  
Why am I old? or why was ever young?    

Book iv ODE XI. To PHILLLIS.  

COme Phillis, gentle Phillis! prithee come,  
I have a Glass of rich old Wine at home,  
And in my Garden curious Flowers do grow,  
That languish to adorn thy brow.  
The Ivy, and the yellow Crowfoot there  
With verdant Chaplets wait to braid thy hair;  
With silver Goblets all my house does shine,  
And Vervain round my Altar twine,  
On which the best of all my flock shall bleed;  
Come, and observe with what officious speed  
Each Lad, and Lass of all my house attends  
Till to my roof the smoke ascends.  
If thou wouldst know why thou must be my guest,  
I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast,  
The Ideses of April, which have ever been  
Devoted to the Cyprian Queen.  
A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth  
Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth:  
For on that day Maecenas first saw light,  
Born for out wonder, and delight.  
My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace,  
Substitute me in Telephus his place,  
He's now employed by one more rich, more fair,  
And proudly does her shackles wear.  
Remember what became of Phaeton;  
Remember what befell Bellerophon;  
That by Ambition from his Father's Throne,  
And this, by Pegasus thrown down.  
Content thyself with what is fit for thee,  
Happy that couple that in years agree!  
Eat others, and accept my parity,  
And I will end my Loves with thee.  
Thou art the last whom I intent to court,  
Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport)  
Learn Pricksong, and my merry Odes rehearse,  
Many a Care is charmed by Verse.    

EPODE III. To MAECENAS.  

IN time to come, if such a crime should be  
As Parricide, (foul villainy!)  
A Clove of Garlic would revenge that evil;  
(Rare dish for Ploughmen, or the Devil!)  
Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!  
It works like Ratsbane in my maw.  
What Witch contrived this strat'gem for my breath!  
Poisoned at once, and stunk to death;  
With this vile juice Medea (sure) did 'noint  
Jason (her Love) in every joint;  
When untamed Bulls in yokes he led along,  
This made his manhood smell so strong:  
This gave her Dragon venom to his sting,  
And set the Hag upon the wing.  
I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am,  
Such drought on Puglia never came.  
Alcides could not bear so much as I,  
He  was wet, but never dry.  
Maecenas! do but taste of your own Treat,  
And what you gave your Poet, eat;  
Then go to Bed, and court your Mistress there,  
She'll never kiss you I dare swear.    

EPODE VI Against Cassius Severus, a revileful and wanton Poet.  

THou Village-Curr! why dost thou bark at me?  
A Wolf might come, and go, for thee.  
At me thou open'st wide, and thinkest that I  
Will bark with thee for company.  
I'm of another kind, and bravely dare,  
(Like th' Mastiff) watch my flock with care:  
Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast  
That might my darling folds molest:  
Thou (only in the noise thou makest) robust  
Leav'st off the chase; leapest at a crust,  
But have a care! for if I vent my spleen,  
I (for a shift) can make thee grin:  
I'll make thee (if iambics once I sing)  
To die, like Bupalus, in a string.  
When any man insults o'er me, shall I  
Put finger in mine eye, and cry?    

EPODE X. Against MAEVIUS a Poet.  

ANd art thou shipped, friend Doggerel!— get thee gone  
Thou pest of Helicon.  
Now for an Hurricane to bang thy sides  
(Cursed Wood) in which he rides!  
An East-wind tear thy Cables, crack thy Oars,  
While every billow roars.  
With such a Wind let all the Ocean swell  
As wasted Noll to Hell:  
No friendly Star o'er all the Sea appear  
While thou beest there;  
Nor kinder destiny there may'st thou meet,  
Than the proud Grecian Fleet,  
When Pallas did their Admiral destroy  
Returned from ruined Troy.  
Methinks I see the Mariner's saint, and thee  
Look somewhat scurvily:  
Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time  
To mind thy Grub street Rhyme,  
When the proud waves their heads to Heaven do rear  
Himself scarce free from fear:  
Well!— If the Gods should thy wrecked carcase share  
I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know  
I can be civil too.    

EPODE XI. To Pettius his Chamber-fellow.  

AH Pettius! I have done with Poetry,  
I've parted with my liberty,  
For Cupid's slavery.  
Cupid that peevisn God has singled out  
Me, from among the Rhyming rout,  
For Boys and Girls to flout:  
December now has thrice stripped every Tree,  
Since bright Inachia's Tyranny  
Has laid its chains on me.  
Now fie upon me! all about the Town  
My Miss I treated up and down,  
I for a Squire was known.  
Lord what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,  
To sigh, to sob, and to repine!  
For thy sake (Mistress mine!)  
Thou didst my Verse, and thou my Muse despise,  
My want debased me in thine eyes.  
Thou wealth, not wit, didst prise.  
Fuddled with Wine, and Love my secrets flew,  
Stretched on those racks, I told thee true,  
What did myself undo.  
Well!— plague me not too much, imperious Dame,  
Lest I blaspheme thy charming name,  
And quench my former flame.  
I can give others place, and see thee die  
Damned with their prodigality,  
If I on't, so stout am I.  
Thou knowst (my Friend) thus have I often said,  
When, by her sorceries misled,  
Thou badst me home to bed:  
Even than my practice gave my tongue the lie,  
I could not her cursed house pass by:  
I feared, but could not fly.  
Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad;  
Inachia such a face ne'er had,  
It is a lovely Lad.  
From his embraces I shall ne'er get free,  
Nor friends advice, nor infamy  
Can disentangle me:  
Yet if some brighter Object I should spy  
That, might perhaps debauch my Eye,  
And shake my constancy.    

EPODE XV. To his Sweetheart Neaera.  

IT was a lovely melancholy night;  
The Moon, and every Star shone bright;  
When thou didst swear thou wouldst to me be  
And do as I would have thee do:  
False Woman! round my neck thy arms did twine,  
Inseparable as the Elm, and Vine:  
Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure  
To me alone sincere and pure,  
Till Sheep and Wolves should quit their enmity,  
And not a Wave disturb the Sea.  
Treacherous Neaera! I have been too kind,  
But Flaccus can draw off thou'lt find;  
He can that face (as thou dost him) forswear,  
And find (it may be) one as fair:  
And let me tell thee, when my fury's moved,  
I hate devoutly, as I loved.  
But thou (blessed Gamester) whosoever thou be  
That proudly dost my drudgery,  
Didst thou abound in numerous Flocks, and Land,  
Were't heir to all Pactolus Sand;  
Though in thy brain thou borest Pythagoras,  
And carriedst Nereus in thy face,  
She'd pick another up, and shab thee off,  
And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.    

EPODE XVII. To Canidia.  

I Yield Canidia to thy Art,  
Take pity on a penitent heart:  
By Proserpina Queen of the Night,  
And by Diana's glimmering light,  
By the mysterious Volumes all,  
That can the Stars from Heaven call;  
By all that's sacred I implore  
Thou to my wits wouldst me restore.  
The brave Achilles did forgive  
King Telephus, and let him live▪  
Though in the field the King appeared,  
And War with Mysian bands prepared.  
When on the ground dead Hector lay,  
Exposed, to Birds, and Beasts a prey;  
The Trojan Dames in pity gave  
Hector an honourable grave.  
Ulysses' Mariners were turned to Swine,  
Transformed by Circe's charms divine;  
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,  
And strait the grunting mortals spoke:  
Each in his pristine shape appears,  
Fearless of Dogs to lug their Ears.  
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!  
Enough in Conscience I have born!  
My youth, and fresh complexion's gone,  
Dwindled away to skin and bone.  
My hair is powd'red by thy care,  
And all my minutes busy are.  
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,  
Yet have not I a breathing space!  
Wretch that I am! I now believe,  
No power can from thy charms reprieve:  
Now I confess thy Magic can  
Reach head, and heart, and un man Man.  
What wouldst thou have me say? what more?  
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o'er!  
Hercules' himself ne'er burnt like me,  
North ' flaming Mount in Sicily:  
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon  
Calcined into a Pumicestone!  
When will't th'ha'done? What must I pay?  
But name the sum, and I obey:  
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take  
An Hecatomb? or shall I make  
A bawdy Song t'advance thy Trade,  
Or court thee with a Serenade?  
Wouldst thou to Heaven, and be a Star?  
I'll hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.  
Castor to Helen a true friend  
Struck her defaming Poet blind;  
Yet he, good natured Gentleman,  
Gave the blind Bard his eyes again.  
Since this, and much more thou canst do,  
O rid me of my madness too!  
From noble Ancestors thy race,  
No vulgar blood purples thy face:  
Thou searchest not the Graves of th' poor,  
But Necromancy dost abhor:  
Generous thy breast, and pure thy hands,  
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands,  
And e'er thy Childbed-linnen's clean,  
Thou shalt be up and to't again.    

CANIDIA's Answer.  

GO— hang thyself:— I will not hear,  
The Rocks assoon shall lend an ear  
To naked Mariners that be  
Left to the mercy of the Sea.  
Marry come up!— Shall thy bold pride  
The mysteries of the Gods deride?  
Presumptuous fool! commit a rape  
On my repute, and think to scape?  
Make me a Town-talk? Well! e'er thou die  
Cupid shall vengeance take; or I.  
Go, get some Ratsbane!— 'twill not do,  
Nay, drink some Aquafortis too:  
No Witch shall take thy life away;  
Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay?  
No!— I'll prolong thy loathed breath,  
And make thee wish in vain for death.  
In vain does Tantalus espy  
Fruits, he may taste but with his Eye.  
In vain does poor Prometheus' groan,  
And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone:  
Long may they sigh, long may they cry  
But not control their Destiny.  
And thou in vain from some high wall,  
Or on thy naked Sword may'st fall,  
In vain, (to terminate thy woes)  
Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:  
For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,  
And make the Earth shake with my pride.  
Thinkest thou that I, who when I please  
Can kill by waxed Images,  
Can force the Moon down from her Sphere,  
And make departed Ghosts appear,  
And mix Love potions!— thinks thy vanity,  
I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?     
FINIS.