ELEGIES OF OLD AGE, MADE ENGLISH from the LATIN OF CN. CORNELIUS GALLUS. Juven. Sat. 10. — hoc pallidus optas; Da spatium vitae, multos da Jupiter, Annos: Sed quam continuis, & quantis longa Senectus, Plena malis!— LONDON, Printed for B. CRAYLE, at the Peacock and Bible, at the West-end of St. Paul's. 1688. Licenced, Octob. 25. 1687. Rob. Midgley. To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT RIDGEWAY, BARONET; EARL of LONDON-DERRY, AND BARON of GALLEN-RIDGEWAY, etc. My LORD, WHile these Elegies of Cornelius Gallus remained in their native dress, they were thereby secured from the Censures of all, as well the Learned, as Unlearned: from these, because they could not either read or understand them; and from the others, because they acquiesced in the Reputation which the Author had amongst the greatest of the Roman Wits. But since they are habited in the English Tongue, nor, 'tis likely, now so well adapted to every Mode of Expression in that Language, as they might have been by another Hand, I have presumed to shelter them under Your Lordship's Name for Protection; and this I am encouraged to from the sense I have of the many undeserved Favours Your Lordship (when applied to) affords to any Distress; for such is every one, who in this Age adventures to write, by opposing himself thereby to the usual Assaults, at least, of the most rigid and the severest Critics. But if this first Essay of mine in this Nature may at any time be thought worthy to entertain some few of Your Lordship's leisure Hours, and pass Your reading with any Approbation, I have my utmost end, and shall be altogether regardless of the ineffectual Criticisms of others, relying on Your Lordship's Judgement only, as a sufficient Defence for me against all the expected Machinations of the Wits, who, perhaps, may think it an Invasion upon the Particular Privilege of their Society, for any to write, who have not yet had the Fortune to be admitted amongst amongst. And now, My Lord, were my Talon in Panegyric, equivolent to what Your Worth requires, I should here take notice of (with all the advantageous Rhetoric they merit) Your Lordship's many noble Qualifications, and how well your Mind is proportioned to the Character you bear in the World, and that Your Lordship does not only inherit the Honours, but the Virtues of Your ancient Family, which are seldomer transmitted to Posterity from Ancestors than Estates. But since such a design in me would rather serve to injure then illustrate Your Lordship's Fame, I believe it more my Duty to be silent, then offend by the ill management of so great a Task. And shall therefore only now beg Your Lordship's pardon for coveting to myself the Honour of subscribing me, My LORD, Your Lordship's most obliged, and most devoted humble Servant, H. WALKER. The PREFACE. I Design not in this Preface either to undertake a Defence for my self against the Critics, or by any Insinuations to recommend my own endeavours to the World as valuable: Since none, no, not the best Authors could ever advantage themselves by Attempts of that Nature, nor did the worst ever want some to esteem and read their Writings. Thus the Great Dryden cannot escape Censure; nor is Withers himself without his Admirers. And therefore prepared by such Considerations, I am fortified against whatever Fate may happen to these following Verses; most of which (for Praestat otiosum esse quam nihil agere) were the effest of my idle hours at Sea, and the rest have been (for want of better) the employment of some of my vacant time a Shoar. If any shall think the fifth Elegy too loose, and for that reason be ready to reflect upon me, let them take that for my Apology which Marshal makes in his own behalf to Caesar, in one of his Epigrams: Innocuos Censura potest permittere Lusus Lascivia est nobis Pagina, Vita proba est. But if that will not serve, and the squeamish and nice will be offended, let them be angry with the Author, who in the Original takes greater liberty to himself in his Words then I have done in the Translation. And besides, I shall desire they would regard these Elegies, as they are designed to expose the sordid & inexcusable vices of lascivious old Men, in whom Lust is more odious than in the Young; for they being heated with the impetuous sallies of their youthful blood, are less culpable than those who have appetites, when Nature has scarce left them Health, or the pleasure of Taste. And Juvenal himself, when he lashes (in his tenth satire, the unreasonable Follies of those who wish to live to a great Age) lays no restraint upon his expressions. And that satire has been made public in English more than once by several Hands. However I believe the Authority of the Author, Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius, Horace himself, and all the Epigrammatists may be enough to defend what I have done. And if not, sure the Examples of the Poets of our own Nation and Times will: For, can I name one scarce, who has not either upon the Stage represented, or otherwise writ, what is full as much, if not more licentious than any thing in this Book? — Pictoribus, atque Poetis Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa Potestas. And we see daily in Pictures those Parts of the Body laid open to the view, which are else concealed: And therefore Poetry, which is a speaking sort of Painting, spares not (when occasion offers) to give the liveliest Representations of Nature or Vice; And this has been so customary in all Ages, that none will, sure, refuse the same privilege to those who write now. I doubt not, but to stand excused before the Ladies, because the Famous Wits of that fair Sex have seldom denied their Pens the liberty to be as luxurious in this way of writing as the Men, nor have they thought it either injurious, or scandalous to them, to publish many things as lascivious as this. Nor indeed, though they ought to be so in their lives and conversations, it is not so very necessary that Poets should be reserved and chaste in their Verses: and this is the Opinion of Catullus. Nam Castum esse decet pium Poetam Ipsum, Versiculos nihil necesse est. For the Business of a Poet is either on the one hand to incite Men to Virtue, and to do this by rendering it amiable with the most suitable Descriptions, and most elegant and heighthened Praises; or else, on the other hand, to deter them from Vice, and then he must not scruple to paint it in the most deformed shape, or fear to show it in the worst colours, to all the disadvantage imaginable. Now if these Arguments will not content some, who think it an Excellence to be too precisely rigid, I shall repeat to them the same words which Martial uses in his Epistle before the 1st Book of his Epigrams, Si quis tamen tam ambitiosè tristis est, ut apud illum in nullà paginà Latinè (or to adapt it more to the present purpose) Anglicè) loqui fas sit, potest Epistolà, vel potius Titulo contentus esse. And so farewell. THE LIFE OF CN. CORNELIUS GALLUS. CN. Cornelius Gallus was thought to have been Born about that same Year, when M. Terentius Varro (one of the most learned Romans) died, he is supposed, as to his Country, to be a Forojuliensian, and to have been instructed in the most necessary and useful Arts, for he was a long time familiarly conversant with one Caecilius Epirata, the great Grammarian of his time. Yet who his Father was, remains unknown, nor is that, with his own Name, transmitted to Posterity; only 'tis generally held, that he was born to a very small Estate, though (not unlikely) of a Noble Family, as Propertius seems to imply. Nec tibi Nobilitas poterit succurrere amanti, Nescit Amor priscis cedere Imaginibus. He was highly favoured and esteemed of Augustus Caesar, (to whom his great Parts and Wit recommended him) insomuch that he exalted him to very great Dignities, gave him the Governmnet of Egypt, and he was the first that ever ruled that Kingdom after it was reduced to a Roman Province: Caesar, before he sent him to Egypt, delighted so much in his Company and Conversation, that he never went any where without him; and this gave occasion to Virgil in his second Eclogue to lament himself, because Gallus being so much taken up with Caesar, could not afford him that full enjoyment he desired of his more familiar Friendship. Delicias Domini nec quid speraret habebat. The thing he so much coveted and wished for. O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida Rura Atque humiles habitare Casas— For Gallus finding the Honours and Preferments he received from Caesar more suitable to his Ambition then the humble Pleasures of a Country Life, could not be invited to quit the Splendour of the Roman Court, to take up with the more secure satisfaction of a Rural Retirement, though Virgil endeavoured to draw him to it by all the encouragements and advantages he proposed would accrue to him thereby; and in Despair of success, considering how disproportioned his offers were to the immediate favours he received from Augustus, cries out at last, Rusticus es Coridon, nec Munera curate Alexis, Nec, si Muneribus certes, concedat Jolas. Virgil, out of the great Friendship he had for Gallus, in Honour to him, had writ half the fourth Book of his Georgics, which Caesar (after his disgrace) commanded him to alter, and he turned it to the Fable of Aristaeus. But all the Poets that were his Cotemporaries had a very high value for him, unless some Critics, who say that Horace was his Adversary, have happened to be in the right. However, such were his qualefications, that Propertius could admire him, though he was his Rival in Cynthia, as he says in an Elegy writ upon that particular occasion. Sed pariter miseri focio cogemur amore, Alter in alterius mutua flere sinu; Quare, quid possit mea Cynthia, desine, Gall, Quaerere, non impunè illa rogata venit. Gallus was of a gay amorous temper, very fickle and changeable, as Propertius in another place tells him, Dum tibi deceptis augetur Fama Puellis, Certus, & in nullo quaeris Amore moram. But he was also very passionate, and impatient of any unkind usage from those Women to whom he at any time addressed his Love, and them would often come with his Complaints to Propertius, Ah mea contemptus quoties ad lumina curs, Quum tibi singulta fortia verba cadunt! Yet at last he grew famous for the mighty love he had for one Cytharis, a freed Woman of Volumina's, and a Whore, who forsook him (perhaps after he fell into disgrace,) and went away with one Antony to France; and it is not unlikely that Propertius means her, when he says, Haec erit illarum contempti poena doloris, Multarum miseras exigit una vices; Haec tibi vulgares istos compescet amores, Nec nova quaerendo, semper amicus eris. And a little after that he describes so extravagant a Passion of Gallus, to which he was an eye-witness, that it may be very reasonable to believe in all that Elegy the Woman of whom he speaks to be Cytharis. Vidi ego te tot vinctum languescere collo, Et flere injectis Galle diu manibus, Et cupere optatis animam deponere verbis, Et quae deinde celat amice Pudor. Non ego complexus potui deducere vestros; Tantus erat demens inter utrusque furor. However Gallus no more than others could be perfectly happy; and though he had been the great and only Favourite of Augustus Caesar, yet after he was gove to Egypt, those who envied him, gained their ends, and brought him more into Disgrace, and lower under the Emperor's Displeasure, than he was ever before raised in his Esteem. Whether he really deserved the mighty Misfortune that fell so heavy upon him, may be a question, since not always who merit best of Fortune are best used by her; and after Caesar was offended with him, he suffered none of his other Friends to venture at his justification, so fatal and dangerous is the Anger of an enraged Monarch; yet Virgil even then adventured to mourn his hard fate in his tenth Eclogue; and still loved him, though more secretly. Gallo cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas, Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit alnus. And though he designed the Dedication to him of his Books of Bucolics, and his Books of Georgics, yet he afterwards durst not do it for fear of Caesar, and therefore they fell to Pollio and Maecenas. Praetera duo nec tuta mihi valle reperti Capreoli— — Quos tibi servo. The things that were alleged against him wa● his having been in a Plot against Caesar, and tha● he had ruined a City in Egypt called Thebes, and several other Imputations. Ovid seems to imply, as if the freedom he used with his tongue, when heated with Wine, might be the reason of his losing Caesar's favour; for which he was banished, as some think. Non fuit opprobrio celetrasse Lycorida Gallo, Sed linguam nimio non teneisse mero. Nor is it unlikely that Ovid himself, giving th● same occasion in the same company, might hav● been partaker with him in equal sufferings. How he died, is uncertain; some think Caesar caused him to be put to death; others believe, that being banished, and his ambitious Soul not able to brook the Disgrace, or else apprehensive of the Malice of his Enemies amongst the Nobility, killed himself, as Ovid intimates. Sanguis, atque animae prodige Galle tuae. Others again believe his Mistress Cytharis, whom he called Lycoris, forsaking him, he was more impatient of the loss of her then his Government, and for that reason killed himself; and Virgil seems to lament him as having been a Victim to that unhappy Love of his. Quae Nemora aut qui vos saltus habuere Puellae Naiades, indigno cum Gallus amore periret. Yet Propertius may give occasion to believe that he was slain in some Battle. Gallum per medios ereptum Caesaris enses, Effugere ignotas non potuisse manus. But probably from both these expressions one may naturally gather, that Cytharis, to appease the jealousy of her new Lover, was a contriver of his Death, and hired some to kill him: He was reputed an excellent Poet, and was particularly curious in Elegies; in which way of writing he was not held to be inferior to either Tibullus or Propertius. We have an account that he writ six Books of Elegies, of which, perhaps, these six Elegies only are preserved to us; and he also translated one Euphorion a Chalcidonian Poet, which Virgil confirms. Ibo & Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu, Carmina Pastoris Siculi modulabor avena. He writ four Books of his Love to Cytharis, who he called Lycoris, but none of them are left; however Ovid takes notice of them, and numbers him amongst the Catalogue of the most Famous Poets of the World, particularly for that very Poem. Gallus & Hesperiis, & Gallus notus Eois, ●t sua cum Gallo, nota Lycoris erit. And thus much of his Life; and if I have done him that justice I aimed at in this Translation, I believe the Reader will not think his time lost in perusing it; and if I failed in it, I cannot help it now. Farewell. A Return of Thanks for the Translation of the following Elegies. WE thank you for your Verse, and hope to see From Age, & Impotence our Loves set free; Whilst ancient Fops read here their certain shame, They'll wiser grow, nor tempt again their Fame; Renounce their Amber, and the sacred Trust. They placed in Drugs, to prop their feeble Lust. Read this you Limberhams, who with delay, And pother, keep some abler Spark away; Who use your Mistress Chamber as your home, And set your Chariot up, where e'er you come▪ Playtime, and Park-time, at the Door it stays, You make no Visits, 'tis your Dwelling-place. Here, you may see, how great a Wretch is one, Who strives to please, when all his power is gone. Who can endure to see a Gallant thirsty; Old Ladies making Love, and Boys at fifty? Let Nestor waste his Itch, in Tricks of State, Or take it out, in rubbing of his Pate; Nor when Desire grows impotently strong, Beg some forbidden Sight, or luscious Song: Let every one perform their proper Part; Let Nature work, nor make it up with Art: Let Youth make Love, even Kisses call for Youth. The palsyed Head can never hit the Mouth. CORINNA. To the Ingenious TRANSLATOR OF CN. CORNELIUS GALLUS. SAD Nightingales melodiously complain, And pleasant Notes disclose their inward pain. The ancient Swan (whom in his vigorous state, Even fancied Jove left Heaven to imitate) Viewing the Streams, where he was wont to play, Warbles a Sigh, and sings his Life away. Thus Gallus here the Dread of Grief destroys, And sweetlier mourns, than others tell their Joys. His Sorrows, Sir, are so well tuned by You, The Readers pity, but they wonder too. You snatch the Wretch from his depressing Fate, And to the Envy of our Youth Translate. Old Age ●n him does no defects impart, But seems best suited to the charming Art; While gentle Maids, with his soft Witchcraft caught, Are fully pleased in a performing Thought. Virgil, methinks, dotes on his Friend anew; Of Caesar once, but since more Proud of You. In Fields below he beats his Reed again; Despairs afresh, and fills the Elysian Plain, With endless Pastorals of Gallus' Disdain. J. D. This ODE is thought to be writ by CN. CORNELIUS GALLUS, and in the Latin was added to the Six ensuing Elegies; Therefore it may not be very much amiss to insert it here in English. I. FAirest Lydia, my Delight, More than Milk, and Lilies white; Whose mixed Beauties do exceed The Damask Roses, and the Red; And seems more fair, and smooth to be, Then Goddesses of Ivory. II. Thy Locks, thy shining Locks unsold, Brighter far then burnished Gold. Thy panting Breasts, my Dear, unclose, Where Love delights to take Repose: Of which, I would, to be possessed, Give all the Treasures of the East. III. Open thy Planet-Eyes, my Dear, For, oh, my Fate is written there; Thence Love's pointed Arrows fly, Swift as Stars shot through the Sky; While above each Brow does show, Like a wanton Cupid's Bow. Show me, Maid, the blushing Red, Which thy lovely Cheeks overspread; Thy lovely Cheeks, which can outvie The most luxurious Tyrian die. IV. With warm and Amorous fury join, Thy softest Coral Lips to mine: Give me Kisses like a Dove, Full of sweetness, full of Love. But, oh, the Pleasure is so great, My Soul crowds up, the Joy to meet▪ And at my Mouth would force a way, Nor longer in the Body stay: My Heart is pierced with every Kiss, I cannot bear the mighty Bliss; I pant, I languish, saint, and die, With the transporting Ecstasy. V. Gods! what mighty Power is here? Thou drain'st my Veins of Life, my Dear. Hide those Beauties from mine Eyes, Eternal gazing won't suffice; That tempting fragrant Bosom close, Sweeter than the sweetest Rose; More perfumed, and richer sar, Then all th' Arabian Spices are. VI From every part of Thee arise Such Delights, as would surprise Jove himself, were he to be But so near as I to thee; And so revenge his Semile. VII. Hide, oh, hide those Hills of Snow, Which engage, and wound me so; Thy Beauty's Luxury is such, I cannot gaze, I cannot touch; The Pleasure is too exquisite, And I'm glutted with Delight. VIII. Oh cruel, and inhuman Fair, Wilt thou then regard my Care? To see me languish, wilt thou stay; Or kill me more, and go away? Gods— but whither art thou flying? Wilt thou leave me now I'm dying? Oh, forsake, forsake me not, Till I'm dead upon the spot. ELEGIES ON Old Age. ELEGY I. The ARGUMENT. In this Elegy, under the representation of an Old Man, the Poet seems to repine at Fate for imposing Life on him too long, and aggravates the Miseries of his Age, by giving a Character of himself, as he was when young, by the remembrance of those happy Days passed; after which he describes the several Diseases and inconveniences attending him now Old, concluding the Elegy with a reflection on the happiness of those who die before their Age becomes a burden to them. WHy, envious Age, dost with a lingering stay, My wasting Life to growing Pains betray, And the kind Stroke of welcome Death delay? Why wilt thou not enlarge my Soul to Ease, And the vexed Prisoner from his Jail release? To me 'tis worst of Punishments to live, And Death alone a peaceful Rest can give. Cold and Disease inhabit me all over, And what I was in Youth, I'm now no more; A trembling Faintness loosens every Limb, And dizzed Vertigoes through my Brains do swim: Light, which to all the World does Joy dispense, To me, unhappy Mourner, gives Offence; Even Mirth but serves my Sorrows to enrage; Mirth, which can Youthful Griefs so well assuage, Becomes th' Antiperistasis of Age. But then to live of mere Necessity, And wish for Death, is worse than 'tis to die. While graceful Youth remained, & vigorous sense, The wondering World praised my famed Eloquence. Oft with Success Poetic Lies I feigned, And sure Renown by pleasant Fictions gained: Oft the contended Laurel was my own, And the rich Bays around my Temples shone. But all these Pleasures, all these Joys are past, And a dead Numbness all my Vitals waste. Ah! what an uncouth part of Life remains To Aged Men, filled with Disease, and Pains. But Nature to my Youth excessive kind, With all these Gifts a graceful Beauty joined. Beauty, which of itself has Power to move, And claim from Men Respect, from Women Love. But I had Virtue too, which does outshine The brightest Gold dug out of Indian Mine, And renders Wit more noble and divine. If e'er invited by the opening Hound, I did the Woods with eager Chase surround; The frighted Game by me alone was slain, And shunned the vigour of my Arms in vain; Or when with Youthful heat and warmth inflamed I gave Pursuit to ruthful Beasts untamed. Not without praised Success did I employ My deadly Arrows, certain to destroy. Sometimes, when I beheld the brave Resort, Where active Wrestlers strove in manly sport. The bold Engagements I would often choose, And artful strength, with sinewy Limbs could use: Sometimes I have with practised Racers run, And oft the Goal from fleetest Coursers won. Buskined sometimes, in Sophoclean Verse, I could a Noble Tragedy rehearse. While trading Players blushed to be outdone In graceful Action, and a moving Tone. Nor did I lose the least degree of Praise, Because my Skill was good so many ways; But rather found it heightened my Desert, As various Works shows most the Master's Art If in one Grace alone we Pleasure find, When 'tis with other noble Virtues joined, 'twill more exalt, and more affect the Mind. But then a hardy Sufferance there was found, Which all my other manly Virtues crowned; A Sufferance which invincible remained, Against all Ills, and worst of Harms disdained; For unconcerned, from Injury secure, With a bare Front all Storms I could endure. Harmless as drops of Oil around my Head, The violent Rain was innocently shed; Even roughest Winds assaulted me in vain, Like sturdy Oaks, I could their Rage sustain. The Sun in Cancer, or in Capricorn, By me unprejudiced alike was born. And Tiber's colder Streams I durst invade In hoary Frosts, fearless, and undismayed: Nor did the doubtful Dangers of the Sea, From Voyages deter, or frighten me. To me short Sleeps could long Refreshments give, And moderate Meals my Hunger could relieve. Yet if a jolly drunken Friend I found, Inclined to pass the moving Goblets round, And spend the happy hours of some smooth day, In chase with brisk Wine, dull Cares away. My stronger Brains could undisordered bear, Of strongest Liquors, an unmeasured share. My sturdiest Guest with Ease I overcame, Though he, with others, gained a Victor's Fame. Had Father Bacchus ventured in for one, Not Father Bacchus had unconquered gone. Thus 'tis no very easy thing to find, Two Contrarieties within one Mind, By the soft tye of Concord's bands confined. And so 'tis famed, that the great Socrates, Possessing opposite Varieties, Was gaily Pleasant, and severely Wise. That he was skilled, and that he could excel, As well in drinking, as in reas'ning well. And Cato oft would rigid Thoughts decline, To sat his Senses with delicious Wine; Nought in itself is good, or bad, we know, And Circumstances only make things so: For what's performed with grace, with wit, and sense, Cannot be called a vice by no Pretence; 'Tis that can only Ill and Vicious be, That's slubbered over, and acted slovenlie. Unmoved, and fearless, Fate's worst spite I bore, And on my Brows no heavy Sorrows wore; Pomp and Adversity to me were one, No Grief for this, no Joy for that was shown. A generous Poverty I always loved, And Avarice by full Content removed. I all things had, because I nought desired, Enjoyed my own, my Neighbours ne'er required. Thou, doleful Age, alone dost me subdue, Who conquers all things else, must yield to you. To thee we run, all sading things are thine, And with thy Evil last all things decline. Thus in my Youth adorned Hetruria strove, With her best Beauties for my Nuptial Love; But Hymen's Fetters I unfit to bear, Did Liberty to golden Bonds prefer. When e'er I walked the stately Streets of Rome, Gay in my vernal Strength, and youthful Bloom Each longing Maid gazed with a wishing Eye, To see my prom'sing Parts as I passed by: Blushing a Nymph, my Visits would receive, Yet of her Joy many dear Tokens give; And smiling, into some fly Corner run, As if she would my grateful Kindness shun; Where, undiscovered, long she could not be, But laugh aloud to be found out by me; More pleased with being caught, than close concealed, And only hid, that she might be revealed. So I to all seemed pleasing, kind, and fair, A Lover only, nor would more declare; For kindly Nature had bestowed on me A modest, and a chaste Severity. No Beauty of sufficient force could prove, To make me with a wedded Life in love; Nor any Nymph appeared so fair to me, That I should buy her with my Liberty: However a Face might charming seem before, The thoughts of Hymen made it so no more. Thus while I was so nice in choice of one, Exactly perfect, I remained alone. The Short I loved not, and the Tall did hate; The Lean disdained, and loathed the fulsome Fat. I only liked the Medium of all these; The Middle still is best, and best does please. Soft Luxury does there the Body grace, And there does Love his sacred Temple place. I did i'th' Slender, not the Lean delight; Flesh satiates best the fleshy Appetite. As Body is by Body gently pressed, The height of Pleasure then must be confessed, When the kind Touch no meager Bones molest. The Pale, and clear Complexion I abhorred, Unless with Nature's Roses richly stored; For Venus claims that Flower as her own, Because in all her Votaries 'tis shown. The untried Virgin blushes forth a Rose, And modestly a Shame for loving shows. Experienced Lovers too this Flower bear, And in their Cheeks after Joys tasted wear. The golden Hair, and white declining Neck, Denote a Wit, and claim a just Respect. Black Brows, a Forehead large, and sparkling Eyes, Would oft my Heart with Love, and Awe surprise. I loved the Ruby, moist, and swelling Lip, Where I could Kisses taste, and Nectar sip. A long round Neck made Gold appear more fine, And Jewels with a double Lustre shine. But all these Pleasures, which to Youth were dear, Offends distasteful Age, but even to hear; For different Things, oblige our different Years, What once was decent, now a Crime appears. The wanton Boy loves light Inconstancy, And Age affects a settled Gravity. But graceful Youth arrived to manly growth, Remains the Golden Mean betwixt 'em both. This heedful Silence best becomes, and that Delights in noisy Mirth, and empty Chat. Time conquers all things, and we must submit To all the cruel Tyrannies of it. He suffers nought in certain Paths to range, But with himself does every Being change. Now therefore since my Age does burden me, And useless is, come Death and set me free; But oh! in vain I beg for Liberty! On what hard terms poor Mortals Life receive; Who, when oppressed, cannot themselves relieve, By Death at Pleasure, but must tortured live! 'Tis to the Miserable sweet to die, But courted Death from them does coily fly, And where unwelcome, there approaches nigh. But I, while living, tread in Paths of Death, And faintly draw a mere departing Breath: For Age to me the Use of Sense denies, And grants but an imperfect Exercise, Of all my Reasonable Faculties. My Hearing fails me, and does each day waist, Nor can my Gust relish the best Repast, With me even balmy Kisses lose their taste. My sunken Eyes can scarce discover day, The Sun methinks shines with a glimmering Ray. Now not the most transporting Bliss can be By my unactive Touch conveyed to me. No Pleasure more in grateful scents I take, For Smelling does my frigid Nose forsake, Me senseless thus, who'd not for Dead mistake! No use have I of former Memory, Even what I was is now forgot by me; As if of Lethe I had drunk, each day My Mind does with my languid Corpse decay. No Verses now I sing, that Pleasure's done, And my sweet tuneful Voice, alas, is gone. Delicious Poems I no longer feign, To please an Audience with my Comic Vein. No more thronged Theatres (while I complain) Applaud my Numbers, and my Tragic strain; But Avarice for Gold, and worldly Care, Draw me to scold at the litigious Bar; Which cruel Trouble makes me seem no more, Than the faint Image of myself before; For Deathlike Paleness now takes up that Place, Which White and Red before had in my Face; Like gathered Fruit my Age dries up my Skin, And shrinks, and stiffens every Nerve within. My Eyes, which heretofore with Love could smile, And yielding Hearts of tender Maids beguile; Now with continual flowing Rheums are sore, And day and night in Tears, their Fate deplore: Now brisly Woods for Brows impending grow, Which did before like Summer Garlands show. Strangely methinks, and most imperfectly, My Eyes, I know not how, in Torment see: For being dimmed with moist Rheumatic Tears, Each thing to me so frightfully appears; As what passed by without, is sadly seen By melancholy, and despairing Men, From the deep Cavern of a darksome Den. Thus poor Old Men by their own Horrors fed, Both to themselves, and others become dead; For who'd not guests, when Reason's gone, Life fled? If Books I take, with hopes in them to find, Something to ease, or to delight my Mind. 'Tis still in vain, for my deceitful Eyes Shows every Letter in a doubling size, And every Leaf grows dull, and magnifies. The clearest Light through Clouds I only see, For even those very Clouds are made by me: An obscure Dusk deprives me of the Day, And takes it unassisted by the Night away. Thus I amidst Tartarian Darkness dwell, And every Object represents my Hell. Who then would live such a cursed Wretch to be, Like me tormented to that vast Degree, To hope Relief from a worse Misery? I'm now possessed of every Ill Disease, Feasts, and Delights of Epicure displease, And that I still may live, to live I cease. Me, whom no Hardship could abuse of old, Want, or Excess of Food, of Heat, or Cold. Now what should nourish me, does cause my Pain, And even Food becomes my certain Bane. Would I be filled, eating creates my Grief; Would I abstain, even that gives no Relief. The Dish that pleased my Palate just before, Is now thrown by, and can delight no more. No Pleasure more in gentle Love I find, Though Venus' self should offer to be kind; Even Wine for me has no more Charms in store, Which can relieve the bad, enrich the Poor. Sick Nature but remains weak, and oppressed, And with its own worst Evil is distressed. Those Diet-drinks which cleansed me heretofore, And well-proved Physic, now can work no more. All which, to others sick, some Ease can give, Cannot the sad Disease of Age relieve: For how should Physic in that Case prevail, When even that does with the Body fail; And that same Cup from whence I Medicines sip, Receives Infection from my putrid Lip. These ineffectual Props are raised in vain, A fierce precipitating Ruin to sustain. No Shows or Triumphs can oblige my sight, I cannot now even counterfeit Delight. Beauty, the chiefest Magazene of Love, And a good Dress, which Beauty can improve; To Age becomes the object of his Rage, But even Life offends capricious Age; Nay Banquets, Singing, and gay Jests displease Unhappy those, whose Pleasure is Disease! What solid Bliss can unused Riches grant, For much, though I possess, yet more I want. To me 'tis Pain to touch my own Estate, And hoarded Gold a Crime to violate. So Tantalus does in deep Water stand, But for his Thirst cannot one drop command▪ I make myself but Custos of my own, For others to enjoy when I am gone. So was the Dragon in the Garden placed, To watch the golden Fruit, but not to taste. Thus I solicitous, with Care oppressed, To my teized Mind refuse a needful Rest; Still coveting, and craving still for more, I ne'er abate, if not increase my Store, And maugre all, imagine I am poor. Nor are these all the Plagues that wait on me, For I become my own worst Enemy. Doubtful, and trembling, credulous of Ill, And fearful of my own best Actions still. Yet in my Notions obstinately wise, I praise the past, the present Age despise; None learned but me, or skilful I believe, O● my own Prudence only positive, By wilful Doatage most myself deceive. Much do I talk, and talk it over, and over, And yet am troublesome by telling more. I drivel out a slav'ring Speech so long, You'd wish a present Palsy seized my Tongue. To Death y'are tired, yet unwearyed I Persist to kill you with garrulity. Oh miserable Age, which canst but give, Strength to Mankind to become talkative! In every Place my loud Complaints are heard; They're heard indeed, but never gain Regard. Nothing can please me, nothing can suffice; Now this I covet, that anon despise. Old-men to Infants we may well compare, Whose changing Wills as fond, and peevish are. When e'er I make myself a Witty Fool, And my grave Tail is very ridicule. If my tired Audience does but laugh aloud, I'm mightily obliged, and mighty proud; I smile with them, and flattering my Conceit, Heighten their Laugh with the same strains of Wit. A pleasing Joy overspreads my wrinkled Face, And I am tickled with my own Disgrace. Thus these are the First Fruits of Death, with these Down to the Grave I march by slow degrees. My Form, my Dress, my Colour, Shape, and Mien, Are not the same, which heretofore they've been. My Body now inclined, and awkward grown, Le's my large Coat slide from my shoulders down; And what was short before, seems now a Gown. I so contracted, and decreased appear, You'd think my very Bones deminish't were. I'm no more privileged to look on high, To contemplate the rich, and spacious Sky; But prone to Earth, from whence I came, I tend To show where I began, there I must end. Three Feet I use, but straight I shall use four, And brought to Childhood, crawl upon the Floor. To its first Principle each thing resolves, What ris' from Nought, to Nought again devolves. Hence 'tis that I, mouldering to Dust am found, With my old Staff poking the lazy Ground; And my short steps, moving with weakly pace, But slowly quitting the attractive Place; Seem thus to mutter my Complaints, and pray With belching Jaws to Earth against Delay. Mother, receive thy Child, pity his pain, And in thy Bosom cherish me again, For hardly can my Legs their Load sustain. My loathsome Figure now moves no Delight, And my sad ghastly Looks the Boys affright, For fear they eat me, and abhor my Sight. Why to thy Brood dost show such Cruelty, To let me thus a common Bugbear be? My business now with Mankind here is none, The wretched Task of Life by me is done; With all its various Trouble, various Toil: Receive me therefore to my proper Soil. What Pleasure is't to see me undergo, So many different Penalties of Woe? Is it a Mother's part to use me so? Scarce have I Strength thus even to complain, And scarce my Staff my trembling Limbs sustain; But with my Labour, and my Grief oppressed, Lolling upon my Couch, I seek for Rest. Where stretched along upon th' uneasy Bed, I represent an Earthy Body dead; Such as it is, when once the Soul is fled. Thus when I loll, and stretch, who would believe That I am sensible, at all, or live; Though this indeed, what Life I have, does give. My Life is but one entire Punishment, And all the World but one whole Discontent. Heat burns my Body, Clouds offend my Sight; Nor does the cold, or clearer Air delight: The Summer Dews are hurtful to my Head, And as Infections, April Showers I dread. The cheerful Days of the gay blooming Spring, Nor Autumn's jolly Vintage, nor any thing To me the least reviving Joy can bring. But, wretched I, with Scurf, and Scab o'er-run, And with the Ptisick, and Chincough undone; My miserable Age itself bemoans, With never-ceasing, and continual Groans. And can you think those Creatures live, to whom The Air, by which we breathe, and Light become Hateful, and grievous, sad, and troublesome? Even Sleep, Death's gentle, grateful Imagery, Which, for a Time, does wretched Mortals free; From the unquiet Thoughts of Misery, Still flies away, and shuns unhappy me. And if he does vouchsafe, though late, to close My heavy Eyes, he troubles my Repose With horrid frightful Dreams, and dreadful Sights, Of fatal Spectres, and of murdered Sprights. Down Beds, or Beds of Stone are much the same, And seem to me to differ but in name. Though softest Silks my thin light Covering be, Heavy they seem, and troublesome to me. With many Inconveniencies oppressed, Often I rise to break imperfect Rest. Thus urged by my weak Bodies sad Defect, I do those very things I would neglect; And striving many Evils to avoid, My Health by many Evils is destroyed. Thus Age coming on unheeded, and unsought, With multitudes of heavy Mischiefs fraught, Submission to its own sad Weight is taught. Who therefore would a tedious Life desire, And so by piece-meal painfully expire? Then in the Flesh the Soul should buried lie; And to live dying better once to die. Alas! I don't complain, because I'd give A six't Prescription how long Man should live. 'Tis an unpardonable Crime, I know, To circumscribe great Nature by my Law. I only wish that I might meet my Fate, E'er Age should all my Pleasures captivate. E'er Time with his rank Ills my Life invade; Time, which makes all things wear away, and fade. The sturdy Bull by Time deficient grows, Nor use of former noble Courage knows. The proud, gay, mettled Horse, of late so good, By Age becomes the Scandal of the Stud: This can abate the furious Lion's Rage, And the fierce Tiger gentle grows with Age. Antiquity makes even Rocks decay, And every thing, alas, to Time gives way. Wherefore I rather would anticipate My growing Miseries by swifter Fate, And all my Punishment at once would feel, Nor wait in painful Expectation still. But who can tell the Sorrows, and the Pain, Which not themselves, but others do sustain? Thus poor Old men increase their grievous Care, By minding how much they unpitied are, Of those, who cannot in their Sufferings share. Hence 'tis that Age, forsaken friendless Age, Does in so many scolding Broils engage. Meeting with such Contempts, such Detriments, While none, in his behalf, his Harms resents. The rogu'ish Boys, and wanton Girls agree, Both to despise, abuse, and laugh at me; For Master, me, they think 'tis shame to own, Because with Age I'm despicable grown. They flout my Gate, my Face, and trembling Head, Whose angry Nod they heretofore would dread. Though my dimmed sight small help to me does give, Yet I shall certainly my Shame perceive. No rude affronts by me unseen can go, But I must mark 'em to complete my Woe. Thrice happy, sure, is the deserving He, Who leads his Life in calm Tranquillity; And e'er with Age his Strength is quite decayed, Is from the World by timely Death conveyed; For to remember former Happiness, Does but increase the wretched Man's Distress. ELEGY II. The ARGUMENT. In this Elegy the Poet mourns the Inconstancy of his Mistress, and seems to attribute the Cause of it to his being Old: nevertheless he endeavours, by several Arguments, to persuade her to continue her Love to him still; but despairing of Success, he ends the Elegy with a Complaint. BUT lo, Lycoris, my inconstant Fair, To me too faithless, and to me too dear. She whose Desires, whose Soul, and mine were one, And long we undevided lived alone; Secure, I thought, of such a lasting Love, And Happiness, as nothing could remove. But now by strange Infatuations led, The stupefied Ingrate avoids my Bed; And from my aged, and enfeebled Arms, To younger Lovers bears her sprightly Charms. Of former Joys forgetful all the while, Does me decrepit, old, unable stile; Nor recollects those many Pleasures past, Which she with vast Delight so oft would taste, And my unhappy Age so much did haste: Nay the ungrateful, the perfidious She, To cast the odium of her Crime on me, Feigns that my Faults caused her Inconstancy. Perhaps hereafter, when she may espy Me, weakened with my Age, as I pass by; With Hood, or Fan, she'll seem to hide her Eyes, And me, in these opprobrious terms, despise. Bless me! did I e'er love this antic Thing? Could his Embraces any Pleasure bring? Those riveled Jaws, or Lips, did I e'er kiss, Or kindly grant him the exalted Bliss? She'll nauseate me, and in Contempt will seem, To spew my Love up like a loathsome Phlegm. Alas! what Comforts can Old Age afford? You see with what prime Blessings it is stored. What once could move Delight, and Love engage, Becomes despised when soured with crabbed Age. Was't not enough, that I had lived to be, To the full growth of manly Decency? When all I did was acted with a Grace, Active my Mind, and beautiful my Face. E'er I became offensive, and despised, Sordid, unpleasing, hateful, and unprised. What e'er I've lived before, is nothing now, In all the Circumstances where, or how. Time with himself has taken all away, That was e'er cheerful, pleasant, brisk, or gay. White falling Hairs are now around my Head, And my pale Face would seem to speak me dead. Yet bright, and beautiful she still appears, Nor grows less charming, tho' more grown in Years; Which she but too well sees, and too well knows, Therefore, with inward heat of Pride she glows. And, I confess, she still retains the Grace And Influence of her once dearer Face. And in the Embers still the hidden Flame Of Love, does both concealed, and warm remain. So that I see Age does contrive to spare, And favour too, as all things else, the Fair. For all her Beauties are not quite decreased, She as still enough t' inflame the youngest Breast: But Old Men feed on Relics of their Love, And former Action but in Thought can prove. Unable to perform as heretofore, They all past Joys to Memory restore; Tickle with that, and grieve they can no more. And after all, what can the wretched gain, But the sad privilege, to entertain, Their own Misfortunes, Misery, and Pain. Thoughts of lost Happiness gives no Relief, They only serve more to enrage the Grief. But since of former Vigour I'm bereft, Nor to give kind Embraces Strength have left. Therefore my false Lycoris, must not we Sometimes remember past Felicity? Must former Joys be vanishing, and vain, Like tracks of Cattle in a sandy Plain? Must we forget all that was done before, And think of happy Pleasures past no more? Why, even Brutes eat Pastures, new, and strange, And Sheep in unknown Walks refuse to range: The Bull his old frequented Shades does love, Nor will the Flocks from their known Folds remove: Sweetest in wont Brambles Philomela Does sing, and her sad mournful Story tell. But you alone experienced Friendship shun, And to an untried Entertainment run. Were it not better far that you confide In Certainties, and things that you have tried? Various Events still Novelties attend, As they begin, they very seldom end. If you object my Age, remember too, That creeping Age is stealing upon you. Therefore let that instruct you to be wise, And do not me, because I'm grey, despise. Old Time will silver too thy golden Hair, For he does neither Sex nor Beauty spare. We often find that parity of Years, Two Minds by parity of Love endears. What though I cannot act as once I could, Let it suffice that I did well of old. The Husbandman, whose Strength is lost in Years, Still reverend to younger Swains appears. The Young does still the Courage, and the Fire, Which in the elder Soldier was admire. The Swain is grieved to lose his expert Steer; And, to the Trooper, his old Horse is dear. But oh, alas, Love only can subsist, And live, and act within a Youthful Breast: And sprightful blooming Youth alone can prove, The fittest Object for a perfect Love. But yet sad Age has not quite plundered me, Of all my Rhetoric, and Gaiety: For still I can my doleful Tale rehearse, In tuneful Numbers, and in flowing Verse. 'Slight not mature, and solid Gravity, Nor venerable Age, but let it be Esteemed, and valued, as desired by thee. Condemn not in another what so fain, You for yourself would willingly obtain. Seems it not strange in one, and foolish too, To slight that Voyage which themselves must go. Call me your Brother, or your dearest Friend, Or Father, either of 'em Love intend. Let Lust to Honour yield, as now 'tis fit, And to pure Piety let Love submit. Thus I with tears lament my weak Old Age, But that cannot my troubled Thoughts assuage; For long discourse of Grief, does Grief enrage. ELEGY III. The ARGUMENT. In this Elegy the Poet gives an account how he was very much in love, when but a Boy; and that the young Creature, with whom he was so Enamoured, returned his Passion to the full: yet after all, when with much toil and difficulty it was so brought about that he had Liberty to enjoy her, he would not, but was then (by having that privilege granted him) cured of his Love. BUT now perhaps it may in part Assuage, The violent Griefs, of my tormented Age; A while the mournful Story to suspend, Of Ills which do my present Days attend. To recollect things past, and call to mind Those Years, which Time has left so far behind; Those tender Years wherein my Life was free From all Disquiets, Love! but only thee! For Aquilina did my Heart invade, And I adored the Fair, the Beauteous Maid. To that degree I burned, that I became Pale, mad, and melancholy with the Flame: Yet even then my childish Innocence, Preserved me free from Scandal, and Offence; For Ignorant of Love, and quite unskilled In Venus' Arts, yet with Desire filled: Something I wished, but innocent of what, Did my own Misery the more create. Nor was the excellent, the charming She Lesle grieved, or less disturbed with Love of me: For though she conquered, yet she was overcome, And could not carry perfect Triumphs home: But heated with her Passion, and Desire, In vain she strove to shun th' internal Fire: Restless from place to place, for Ease she flew, But with her, what she would avoid, she drew. With Charms at distance we each other caught, And loved unknowing what we either thought. In Solitude we hoped to find Redress, And secret Love, in Secret to repress; But that, alas! did but our Love's increase. Then we sought out a more obleiging way, To feed, and feast our Passions every day, By the Exchange of kind, and gentle Words; Words, which to Lover's Flames, Fuel affords; Yet we could only cherish the dear Fire, With fruitless wishing Looks, and vain Desire. To me a cruel Pedagogue gave law, And her a careful Mother kept in awe; Thus we both loved, but no Success foresaw. Our very Eyes, our very Nods they watched, And at all little Circumstances catched: Each change of Colour with a careful Eye, They marked, by that our Passions to descry. With Industry, and with deceitful Arts, A while the growing Passions of our Hearts; Even from each other we kept unrevealed, And with much Pain our Sufferings concealed. But then at last our Love so fierce became, That we no longer could suppress the Flame. We find it much too hard, and cruel too, To hide a Light which so apparent grew; For frequent Blushes, Sighs, and thousand things, Declared our Wishes, and our Languish. But oh what Joys, what Ecstasies were shown, When we to each durst our hid Passions own. Then oft in private we together came, And with Discourse blowed up the pleasing Flame. What cunning Plots we've used, what sly deceit, To cheat our Spies, and undiscovered meet. Whole Nights in whispering Murmurs, & soft Tread, We've spent, while drowsy Watches snored in Bed. And if we failed of such an Enterprise, Too strictly guarded by our curious Spies, We could, in spite, converse with speaking Eyes. In vain they strove our Glances to constrain, They spoke our mutual Wishes, & our mutual Pain. Disordered thus, not long unmarked I lived, For my observing Mother soon perceived, The sad, unusual, melancholy Care, Which did in all my Words, and Acts appear; And quickly guest the fatal Cause was Love, Whom she designed by Rigour to remove. She thought my Passion with a Rod to quell, But that provoked it, stubborn, to rebel▪ Her cruel Usage could effect no Cure, For Love, alas! had taught me to endure. All only served more to inflame Desire, Like added Fuel to increase the Fire. Nothing could chase the Stranger from my Breast; My Health decayed, but still my Love increased. This rough Experiment she tried in vain, For Love does all Restraint, and Force disdain. And I within was more severely vexed, Doubly with mingled Fear, and Love perplexed. Then with Maternal Tenderness, she strove, By Sighs, and Tears my wilful Mind to move; Believing that her Sorrows might prevail, On filial Duty to relate the Tale: But even that soft Stratagem did fail. At last, she thought, since nothing else could do, To make pretence that she already knew; And seeming pleased, and speaking smilingly, Said, why dost strive to keep aught hid from me? Alas, canst thou believe that I am blind, By all thy Words, and Actions not to find, That secret Love distracts thy tender Mind. For did not I but very lately see, Some wanton Songs, and Verses made by thee. Then be obedient, let thy Mother know, Who cruel Pains for thee did undergo. Acquaint me freely, lay aside your Fear, Tell me the naked Truth of all, my Dear. What then must I thus beg, and sue in vain, And is this all the Purchase I shall gain? For Blood diffused, and lost to bring thee forth, And am I, and my Woes, of no more worth? But if thou dost preserve thy Chastity, Keeping thyself from guilty Action free. All may be well, and innocent as yet, And Time may wear away this fond Love-sit. Thus was I daily plagued, but yet the Curse Was, that I hoped no Cure, but still grew worse. Not daring to discover the hid Pain, I loved, I languished, and I grieved in vain. Nor needed I at last a Tongue to tell, What my consumptive Paleness did reveal, And dozed Stupidity declared so well. Thou mighty Searcher of Mysterious things, Whose certain Knowledge certain Succour brings. Bobetius, you alone were truly kind, Who dived into the Secrets of my Mind, And the hid Cause from dark Effects did find. Well, I remember when you first perceived, How I was tortured, and how I was grieved. With gentle Words you probed the tender Wound, And by soft soothing the sad secret found; Urging me to declare my Griefs, and Pain, As the best means my Temper to regain. With Ease did you my closed Breast unlock, When gently arguing, thus to me you spoke; For an unknown Disease no Cure can be, Conceal your Grief, and want a Remedy. As Fire, when in a Cellar closely penned, Rages the more for want of Air, and Vent: So while your Passions you with Force constrain; To burn in secret, you increase the Pain. Then I half willing, but o'erruled with shame, Blushed the sad Cause of all my Griefs to name. Darkly, at last, my trembling Tongue expressed, The rolling Flames which warmed my guilty Breast. Enough, said you, I now enough have seen, By these Effects to know the Cause within. Be plain, and tell me all; lay by your Fear, I cannot else a Remedy prepare. Thus you prevailed, I blushed, I wept, and sighed, And nothing of the whole Intreigue could hide. Down at your Feet to die, I prostrate fall, And in its native order told you all. You asked, would I possess the Beauteous She? No, I replied, 'twere an Impiety. You laughed and cried; Oh, wonderful Delight! Had ever Venus such a worthy Wight? What an unspeakable strange Prodigy, In Love, alas! would you appear to be, Striving to keep a needless Chastity. 'Twould be a most unmanly Sin, and base To spare a longing Virgin in this Case. Would you ridiculously strive to be Pious herein, 'twere worst Impiety. Though when perhaps you try to taste the Joy, She may seem angry, and unkindly coy. Be not discouraged at the grateful Fight, For Opposition whets the Appetite; Makes Love more fierce, and heightens the Delight. Young tender Loves are fed with peevish Rage, And innocent Quarrels more the Hearts engage. Virgin's untried, half yielding, half afraid, Are in their own Resistance best betrayed. With secret Pleasure to soft Force they yield, And seemingly displeased, give up the Field. Melted at last, their striving is but weak, And breathless, thus perhaps they faintly speak: Ah, do not use a harmless Creature so, Still in the midst of Rapture crying no; And prithee let me, prithee let me go. Thus when he had encouraged me to hope, I gave my Wishes an unbounded Scope. In the mean time with Gifts and Gold he strove, To bribe her Parents to allow my Love; They easily consent; such strength does lie, In the prevailing Force of Alchemy. Their natural Affection soon gave way To the high Worship, which to Gold they pay. Oh, sacred Metal! Oh, resistless Gold! Who can thy strange betwitching Charms unfold. 'Tis thy unanswerable Eloquence, Thy weighty Arguments, and mighty Sense, Which can persuade poor Mortals to dispense, With any Vice, or Villainous Offence. So much thou didst her Parents move herein, They did not barely suffer, but begin To love, and so promote their Daughter's sin. All privacies of Place, all proper Time, We were allowed to forward the sweet Crime; They put us hand in hand, and all the day, A thousand Amorous toying Tricks we play; Nay even at last the very luscious Fact, They gave us Opportunity to act: But there I baulked, for when to do an Ill, I gained the Privilege, I lost the Will. My hot Desire straight became cool within, When once it was permitted me to sin. That Lust which I before could not endure, The very Power to fulfil did cure. Then I, and not before began to find, The miserable Sickness of my Mind. The Laws of Love by me were disobeyed, When near the wishing, blushing, yielding Maid, I Languid, and unwillingly was laid. But she with unexpected coldness used, Blushing with Passion, and with shame confused, Rose up incensed to be so much abused. And I (to salve the great affront I did) Cried hail untouched, and sacred Maidenhead. Be thou preserved for ever pure by me, And ever spotless, and unblemished be, For nought regains a lost Virginity. Thus when she saw all that young Virgins hold, More dear, than Usurers their illgot Gold; By me neglected, when I might enjoy, And that my Love I did myself destroy. Oh, mighty Youth, she cried, who hast the Power, Thyself to conquer thy own fierce Amour. Take to thee all the Glory of the thing, And be more great than a Triumphing King: For since thou couldst thy own toiled Passions quell, Even when they were encouraged to rebel; Let Venus Charms, and her Son Cupid's Bow, And brave Minerva's Arms submit to you; There's nothing now but what you can subdue. Thus both displeased, and melancholy She Parted, with an uninjured Chastity. ELEGY IU. The ARGUMENT. In this Elegy the Poet gives an account of his loving a young Maid, very privately, in his Youth: but at last how in his Sleep he discovered what so carefully he concealed when awake; and concludes the Elegy with a Consideration of the Inconveniencies he lies under by being Old. ONE more Intreigue of Youth I will rehearse, And sat my Genius with my soothing Verse; For empty Tales, and idle Poetry, Are a sit Task for doting Age, and me. And as in circling Time Mankind is found, With various Chances always turning round: So to my far-spent Life no Joy appears, Like the Remembrance of most distant Years. A Virgin once there was, whom Heaven designed, Both by the Graces of her Face, and Mind, To be adapted so, that she became By Nature Candid, as she was by Name. Her pure white Hair, from her delicious Head, In flowing Curls around her Shoulders played. But every Part of her was bright, and fair, And full as charming as her flaxen Hair. The tuneful Lyre she touched with such a Grace, That it confirmed the Conquests of her Face. While from the trembling Strings soft Tunes did slow, With Love, and Joy, my Heart did tremble too. But if she uttered some surprising Song, How many Cupids sat upon her Tongue! Each moving Word, each Accent sent a Dart, And every Note did melt my wounded Heart. Then if she danced, her Motion, and her Air, Made every Part appear more killing fair; While I, with Pleasure, hug'd my golden Chain, And silently indulged the grateful Pain. Thus one bright Maid, with many Beauties armed, From whom none scaped unconquered, or uncharmed, In various Parts stormed my defenceless Mind, Nor did one Dart the least Resistance find. And when by Violence she was possessed, She ne'er forsook my entertaining Breast. Once seen her beauteous Form, still stayed with me, And day and night dwelled in my Memory. How oft has my Imagination brought, Her absent Image present to my Thought. Fixed, and intent, how oft (though far removed) Have I supposed I talked with her I loved. How oft, with Pleasure, would my Fancy bring, Those Songs to mind, which she was wont to sing; And with delight my busy Voice, and Tongue, Would imitate those Notes, and words she sung. Thus I myself, against myself took part, And, like a Cheat, played booty with my Heart. How oft have I been thought with Madness seized? How often has my Head been thought diseased, While the wild Passions of my Breast increased? Nor can I think, that I was wholly void Of Reason, or my Reason well enjoyed. But sure 'tis an intolerable pain, To hide a stifled Passion, or restrain The Rage, 'tis what no mortal Breast can bear, For in the Countenance it will appear, Though never so reserved, though never so severe. The changing Colours show how we decay, And even the Silence of the Tongue betray. Th' affected Face will the hid Thoughts declare; Blushing bespeaks a Shame, and Paleness Fear. But more my Dreams disclosed my Privacy: My Dreams unfaithful to my Love, and me, Did my surpressed Anxieties reveal; Nor could Death's Image, Sleep, my Cares conceal: For when my Senses were inclined to Rest, And by oblivious Slumbers all possessed; Even than my Tongue unacted Gild confessed. As on the Grass, sleeping I once was laid, Close by the Father of my lovely Maid; And while he thoughtless slumbered by my Side, Thus, in my Dreams disturbed, aloud I cried, Hast, hast, my Candida; haste, hast away, Our secret Love is ruined if you stay: For see, already peeps the prying Sun; If weare discovered, we are both undone. The envious Light will our stolen Loves betray; Hast, hast, my Candida, my Candida. Awaked at this, and in a strange surprise, He started up, and scarce believed his Eyes: But for his Daughter, searched the place around, While I was only sleeping on the Ground; Gasping, and panting, there he saw me lie, Transported from myself with Ecstasy. With what vain Dreams, said he, art thou possessed? Or has a real Love usurped thy Breast? Some waking Objects rather, I conclude, Upon thy gentler Slumbers may intrude, And thus thy Wishes fleeting Forms delude. Astonished! he my broken Murmurs watched, And each imperfect unformed Sentence catched. Gently his right hand on my Heart he laid, And in soft Whispers, more inquiries made: For so applied, the sly Inquirer' s Hand, From sleeping Breasts can any thing command; And the loosed Tongue does by that Charm impart, The very choicest Secrets of the Heart. Thus I, who had so long with Looks severe, Kept from the prying Eye, and listening Ear, The Cares of Love, grown by Concealment dear, My treacherous Tongue did, when I slept, declare. Yet still had my whole wretched Life been free, From impure Actions, and Impiety; Not that so much I did those Crimes prevent, By perfect Virtue, as by Accident. But now I'm old, and want the Strength to sin, It pleases me my Youth has guiltless been. Tho' no just Praise, that they from Vice are free, To superannuated Men can be, Since 'tis not Choice, but mere Necessity. Strength only sleeps, their Inclinations wake; And not they Vice, but Vice does them forsake. Pleasure deserts their unperforming Years, And leaves them filled with painful Toils, & Cares, And all their Good in want of Power appears. 'Tis worth our while, if we consider too, What Penalties in Age we undergo; How that, with it, a slow Repentance brings, For all our Youthful Faults, and Riotings; How many Groans it pays! how many Tears, For dear-bought Luxury of younger Years! And though Mankind will often strive in vain, Youth's boiling Heats, and Follies to restrain; Oftener with Knowledge, and Contrivance, we Persist in some deluding Villainy. weare oft industrious, studious, wise, and nice, In the performance of some witty Vice. Though Vice sometimes bears us by force away, Yet we too oft its easy Call obey: Oft, though we cannot compass what we will, We are Wellwishers to some pleasing Ill ELEGY V. The ARGUMENT. In this Elegy, the Poet shows the Folly and Weakness of Old Men's being in Love, who thereby do but discover their Impotence and Dotage, and can at best prove but unperforming Lechers, being incapacitated of employing Love's chief Agent; the Praises of which, in its full Strength and Beauty, concludes the Elegy. WHen to the East on Embassy I went, With friendly Articles, by Caesar sent: While I designed for others Rest, and Ease, And Nations did from me expect their Peace; Lo, in my Breast, Tumults and Broils arose, And cruel Wars troubled my own Repose: Even I, on whom Hetruria did rely, And with such Aid her crafty Foes defy. Whom she opposed to Public Policy, Could not from private Wiles, myself, keep free. For one Greek Dame's insinuating Art, Well-practised, to enslave the bravest Heart; With such peculiar Vigour mine overcame, It melted in the brisk assaulting Flame: For while she feigned that I had smitten her, She seized me first, and took me Prisoner. Wakeful each morning, with the Dawn she rose, Refusing to her Eyes a soft Repose; And at my Windows, shining as the Sun, Darted in Light before the Day begun. And, Gods, I knew not what it was she sung, While Grecian Tunes slowed from her charming Tongue. But such bewitching Force her Murmurs had, That with Delight and Pleasure I was mad. Nor was this half her Cunning, half her Art, By which she conquered, and enslaved my Heart: But strange resistless Charms she used, far more To ruin me, and to confirm her Power. She wept, she sighed, looked pale, and so complained, As none could e'er believe it to be feigned: She showed what would a Stoic' s Passion move, Even all the Signs of an unpractised Love; So excellent she was in the dear Cheat, That even a Love was due for the Deceit. Thus while I pitied her feigned Misery, And thought her tortured with the Love of me; The Miserable Object I became, Of real Pity, by my real Flame. But Heaven ne'er framed a Creature more compact, For she was to a Miracle exact. Her shining Eyes and Face, (cheerful and gay, Bright and serene as an unclouded Day.) When e'er they did salute my wandering Eyes, Moved me at once with Pleasure, and Surprise. Nor was she less accomplished in her Mind, But that with noble Arts was well refin'd: She knew the Strength of conquering Eloquence; And when she talked, could captivate each Sense. Her Wit was like her Beauty, sweet, and clear, As one the Eye, the other fixed the Ear. The mighty force of Poetry she knew, And in that Art Apollo could outdo: Not Orpheus self was warmed with nobler fire, When his own Songs he sung to his own Lyre, And Beasts, and Trees, did with new life inspire. Than this bright Nymph, who with her Harp & Quill, Outdid Apollo' s Verse, and Orpheus Skill. Her Songs, like Sirens, moving vast delight, Were quite as charming, and as harmful quite: For while I listened to her fatal Voice, Ruin, or Safety, were not in my choice; But wanting power such Witchcrafts to avoid, In that Surprise I yield to be destroyed: Upon those treacherous Rocks I blindly run, Whither Love led, nor could the mischief shun: Not so of Old Ulysses fair'd, for he Could miss those dangers, which he could foresee. What need I mention her amazing gate; Or how by practised steps she moved in state: How swim along with such a sallying sweep, Like well-trimmed Sailors on the smooth-faced Deep. How every step was set with heedful care, That she as easy did, and soft appear, As Goddess cutting through the yielding Air. Bless me! what Power lay in her well-set Hair! A trap was each white Lock, each Curl a snare. Her two hard Breasts, so round, and rarely framed, That they, with strong Desire, my Heart inflamed; Neither of which to greater bigness swelled, Than what might be within one hand compelled. But when I near, and nicely viewed each part, What Joys unspeakable surprised my Heart! How did I feast, and how delight my Eyes, With every part, which next adjacent lies, To Love's delicious nameless Paradise? How to Embrace, how did I long to touch Each Limb that charmed, and melted me so much! What mighty Ecstasies did I suppose, Would quite transport me if I were more close! I wished, I asked, and gained the Beauteous She; But, oh! what Witchcraft did Enervate me! Lifeless I on that mass of Beauty lay, Nor the due debts of Sacred Love could pay. All vigorous warmth my languid Limbs forsaken, And left me cold, like an old sapless Oak. My chief, yet basest Nerve, did then prove lank, And, like a Coward, from the Battle shrank; Shriveled, and dry, like a dead withered flower, Deprived, and void of all vivifick power. No fertile Moisture, no prolisick Juice, Could the enfeebled Instrument produce; No unctuous Substance, no kind Balm emit; Balm, nourishing as Milk, as Honey sweet. At last cried out the Disappointed Fair, Thy dull unactive weight I cannot bear; Thy heavy Limbs press me with joyless pain, And all thy faint Endeavours are in vain. Useless, I must confess, I then did lie, Overcome of Tuscan grave Simplicity; And in soft Grecian Dalliance unskilled, To Age's Impotence was forced to yield. Those very Arts, those Stratagems of Love, (Which did, of old, Troy's sad Destruction prove, And, maugre Hector's Courage, could prevail,) Used to one Old defective Man, did fail: Nay, though a Beauty, even as Helen bright, Did to the mighty Task of Love invite. Yet in the vain performance did I tyre, Though given up to th' Empire of Desire. Nor need I blush to own, or be ashamed, That I by such a Beauty was inflamed; For Jove himself, had he my Goddess seen, Even Jove himself her Captive must have been. Yet ne'ertheless, such was my first sad Night, That I could neither give nor take Delight. But a base conscious shame possessed each sense, Nor left me power to make the least defence, Dashed with the Gild of my own Impotence. But lo, the next ensuing Night came on, And lo, my vigorous heat again was gone; Void of all warmth, and strength did I remain, And as before was dull, and slow again. But she much vexed, that I would not fulfil Her Expectation, but deceive her still: Blamed my neglectful sloth, and angry too, Claimed the just Tribute which to Love was due; And wondering why her Charms no more could move, Said, Sluggard pay thy Debts to me, & Love. But her just Anger, with me, nothing weighed, Nothing her soothing Language could persuade. In vain with either did she me assail, 'Gainst my unconquered Impotence both fail. For what, alas, can those Defects supply, Which weakened Nature does to Age deny? But then I blushed, and stupefied became, Much more debilitated by my Shame. A conscious Terror did possess my Mind, And took away all power of being kind. Yet with her soft and active Hand she strove, The frigid Member to adapt for Love: But she the fainting thing did try in vain, B'y inspiring touch to call to life again; Nor answered it her Toil, nor my desire, But cold remained i'th' midst of such a Fire: So the starved Wretch in Northern Scythia sees, Th' ungrateful Pot even o'er the Fire to freeze. What cruel Woman, thou unkind, said she, Has snatched thy Love, my Due alone from me? Where hast thou been ungrateful? and with whom? From whose Embraces dost thou tired come? I swore 'twas her mistake, and did protest, No other Passion could invade my Breast; She, only She was of my Heart possessed. And that it was excess of Love and Care, Dashed me with such a trembling Awe, and Fear; As rendered me uncapable to give, Those Acts of Kindness, which she should receive. Yet maugre this, the bright expecting Dame, Believed 'twas all but a pretended Sham. Thou liest, the much-offended Fair One cried, For thou some other Nymph dost love beside, And art with me alone unsatisfied. Variety affects thy Appetite, And thou dost in a frequent Change delight, Why else would you my tendered Kindness slight? Does Sorrow damp you? then try to remove Such heavy Griefs by the brisk Joys of Love. Be not overcome by any sad Excess, But intermit such Cares as over-press; For Burdens oft laid down become the less. Then I uncovered in the Naked Bed, To the enquiring Nymph thus weeping said, Alas, Fair Greek, I am constrained to own, What I endeavoured to have kept unknown; And lest you might suspect it want of Love, Am forced by sad Defects my Age to prove. Unhappy I, whose Vigour is quite dead; Alas, my Will and Wishes are not fled: Unfortunate, that I am judged to be Unkind, because of my Debilitie. Lo, I have brought you Arms, with Shame I own, By a long lazy Rest defective grown, Yet Arms devoted to thy Use alone. Do what thou canst, all thy Endeavours try, To move me, I submit most willingly: Yet still I failed the more, the more I strove, Desire's excess did Impotence improve. Straight she began, with many Grecian Art, To give new Courage to the drooping Part: But she, in vain, the cold dead thing, did strive, With her gay Flames to quicken, and revive. When she at last its Ruin did perceive, And that the dear-loved Nerve no more could live; But of its Resurrection all hopes lost, On which she had bestowed such pains, such cost. Erected in the Bed, she mournful sat, Grieved and tormented with her wretched state, And thus deplored her miserable Fate. Ah, fallen Member! who wert once to Me, The best Improver of best Luxury; And at each sacred celebrated Feast, My only Entertainment, only Guest; My sweetest Darling, my Delight, my Health, My dearest Honour, and my chiefest Wealth. How thy dejected state shall I lament; And in what Floods of Tears my sorrows vent? Where shall I find equal, and worthy Verse, Thy mighty Acts, and Prowess to rehearse? Oft, when inflamed, with my too hot Desire, Thou didst allay the raging of that Fire. And oft didst thou (then when thou couldst be kind) Charm the Diseases of my troubled Mind: My dear Companion many tedious Nights, Partaker of my Griefs, and my Delights; To thee my choicest Secrets were disclosed; And with much Safety in thy trust reposed. Still wert thou watchful, and wert still at hand, To answer, and obey my least Command. Whither! oh, whither is thy Fervour fled! Why dost thou hang thy cold, thy drooping Head? What envious Power has deprived thee quite, Of all that vigour, all that former spirit, Which made thee heretofore so bold in fight? Frequent Engagements pleased thee heretofore, But now thy Courage fails, and is no more; For, lo, no more a lively cheerful Red, Does thee, as once it did, with warmth overspread; But pale and wan thou dost dejected lie, Nor dar'st look up to face thy Enemy; The kindest, most endearing Words to thee, Are lost, and altogether useless be. The powerful Charms of Verse, which can relieve Sorrowful Minds, to thee no life can give. Thee therefore justly I as dead bewail, Since in all active Motion thou dost sail. But as she still run on, I was constrained To interrupt her, while she yet complained; And of her sad impatience much ashamed, Her needless Sorrows chiding thus, I blamed. Thus to bemoan my languid Member's Case, Argues thyself vexed by a worse Disease. And whilst thou dost lament his sad Defect, I must accuse you of a worse Neglect. Begun from miserable unperforming Me, To some young Lover more deserving thee. Go, happy Nymph, for happy Joys designed; Go where thy Love equal Returns may find; Go where fresh Youth, & blooming Strength invites, Thy springing Beauty to more fit Delights. Make use of all thy Youth, while Youth thou hast, And done't with me thy precious Minute's waist; For Time unseen goes by, and flies too fast For Mortals ever to overtake when past. But she enraged, said, Fool, thou dost not know The real Cause of all my real Woe; And why such floods of Tears my Eyes overflow. Be not so fond and vain as to believe, That thy peculiar Fate I only grieve: No, this to my distracted Fancy, brings The sad Estate of all Created things: For if the gen'tive Power were ta'en away, How soon, alas, would this vast World decay? And oh thou needful Engine, without Thee, All things that breath would quickly cease to be! Mankind, Beast, Fish and Fowl, and all that live, From Thee their first Beginnings must receive. What Concord, or Agreement, could be made, In different Sexes, if without thy Aid; And if of thy most grateful Favours void, The chiefest Good of Marriage is destroyed. With such strong Leagues of Kindness thou canst bind, That of two different, thou mak'st up one Mind. So much thou dost to Unity incline, And separate Bodies can't so closely join, That Two grow into One by Amorous Twine. Though to a Nymph Nature all Beauty grants, She wants her chief Reward, if Thee she wants: In Thee alone Valour and Virtue lies, And thou of Beauty art the only Prize: Manhood by Thee alone is made complete, Which, without Thee, were but a sordid Cheat. No sparkling Gems, nor yellow shining Gold, Can to thy solid real Worth be told; Not the most sordid Miser would, to be, Master of all the Wealth sunk in the Sea, Or yet on shore, sell or dispose of Thee. In vain, as Ornaments, such Toys are worn, If thou as well dost not the Man adorn: Unlike those empty Trifles very much, Thy kind increases by productive Touch; But they by using, still the more decay, And with a frequent rubbing wear away. With Thee is Credit, and Fidelity, And Secrets told are safely lodged in Thee. Oh! only true Reward of perfect Love, To which thou dost both kind and fruitful prove: To Thee both great things, and sublime give way, And all thy mighty Mandates must obey. All yield, and all submit without a Grief, From the sweet Bondage wishing no Relief. Thy angry Wounds are not so terrible, But such as even thy Friends desire to feel: Even that same Wisdom, which the World does guide, Declares her self of thy more equal side; And to thy Rule and Governance thinks fit, That all its Force and Power should submit. To Thee the trembling, conquered, yielding Maid, Desiring that of which she seems afraid: Prostrate falls down, just ready to receive Those grateful Wounds, which thou preparest to give. And when broke up, she still, and silent lies, Sheds her glad Blood, and with the Pleasure dies. Mangled, some Tears she drops, but more does smile, And stronger Joys her weaker Griess begulle. Pleased with the sweet Defeat, she clings more close, And hugs the Conqueror that gives the murdering Blows. Soft easy ways thou dost not always choose, But sometimes acts of Force and Manhood use: Thy toying Plays, and pretty gamesome Wiles, Are sometimes mixed with more laborious Toils. Oft Stratagems of Wit are your best course, And sometimes you thrive best by downright Force. The cruel Hearts of Tyrants fierce, and wild, Thou often canst convert to kind, and mild: Even thou the stubborn God of War canst move, And melt, and soften into gentle Love. Thou the enraged, and angered Jove canst charm, And of his dreadful Thunder quite disarm; Nay, after the bold giant's overthrow, Couldst clear his clouded, and incensed Brow. The hungry Tiger, by thy strange Effects, Grows tame, and the pursuit of Beasts neglects. The humble Lover, courteous, meek, and mild, By thee grows fierce, and, like a Lion, wild. Thy Virtue, and thy Patience wonders do, For all your Victims are beloved by you; And when you conquer, you are conquered too. Triumphs you scorn, but love the active Fight, And more in War than Conquest you delight. O'ercome, you reassume new Strength, new Life, With double Courage to renew the Strife. And then the Battle thus again renewed, You only fight to be again subdued. Short is thy Rage, but Zeal does longer live, And Strength decayed does very oft revive. And though thy Power to do and act is done, Yet thy goodwill and Wishes are not gone. Thus she (as if she mourned the Obsequies Of some dead Friend, as dear as her own Eyes) Ended her long Complaint, and rose from me, Abandoned o'er to Grief, and Misery. ELEGY VI. The ARGUMENT. This Elegy is nothing else but a Mournful Conclusion of all the Five foregoing ones. AT last, crazed Age, thy babbling Noise give over, And leave to tamper with a festering Sore: In fruitless Plaints, fond, you seek Redress; The more you Mourn, the more your Griefs increase; Nor is Repining the next way to Ease. Prithee be wise for Modesty forbear, In long Harangues more Vices to declare. Let a slight Hint of thy great Shame suffice; Sure now 'tis Time, if ever, to be Wise. Crimes long insisted on, new Strength receive, And do thereby into new Crimes revive. Content thyself, that thou at length shalt have A lasting Rest within thy quiet Grave: For all vain Mortals must resign their Breath To Time, when e'er he calls, and march to Death. All must tread that inevitable Road, Though Life and Death meets all in different Mode. Though some to Want, and some to Plenty live; Some soon grow Wealthy, some can never thrive. So some in Trouble die, and some in State; Some die too soon, some timely, some too late, And none can shun, or be exempted Fate: He none will either privilege or save, But, undistinguished, hurries all to th' Grave; There Age and Infancy together come, And there they meet with Youth at his long home. The Rich and Poor are both made equal there, And there, alike, the Prince and Peasant fare, For Death, alas, is a mere Leveller. Therefore 'tis best that Journey soon to take, Which unavoidably we once must make: Nor is it Prudence to defer that thing, Which strong Necessity of Force will bring. But I, alas, the most unfortunate, And most severely used by rigorous Fate; My own sad Obsequies in vain would grieve, Who still am dying, and am still alive. FINIS.