Mrs Anne Killigrew.  
Painted by herself  
I Beckett 〈◊〉    

POEMS BY Mrs Anne Killigrew.  
Immodicis brevis est aetas, & rara Senectus.  
Mart. l. 6. Ep. 29.  
These POEMS are Licenced to be Published, Sept. 30. 1685.  
Ro. L'Estrange.  
LONDON: Printed for Samuel Lowndes, over against Exeter Exchange in the Strand. 1686.   

  

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.  

REader, dost ask, What Work we here display?  
What fair and Novel Piece salutes the Day?  
Know, that a Virgin bright this POEM writ,  
A Grace for Beauty, and a Muse for Wit!  
Who, when none higher in Love's Courts might sway,  
Despised the Mertile, for the nobler Bay!  
Nor could Apollo or Minerva tell,  
Whither her Pen or Pencil did excel!   

But while these Powers laid both to her their Claim,  
Behold, a Matron of a Heavenly Frame,  
Antique, but Great and Comely in her Mien,  
Upon whose gorgeous Robe inscribed was seen  
Divine Virtue, took her from both away,  
And thus with Anger and Disdain did say,  
Of Me she Learned, with You she did but Play.    

To the Pious Memory Of the Accomplished Young LADY Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesy, and Painting.  

An ODE.  

I.  
THou Youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies,  
Made in the last Promotion of the Blessed;  
Whose Palms, new plucked from Paradise,  
In spreading Branches more sublimely rise,  
Rich with Immortal Green above the rest:  
Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star,  
Thou rol'st above us, in thy wandering Race,  
Or, in Procession fixed and regular,  
Moved with the Heavens Majestic Pace;  
Or, called to more Superior Bliss,  
Thou treadest, with Seraphims, the vas●●byss.  
What ever happy Region be thy place,  
Cease thy Celestial Song a little space;  
(Thou wilt have Time enough for Hymns Divine,  
Since heavens Eternal Year is thine.)  
Hear then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse,  
In no ignoble Verse;  
But such as thy own voice did practise here,  
When thy first Fruits of Poesy were given;  
To make thyself a welcome Inmate there:  
While yet a young Probationer,  
And Candidate of Heaven.   

II.  
If by Traduction came thy Mind,  
Our Wonder is the less to find  
A Soul so charming from a Stock so good;  
Thy Father was transfused into thy Blood:  
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,  
(An early, rich, and inexhausted Vain.)  
But if thy Praeexisting Soul  
Was formed, at first, with Myriad more,  
It did through all the Mighty Poet's roll,  
Who Greek or Latin Laurels wore.  
And was that Suppho last, which once it was before.  
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born Mind!  
Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore  
Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find,  
Than was the Beauteous Frame she left be hind:  
Return, to fill or mend the Choir, of thy Celestial kind.   

III.  
May we presume to say, that at thy Birth,  
New joy was sprung in Heaven, as well as here on Earth.  
For sure the Milder Planets did combine  
On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine,  
And even the most Malicious were in Trine.  
Thy Brother-Angels at thy Birth  
Strung each his Lyre, and tuned it high,  
That all the People of the Sky  
Might know a Poetess was born on Earth.  
And then if ever, Mortal Ears  
Had heard the Music of the Spheres!  
And if no clust'ring Swarm of Bees  
On thy sweet Mouth distilled their golden Dew,  
'Twas that, such vulgar Miracles,  
Heaven had not Leisure to renew:  
For all the Blessed Fraternity of Love  
Solemnised there thy Birth, and kept thy Holiday above.   

IV.  
O Gracious God How far have we  
Profaned thy Heavenly Gift of Poesy?  
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,  
Debased to each obscene and impious use,  
Whose Harmony was first ordained Above  
For Tongues of Angels, and for Hymns of Love?  
O wretched We! why were we hurried down  
This lubrique and adulterate age,  
(Nay added fat Pollutions of our own)  
T'increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage?  
What can we say t'excuse our Second Fall?  
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!  
Her Arethusian Stream remains unsoiled,  
Unmixed with Foreign Filth, and undefiled,  
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!   

V.  
Art she had none, yet wanted: enon  
For Nature did that Want supply,  
So rich in Treasures of her Own,  
She might our boasted Stores defy:  
Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn,  
That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.  
Her Morals too were in her Bosom bred  
By great Examples daily fed,  
What in the best of Books, her Father's Life, she read.  
And to be read herself she need not fear,  
Each Test, and every Light, her Muse will bear,  
Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there.  
Even Love (for Love sometimes her Muse expressed)  
Was but a Lambent-flame which played about her Breast:  
Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream,  
So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth expressed,  
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's Stream.   

VI  
Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine,  
One would have thought, she should have been content  
To manage well that Mighty Government:  
But what can young ambitious Souls confine?  
To the next Realm she stretched her Sway,  
For Painture near adjoining lay,  
A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.  
A Chamber of Dependences was framed,  
(As Conquerors will never want Pretence,  
When armed, to justify the Offence)  
And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claimed.  
The Country open lay without Defence:  
For Poets frequent Inroads there had made,  
And perfectly could represent  
The Shape, the Face, with every Lineament;  
And all the large Demains which the Dumb-sister swayed,  
All bowed beneath her Government,  
Received in Triumph wherefoe're she went.  
Her Pencil drew, what e'er her Soul designed,  
And oft the happy Draught surpassed the Image in her Mind.  
The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks,  
And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,  
Of shallow Brooks that flowed so clear,  
The Bottom did the Top appear;  
Of deeper too and ampler Floods,  
Which as in Mirrors, showed the Woods;  
Of lofty Trees with Sacred Shades,  
And Perspectives of pleasant Glades,  
Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear,  
And shaggy Satyrs standing near,  
Which them at once admire and fear.  
The Ruins too of some Majestic Piece,  
Boasting the Power of ancient Rome or Greece,  
Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns broken lie,  
And though defaceed, the Wonder of the Eye,  
What Nature, Art, bold Fiction e'er durst frame,  
Her forming Hand gave Shape unto the Name.  
So strange a Concourse ne'er was seen before,  
But when the peopled Ark the whole Creation bore.   

VII.  
The Scene then changed, with bold Erected Look  
Our Martial King the Eye with Reverence struck:  
For not content t'express his Outward Part,  
Her hand called out the Image of his Heart,  
His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,  
His High-designing Thoughts, were figured there,  
As when, by Magic, Ghosts are made appear.  
Our Phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright,  
Beauty alone could Beauty take so right:  
Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace,  
Were all observed, as well as heavenly Face.  
With such a Peerless Majesty she stands,  
As in that Day she took from Sacred hands  
The Crown; 'mong numerous Heroines was seen,  
More yet in Beauty, than in Rank, the Queen!  
Thus nothing to her Genius was denied,  
But like a Ball of Fire the further thrown,  
Still with a greater Blaze she shone,  
And her bright Soul broke out on every side.  
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows,  
To such immoderate Growth her Conquest rose,  
That Fate alone their Progress could oppose.   

VIII.  
Now all those Charms, that blooming Grace,  
The well-proportioned Shape, and beauteous Face,  
Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes;  
In Earth the much lamented Virgin lies!  
Not Wit, nor Piety could Fate prevent;  
Nor was the cruel Destiny content  
To finish all the Murder at a Blow,  
To sweep at once her Life, and Beauty too;  
But, like a hardened Felon, took a pride  
To work more Mischievously slow,  
And plundered first, and then destroyed.  
O double Sacrilege on things Divine,  
To rob the Relic, and deface the Shrine!  
But thus Orinda died:  
Heaven, by the same Disease, did both translate,  
As equal were their Souls, so equal was their Fate.   

IX.  
Mean time her Warlike Brother on the Seas  
His waving Streamers to the Winds displays,  
And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays.  
Ah, Generous Youth, that Wish forbear,  
The Winds too soon will waft thee here!  
Slack all thy Sails, and fear to come,  
Alas, thou knowst not, Thou art wrecked at home!  
No more shalt thou behold thy Sister's Face,  
Thou hast already had her last Embrace.  
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far,  
Among the Pleiad's a New-kindled Star,  
If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright,  
'Tis she that shines in that propitious Light.   

X.  
When in mid-Aire, the Golden Trump shall sound,  
To raise the Nations under ground;  
When in the Valley of Jehosaphat,  
The Judging God shall close the Book of Fate;  
And there the last Assizes keep,  
For those who Wake, and those who Sleep;  
When rattling Bones together fly,  
From the four Corners of the Sky,  
When Sinews o'er the Skeletons are spread,  
Those clothed with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead;  
The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound,  
And foremost from the Tomb shall bond:  
For they are covered with the lightest Ground  
And straight, with inborn Vigour, on the Wing,  
Like mounting Larks, to the New Morning sing.  
There Thou, Sweet Saint, before the Choir shalt go,  
As Harbinger of Heaven, the Way to show,  
The Way which thou so well hast learned below.   
J. Dryden.    

The Epitaph Engraved on her TOMB.  
P. M. S. Annae Killigrew, Doctoris KILLIGREW Filiae, Quae in ipso AEtatis flore Obiit.  
JUNII 16. 1685.  

HEu jacet, fato victa,  
Quae stabat ubique victrix  
Forma, ingenio, religione;  
Plura collegerat in se Vnâ,  
quam vel sparsa mireris in omnibus!  
Talem quis pingat, nisi penicillo quod tractavit?  
Aut quis canat, nisi Poëta sui similis?  
Cum tanta sciret, hoc Vnum ignoravit,  
Quanta, nempe, esset;  
Aut si nor it,  
Mirare Modestiam,  
Tantis incorruptam dotibus.  
Laudes meruisse satis illi fuit,  
Has ne vel audiret, laudatores omnes fugerat,  
Contenta paterno Lare,  
Dum & sibi Aula patebat adulatrix.  
Mundum sapere an potuit,  
Quae ab infantia Christum sapuerat?  
Non modo semper Virgo,  
Sed & virginum Exemplar.  
Gentis suae Decus,  
AEvi Splendor,  
Sexus Miraculum.  
Nullâ Vertute inferior cuiquam,  
Cuilibet superior multâ.  
Optimi Deliciae patris,  
Etiam numerosâ optimâque prole fortunatissimi:  
Priorem tamen invidit nemo,  
(Seu frater, seu soror)  
Quin potius coluere omnes, omnibus suavem & officiosam,  
Amorisque commune Vinculum & Centrum.  
Vix ista credes, Hanc si nescieris;  
Credet majora, qui scierit.  
Abi Viator, & Plange:  
Si eam plangi oporteat,  
Cui, tam piè morienti,  
Vel Coelites plauserint.    

The same Turned into English.  

BY Death, alas, here Conquered lies,  
She who from All late bore the Prize  
In Beauty, Wit, Virtue Divine:  
In whom those Graces did combine,  
Which we admired in others see,  
When they but singly scattered be!   

Who her, so Great, can paint beside,  
The Pencil her own Hand did guide?  
What Verse can celebrate her Fame,  
But such as She herself did frame?   

Though much Excellence she did show,  
And many Qualities did know,  
Yet this, alone, she could not tell,  
To wit, How much she did excel.  
Or if her Worth she rightly knew,  
More to her Modesty was due,  
That Parts in her no Pride could raise  
Desirous still to merit Praise,  
But fled, as she deserved, the Bays.  
Contented always to retire,  
Court Glory she did not admire;  
Although it lay so near and fair,  
It's Grace to none more open were:  
But with the World how should she close,  
Who Christ in her first Childhood chose?   

So with her Parents she did live,  
That they to Her did Honour give,  
As she to them. In a numerous Race  
And Virtuous, the highest Place  
None envied her: Sisters, Brothers  
Her Admirers were and Lovers:  
She was to all s'obliging sweet,  
All in One Love to her did meet.  
A Virgin-Life not only led,  
But it's Example might be said.  
The Age's Ornament, the Name  
That gave her Sex and Country Fame.   

Those who her Person never knew,  
Will hardly think these things are true:  
But those that did, will More believe,  
And higher things of her conceive.   

Thy Eyes in tears now, Reader, steep:  
For Her if't lawful be to weep,  
Whose blessed and Seraphic End  
Angels in Triumph did attend.    

Alexandreis.  

I Sing the Man that never Equal knew,  
Whose Mighty Arms all Asia did subdue,  
Whose Conquests through the spacious World do ring,  
That City-Raser, King-destroying King,  
Who o'er the Warlike Macedons did Reign,  
And worthily the Name of Great did gain.  
This is the Prince (if Fame you will believe,  
To ancient Story any credit give.)  
Who when the Globe of Earth he had subdued,  
With Tears the easy Victory pursued;  
Because that no more Worlds there were to win,  
No further Scene to act his Glories in.   

Ah that some pitying Muse would now inspire  
My frozen style with a Poetic fire,  
And Raptures worthy of his Matchless Fame,  
Whose Deeds I sing, whose never fading Name  
Long as the world shall fresh and deathless last,  
No less to future Ages, than the past.  
Great my presumption is, I must confess,  
But if I thrive, my Glory's ne'er the less;  
Nor will it from his Conquests derogate  
A Female Pen his Acts did celebrate.  
If thou O Muse will't thy assistance give,  
Such as made Naso and great Maro live,  
With him whom Melas fertile Banks did bear,  
Live, though their Body's dust and ashes are;  
Whose Laurels were not fresher, than their Fame  
Is now, and will for ever be the same.  
If the like favour thou wilt grant to me,  
O Queen of Verse, I'll not ungrateful be,  
My choicest hours to thee I'll Dedicate,  
'Tis thou shalt rule, 'tis thou shalt be my Fate.  
But if Coy Goddess thou shalt this deny,  
And from my humble suit disdaining fly,  
I'll stoop and beg no more, since I know this,  
Writing of him, I cannot write amiss:  
His lofty Deeds will raise each feeble line,  
And Godlike Acts will make my Verse Divine.   

'Twas at the time the golden Sun doth rise,  
And with his Beams enlights the azure skies,  
When lo a Troop in Silver Arms drew near,  
The glorious Sun did ne'er so bright appear;  
Dire Scarlet Plumes adorned their haughty Crests,  
And crescent Shields did shade their shining Breasts;  
Down from their shoulders hung a Panther's Hide,  
A Bow and Quiver rattled by their side;  
Their hands a knotty well tried Spear did bear,  
Jocund they seemed, and quite devoid of fear.  
These warlike Virgins were, that do reside  
Near Thermodons' smooth Banks and verdant side,  
The Plains of Themiscyre their Birth do boast,  
Thalestris now did head the beauteous Host;  
She emulating that Illustrious Dame,  
Who to the aid of Troy and Priam came,  
And her who the Retulian Prince did aid,  
Though dearly both for their Assistance paid.  
But fear she scorned, nor the like fate did dread,  
Her Host she often to the field had lead,  
As oft in Triumph had returned again,  
Glory she only sought for all her pain.   

This Martial Queen had heard how loudly fame,  
Echoed our Conqueror's redoubted Name,  
Her Soul his Conduct and his Courage fired,  
To see the Hero she so much admired;  
And to Hyrcania for this cause she went,  
Where Alexander (wholly then intent  
On Triumphs and such Military sport)  
At Truce with War held both his Camp and Court.  
And while before the Town she did attend  
Her Messengers return, she saw ascend  
A cloud of Dust, that covered all the sky,  
And still at every pause there struck her eye.  
The interrupted Beams of Burnished Gold,  
As dust the Splendour hid, or did unfold;  
Loud Neighing of the Steeds, and Trumpets sound  
Filled all the Air, and echoed from the ground:  
The gallant Greeks with a brisk March drew near,  
And their great Chief did at their Head appear.  
And now come up to th' Amazonian Band,  
They made a Halt and a respectful Stand:  
And both the Troops (with like amazement struck)  
Did each on other with deep silence look.  
Th'heroic Queen (whose high pretence to War  
Cancelled the bashful Laws and nicer Bar  
Of Modesty, which did her Sex restrain)  
First boldly did advance before her Train,  
And thus she spoke. All but a God in Name,  
And that a debt Time owes unto thy Fame.   
This was the first Essay of this young Lady in Poetry, but finding the Task she had undertaken hard, she laid it by till Practice and more time should make her equal to so great a Work.   

To the Queen.  

AS those who pass the Alps do say,  
The Rocks which first oppose their way,  
And so amazing-High do show,  
By fresh Ascents appear but low,  
And when they come unto the last,  
They scorn the dwarfish Hills th'ave passed.   

So though my Muse at her first flight,  
Thought she had chose the greatest height,  
And (imped with Alexander's Name)  
Believed there was no further Fame:  
Behold an Eye wholly Divine  
Vouchsafed upon my Verse to Shine!  
And from that time I'gan to treat  
With Pity him the World called Great;  
To smile at his exalted Fate,  
Unequal (though Gigantic) State.  
I saw that Pitch was not sublime,  
Compared with this which now I climb;  
His Glories sunk, and were unseen,  
When once appeared the heaven-born Queen:  
Victories, Laurels, Conquered Kings,  
Took place among inferior things.   

Now surely I shall reach the Clouds,  
For none besides such Virtue shrouds:  
Having scaled this with holy Strains,  
Nought higher but the Heaven remains!  
No more I'll Praise on them bestow,  
Who to ill Deeds their Glories owe;  
Who build their Babel's of Renown,  
Upon the poor oppressed Crown,  
Whole Kingdoms do depopulate,  
To raise a Proud and short-lived State:  
I prise no more such Frantic Might,  
Than his that did with Windmills Fight:  
No, give me Prowess, that with Charms  
Of Grace and Goodness, not with Harms,  
Erects a Throne i'th' inward Parts,  
And Rules men's Wills, but with their Hearts;  
Who with Piety and Virtue thus  
Propitiates God, and Conquers us.  
O that now like Araunah here,  
Altars of Praises I could rear,  
Suiting her worth, which might be seen  
Like a Queen's Present, to a Queen!   

` Alone she stands for Virtue's Cause,  
` When all decry, upholds her Laws:  
` When to Banish her is the Strife,  
` Keeps her unexiled in her Life;  
` Guarding her matchless Innocence  
` From Storms of boldest Impudence;  
` In spite of all the Scoffs and Rage,  
` And Persecutions of the Age,  
` Owns Virtue's Altar, feeds the Flame,  
` Adores her much-derided Name;  
` While impiously her hands they tie,  
` Love's her in her Captivity;  
` Like Perseus saves her, when she stands  
` Exposed to the Leviathans.  
` So did bright Lamps once live in Urns,  
` So Camphire in the water burns,  
` So AEtna's Flames do ne'er go out,  
` Though Snows do freeze her head without.   

How dares bold Vice unmasked walk,  
And like a Giant proudly stalk?  
When virtue's so exalted seen,  
Armed and Triumphant in the Queen?  
How dares its Ulcerous Face appear,  
When Heavenly Beauty is so near?  
But so when God was close at hand,  
And the bright Cloud did threatening stand  
(In fight of Israel) on the Tent,  
They on in their Rebellion went.   

O that I once so happy were,  
To find a nearer Shelter there!  
Till than poor Dove, I wandering fly  
Between the Deluge and the Sky:  
Till than I Mourn, but do not sing,  
And oft shall plunge my wearied wing:  
If her blessed hand vouchsafe the Grace,  
I'th' Ark with her to give a place,  
I safe from danger shall be found,  
When Vice and Folly others drowned.    

A Pastoral Dialogue.  Dorinda. 

SAbaean Perfumes fragrant Roses bring,  
With all the Flowers that Paint the gaudy Spring:  
Scatter them all in young Alexis' way,  
With all that's sweet and (like himself) that's Gay.   Alexis. 

Immortal Laurels and as lasting Praise,  
Crown the Divine Dorinda's matchless Lays:  
May all Hearts stoop, where mine would gladly yield,  
Had not Lycoris prepossessed the Field.   Dor. 

Would my Alexis meet my noble Flame,  
In all Ausonia neither Youth nor Dame,  
Should so renowned in Deathless Numbers shine,  
As thy exalted Name should do in mine.   Alex. 

He'll need no Trophy nor ambitious Hearse,  
Who shall be honoured by Dorinda's Verse;  
But where it is inscribed, That here doth lie  
Lycoris' Love. That Fame can never die.   Dor. 

On Tyber's Bank I Thyrsis did espy,  
And by his side did bright Lycoris lie;  
She Crowned his Head, and Kissed his amorous Brow,  
Ah Poor Alexis! Ah then where were't thou?   Alex. 

When thou saw'st that, I ne'er had seen my Fair,  
And what passed then ought not to be my Care;  
I lived not then, but first began to be,  
When I Lycoris Loved, and she Loved me.   Dor. 

Ah choose a Faith, a Faith that's like thine own,  
A Virgin Love, a Love that's newly blown:  
'Tis not enough a Maidens Heart is chaste,  
It must be Single, and not once misplaced.   Alex. 

Thus do our Priests of Heavenly Pastures tell,  
Eternal Groves, all Earthly, that excel:  
And think to wean us from our Loves below,  
By dazzling Objects which we cannot know.    

On Death.  

TEll me thou safest End of all our Woe,  
Why wretched Mortals do avoid thee so:  
Thou gentle drier o'th' afflict Tears,  
Thou noble ender of the Coward's Fears;  
Thou sweet Repose to Lovers sad despair,  
Thou Calm t'Ambitions rough Tempestuous Care.  
If in regard of Bliss thou wert a Curse,  
And then the Joys of Paradise art worse;  
Yet after Man from his first Station fell,  
And God from Eden Adam did expel,  
Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief;  
The Balm and Cure to every Humane Grief:  
Through thee (what Man had forfeited before)  
He now enjoys, and ne'er can lose it more.  
No subtle Serpents in the Grave betray,  
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;  
No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there affright,  
No Cozening Sin affords a false delight:  
No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,  
No fierce Alarms break the lasting Joy.   

Ah since from thee so many Blessings flow,  
Such real Good as Life can never know;  
Come when thou wilt, in thy afrighting'st Dress,  
Thy Shape shall never make thy Welcome less.  
Thou mayst to Joy, but ne'er to Fear give Birth,  
Thou Best, as well as Certainest thing on Earth.  
Fly thee? May Travellers than fly their Rest,  
And hungry Infants fly the proffered Breast.  
No, those that faint and tremble at thy Name,  
Fly from their Good on a mistaken Fame.  
Thus Childish fear did Israel of old  
From Plenty and the Promised Land withhold;  
They fancied Giants, and refused to go,  
When Canaan did with Milk and Honey flow.    

First EPIGRAM. Upon being Contented with a Little.  

WE deem them moderate, but Enough implore,  
What barely will suffice, and ask no more:  
Who say, (O Jove) a competency give,  
Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live.  
But what is that, which these Enough do call?  
If both the Indies unto some should fall,  
Such Wealth would yet Enough but only be,  
And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury.  
Among the Suits O Jove, my humbler take;  
A little give, I that Enough will make.    

The Second EPIGRAM. On BILLINDA.  

WAnton Bellinda loudly does complain,  
I've changed my Love of late into disdain:  
Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore  
The chaste Marcelia, that loved her before.  
Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame,  
That I repent, or do avoid a shame.    

The Third EPIGRAM. On an ATHEIST.  

POsthumus boasts he does not Thunder fear,  
And for this cause would Innocent appear;  
That in his Soul no Terror he does feel,  
At threatened Vultures, or Ixion's Wheel,  
Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told  
What Acts against Murder lately were enrolled,  
Against Incest, Rapine,— strait upon the Tale  
His Colour changed, and Posthumus grew pale.  
His Impious Courage had no other Root,  
But that the Villain, Atheist was to boot.    

The Fourth EPIGRAM. On GALLA.  

NOw liquid Streams by the fierce Cold do grow  
As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow;  
Now Tiber's Banks with Ice united meet,  
And it's firm Stream may well be termed its Street;  
Now Votaries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show,  
And scarce the Men from Images we know;  
Now Winter's Palsy seizes every Age,  
And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage;  
Even the bright Lilies and triumphant Red  
Which o'er Corinna's youthful cheeks are spread,  
Look pale and bleak, and show a purple hue,  
And Violets stain, where Roses lately grew.  
Galla alone, with wonder we behold,  
Maintain her Spring, and still outbrave the Cold;  
Her constant white does not to Frost give place,  
Nor fresh vermilion fade upon her face:  
Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine?  
Not Humane, one replied, yet not Divine.    

A Farewell To Worldly Joys.  

FArewel ye Unsubstantial Joys,  
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toys,  
Too long ye have my Soul misled,  
Too long with Airy Diet fed:  
But now my Heart ye shall no more  
Deceive, as you have heretofore:  
For when I hear such Sirens sing,  
Like Ithacas' forewarned King,  
With prudent Resolution I  
Will so my Will and Fancy tie,  
That stronger to the Mast not he,  
Than I to Reason bound will be:  
And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear,  
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear.    

THE Complaint of a Lover.  

SEest thou yonder craggy Rock,  
Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main,  
Where never Shepherd fed his Flock,  
Or careful Peasant sowed his Grain.   

No wholesome Herb grows on the same,  
Or Bird of Day will on it rest;  
'Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame,  
That scorches my tormented Breast.   

Deep underneath a Cave does lie,  
Th' entrance hid with dismal Yew,  
Where Phoebus never showed his Eye,  
Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.   

In that dark Melancholy Cell,  
(Retreat and Solace to my Woe)  
Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell,  
The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow.   

Treacherous Love that did appear,  
(When he at first approached my Heart)  
Dressed in a Garb far from severe,  
Or threatening aught of future smart.   

So Innocent those Charms than seemed,  
When Rosalinda first I spied,  
Ah! Who would them have deadly deemed?  
But Flowers do often Serpents hide.   

Beneath those sweets concealed lay,  
To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain,  
With which (alas) she does repay  
My Constant and Deserving Pain.   

When I in Tears have spent the Night,  
With Sighs I usher in the Sun,  
Who never saw a sadder sight,  
In all the Courses he has run.   

Sleep, which to others Ease does prove,  
Comes unto me, alas, in vain:  
For in my Dreams I am in Love,  
And in them too she does Disdain.   

Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I  
Unto the hollow Rocks repair,  
And loudly to the Echo cry,  
Ah! gentle Nymph come ease my Care.   

Thou who, times past, a Lover were't,  
Ah! pity me, who now am so,  
And by a sense of thine own smart,  
Alleviate my Mighty Woe.   

Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief;  
Catch my last Words, and call me Fool;  
Or say, she Loves, for my Relief;  
My Passion either sooth, or School.    

Love, the Soul of Poetry.  

WHen first Alexis did in Verse delight,  
His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walked,  
And now and then a little Proudly stalked;  
But never aimed at any noble Flight:  
The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams,  
Adorned his Song, and were his highest Themes.   

But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse,  
Enlarged his Fancy, and set free his Muse,  
Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose;  
The Acts of Gods, and Godlike Men rehearse.  
From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire,  
His fierce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire.  
Th' exalted Poet raised by this new Flame,  
With Vigour flies, where late he crept along,  
And Acts Divine, in a Diviner Song,  
Commits to the eternal Trump of Fame.  
And thus Alexis does prove Love to be,  
As the World's Soul, the Soul of Poetry.    

To my Lady Berkeley, Afflicted upon her Son, My Lord BERKELEY's Early Engaging in the Sea- Service.  

SO the renowned Ithac●●●ian Queen  
In Tears for her Telemachus was seen,  
When leaving Home, he did attempt the Ire  
Of raging Seas, to seek his absent Sire:  
Such bitter Sighs her tender Breast did rend;  
But had she known a God did him attend,  
And would with Glory bring him safe again,  
Bright Thoughts would then have dispossessed her Pain.   

Ah Noblest Lady! You that her excel  
In every Virtue, may in Prudence well  
Suspend your Care; knowing what power befriends  
Your Hopes, and what on Virtue still attends.  
In bloody Conflicts he will Armour find,  
In strongest Tempests he will rule the Wind,  
He will through Thousand Dangers force a way,  
And still Triumphant will his Charge convey.  
And the All-ruling power that can act thus,  
Will safe return your Dear Telemachus.   

Alas, he was not born to live in Peace,  
Souls of his Temper were not made for Ease,  
Th'Ignoble only live secure from Harms,  
The Generous tempt, and seek out fierce Alarms.  
Huge Labours were for Hercules designed,  
Jason, to fetch the Golden Fleece, enjoined,  
The Minotaur by Noble Theseus died,  
In vain were Valour, if it were not tried,  
Should the admired and far-sought Diamond lie,  
As in its Bed, unpolisht to the Eye,  
It would be slighted like a common stone,  
It's Value would be small, its Glory none.  
But when't has passed the Wheel and Cutter's hand,  
Than it is meet in Monarches Crowns to stand.   

Upon the Noble Object of your Care  
Heaven has bestowed, of Worth, so large a share,  
That unastonished none can him behold,  
Or credit all the Wonders of him told!  
When others, at his Years were turning o'er,  
The Acts of Heroes that had lived before,  
Their Valour to excite, when time should fit,  
He then did Things, were Worthy to be writ!  
Stayed not for Time, his Courage that outran  
In Actions, far before in Years, a Man.  
Two French Campagnes he boldly courted Fame,  
While his Face more the Maid, than Youth became  
Add then to these a Soul so truly Mild,  
Though more than Man, Obedient as a Child.  
And (ah) should one Small Isle all these confine,  
Virtues created through the World to shine?  
Heaven that forbids, and Madam so should you;  
Remember he but bravely does pursue  
His Noble Father's steps; with your own Hand  
Then Gird his Armour on, like him he'll stand,  
His Country's Champion, and Worthy be  
Of your High Virtue, and his Memory.    

St. John Baptist Painted by herself in the Wilderness, with Angels appearing to him, and with a Lamb by him.  

THe Sun's my Fire, when it does shine,  
The hollow Spring's my Cave of Wine,  
The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat;  
This Lamb and I on one Dish eat:  
The neighbouring Herds my Garments send,  
My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend:  
Excess and Grandeur I decline,  
M'Associates only are Divine.    

HERODIAS Daughter presenting to her Mother St. JOHN'S Head in a Charger, also Painted by herself.  

BEhold, dear Mother, who was late our Fear,  
Disarmed and Harmless, I present you here;  
The Tongue tied up, that made all Jury quake,  
And which so often did our Greatness shake;  
No Terror sits upon his Awful Brow,  
Where Fierceness reigned, there Calmness triumphs now;  
As Lovers use, he gazes on my Face,  
With Eyes that languish, as they sued for Grace;  
Wholly subdued by my Victorious Charms,  
See how his Head reposes in my Arms.  
Come, join then with me in my just Transport,  
Who thus have brought the Hermit to the Court.    

On a Picture Painted by herself, representing two Nymphs of DIANA'S, one in a posture to Hunt, the other Batheing.  

WE are Diana's Virgin-Train,  
Descended of no Mortal Strain;  
Our Bows and Arrows are our Goods,  
Our Palaces, the lofty Woods,  
The Hills and Dales, at early Morn,  
Resound and Echo with our Horn;  
We chase the Hind and Fallow-Deer,  
The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear;  
In Swiftness we outstrip the Wind,  
An Eye and Thought we leave behind;  
We Fawns and Shaggy Satyr's awe;  
To Sylvan Powers we give the Law:  
Whatever does provoke our Hate,  
Our Javelins strike, as sure as Fate;  
We bath in Springs, to cleanse the Soil,  
Contracted by our eager Toil;  
In which we shine like glittering Beams,  
Or Crystal in the Crystal Streams;  
Though Venus we transcend in Form,  
No wanton Flames our Bosoms warm!  
If you ask where such Wights do dwell,  
In what Blessed Clime, that so excel?  
The Poets only that can tell.    

An Invective against Gold.  

OF all the Poisons that the fruitful Earth  
E'er yet brought forth, or Monsters she gave Birth,  
Nought to Mankind has e'er so fatal been,  
As thou, accursed Gold, their Gare and Sin.   

Methinks I the Adventurous Merchant see,  
Ploughing the faithless Seas, in search of thee,  
His dearest Wife and Children left behind,  
(His real Wealth) while he, a Slave to th'Wind,  
Sometimes becalmed, the Shore with longing Eyes  
Wishes to see, and what he wishes, Spies:  
For a rude Tempest wakes him from his Dream,  
And Strands his Bark by a more sad Extreme.  
Thus, hopeless Wretch, is his whole Life-time spent,  
And though thrice Wrecked, 's no Wiser than he went.   

Again, I see, the Heavenly Fair despised,  
A Hag like Hell, with Gold, more highly prized;  
men's Faith betrayed, their Prince and Country Sold,  
Their God denied, all for the Idol Gold.   

Unhappy Wretch, who first found out the Oar,  
What kind of Vengeance rests for thee in store?  
If Nebats Son, that Israel led astray,  
Meet a severe Reward at the last Day?  
Some strange unheard-of Judgement thou wilt find,  
Who thus hast caused to Sin all Humane Kind.    

The Miseries of Man.  

IN that so temperate Soil Arcadia named,  
For fertile Pasturage by Poets famed;  
Stands a steep Hill, whose lofty jetting Crown,  
Casts o'er the neighbouring Plains, a seeming Frown;  
Close at its mossy Foot an aged Wood,  
Composed of various Trees, there long has stood,  
Whose thick united Tops scorn the Sun's Ray,  
And hardly will admit the Eye of Day.  
By oblique windings through this gloomy Shade,  
Has a clear purling Stream its Passage made,  
The Nymph, as discontented seemed t'ave chose  
This sad Recess to murmur forth her Woes.   

To this Retreat, urged by tormenting Care,  
The melancholy Cloris did repair,  
As a fit Place to take the sad Relief  
Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief.  
Near to the Mourning Nymph she chose a Seat,  
And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat.   

Ah wretched, truly wretched Humane Race!  
Your Woes from what Beginning shall I trace,  
Where End, from your first feeble Newborn Cries,  
To the last Tears that wet your dying Eyes?  
Man, Common Foe, assailed on every hand,  
Finds that no Ill does Neuter by him stand,  
Inexorable Death, Lean Poverty,  
Pale Sickness, ever sad Captivity.  
Can I, alas, the several Parties name,  
Which, mustered up, the Dreadful Army frame?  
And sometimes in One Body all Unite,  
Sometimes again do separately fight:  
While sure Success on either Way does wait,  
Either a Swift, or else a Lingering Fate.   

But why against thee, O Death! should I inveigh,  
That to our Quiet art the only way?  
And yet I would (could I thy Dart command)  
Cry, Here O strike! and there O hold thy Hand!  
The Loved, the Happy, and the Youthful spare,  
And end the Sad, the Sick, the Poor Man's Care.  
But whether thou or Blind, or Cruel art,  
Whether 'tis Chance, or Malice, guides thy Dart,  
Thou from the Parent's Arms dost pull away  
The hopeful Child, their Ages only ftay:  
The Two, whom Friendship in dear Bands has tied,  
Thou dost with a remorseless hand divide;  
Friendship, the Cement, that does faster twine  
Two Souls, than that which Soul and Body join:  
Thousands have been, who their own Blood did spill,  
But never any yet his Friend did kill.  
Then against thy Dart what Armour can be found,  
Who, where thou dost not strike, dost deepest wound?  
Thy Pity, than thy Wrath's more bitter far,  
Most cruel, where 'twould seem the most to spare:  
Yet thou of many Evils art but One,  
Though thou by much too many art alone.   

What shall I say of Poverty, whence flows?  
To miserable Man so many Woes?  
Ridiculous Evil which too oft we prove,  
Does Laughter cause, where it should Pity move;  
Solitary Ill, into which no Eye,  
Though ne'er so Curious, ever cares to pry,  
And were there, 'mong such plenty, only One  
Poor Man, he certainly would live alone.   

Yet Poverty does leave the Man entire,  
But Sickness nearer Mischiefs does conspire;  
Invades the Body with a loathed Embrace,  
Prides both its Strength, and Beauty to deface;  
Nor does its Malice in these bounds restrain,  
But shakes the Throne of Sacred Wit, the Brain,  
And with a ne'er enough detested Force  
Reason disturbs, and turns out of its Course.  
Again, when Nature some Rare Piece has made,  
On which her Utmost Skill she seems t'ave laid,  
Polished, adorned the Work with moving Grace,  
And in the Beauteous Frame a Soul doth place,  
So perfectly composed, it makes Divine  
Each Motion, Word, and Look from thence does shine;  
This Goodly Composition, the Delight  
Of every Heart, and Joy of every sight,  
It's peevish Malice has the Power to spoil,  
And with a Sullied Hand its Lustre soil.  
The Grief were Endless, that should all bewail,  
Against whose sweet Repose thou dost prevail:  
Some freeze with Agues, some with Fevers burn,  
Whose Lives thou half out of their Holds dost turn;  
And of whose Sufferings it may be said,  
They living feel the very State o'th' Dead.  
Thou in a thousand several Forms are dressed,  
And in them all dost Wretched Man infest.   

And yet as if these Evils were too few,  
Men their own Kind with hostile Arms pursue;  
Not Heavens fierce Wrath, nor yet the Hate of Hell,  
Not any Plague that e'er the World befell,  
Not Inundations, Famines, Fires blind rage,  
Did ever Mortals equally engage,  
As Man does Man, more skilful to annoy,  
Both Mischievous and Witty to destroy.  
The bloody Wolf, the Wolf does not pursue;  
The Boar, though fierce, his Tusk will not imbrue  
In his own Kind, Bares, not on Bares do prey:  
Then art thou, Man, more savage far than they.   

And now, methinks, I present do behold  
The Bloody Fields that are in Fame enroled,  
I see, I see thousands in Battle slain,  
The Dead and Dying cover all the Plain,  
Confused Noifes hear, each way sent out,  
The Vanquishts Cries joined with the Victor's shout;  
Their Sighs and Groans who draw a painful Breath,  
And feel the Pangs of slow approaching Death:  
Yet happier these, far happier are the Dead,  
Than who into Captivity are led:  
What by their Chains, and by the Victor's Pride,  
We pity these, and envy those that died.  
And who can say, when Thousands are betrayed,  
To Widowhood, Orphans or Childless made.  
Whither the Day does draw more Tears or Blood  
A greater Crystal, or a Crimson Flood.  
The faithful Wife, who late her Lord did Arm,  
And hoped to shield, by holy Vows, from Harm,  
Followed his parting-steps with Love and Care,  
Sent after weeping Eyes, while he afar  
Rod heated on, born by a brave Disdain,  
May now go seek him, lying 'mong the Slain:  
Low on the Earth she'll find his lofty Crest,  
And those refulgent Arms which late his Breast  
Did guard, by rough Encounters broke and tore,  
His Face and Hair, with Brains all clotted o'er,  
And Warlike Weeds besmeer'd with Dust and Gore.   

And will the Suffering World never bestow  
Upon th'Accursed Causers of such Woe,  
A vengeance that may parallel their Loss,  
Fix Public Thiefs and Robbers on the Cross?  
Such as call Ruin, Conquest, in their Pride,  
And having plagued Mankind, in Triumph ride.  
Like that renounced Murderer who stains  
In these our days Alsatias fertile Plains,  
Only to fill the future Tromp of Fame,  
Though greater Crimes, than Glory it proclaim.  
Alcides, Scourge of Thiefs, return to Earth,  
Which uncontrolled gives such Monster's birth;  
On Scepter'd-Cacus let thy Power be shown,  
Pull him not from his Den, but from his Throne.   

Clouds of black Thoughts her further Speech here broke,  
Her swelling Grief too great was to be spoke,  
Which struggled long in her tormented Mind,  
Till it some Vent by Sighs and Tears did find.  
And when her Sorrow something was subdued,  
She thus again her sad Complaint renewed.   

Most Wretched Man, were th'Ills I named before  
All which I could in thy sad State deplore,  
Did Things without alone against thee prevail,  
My Tongue I'd chide, that them I did bewail:  
But, Shame to Reason, thou art seen to be  
Unto thyself the fatall'st Enemy,  
Within thy Breast the Greatest Plagues to bear,  
First them to breed; and then to cherish there;  
Unmanaged Passions which the Reins have broke  
Of Reason, and refuse to bear its Yoke.  
But hurry thee, uncurbed, from place to place,  
A wild, unruly, and an Uncouth Chase.  
Now cursed Gold does lead the Man astray,  
False flattering Honours do anon betray,  
Then Beauty does as dangerously delude,  
Beauty, that vanishes, while 'tis pursued,  
That, while we do behold it, fades away,  
And even a Long Encomium will not stay.   

Each one of these can the Whole Man employ,  
Nor knows he anger, sorrow, fear, or joy,  
But what to these relate; no Thought does start  
Aside, but tends to its appointed Part,  
No Respite to himself from Cares he gives,  
But on the Rack of Expectation lives.  
If crossed, the Torment cannot be expressed,  
Which boyles within his agitated Breast.  
Music is harsh, all Mirth is an offence,  
The Choicest Meats cannot delight his Sense,  
Hard as the Earth he feels his Downy Bed,  
His Pillow stuffed with Thorns, that bears his Head,  
He rolls from side to side, in vain seeks Rest;  
For if sleep comes at last to the Distressed,  
His Troubles then cease not to vex him too,  
But Dreams present, what he does waking do.  
On th'other side, if he obtains the Prey,  
And Fate to his impetuous Suit gives way,  
Be he or Rich, or Amorous, or Great,  
He'll find this Riddle still of a Defeat,  
That only Care, for Bliss, he home has brought,  
Or else Contempt of what he so much sought.  
So that on each Event if we reflect,  
The Joys and Sufferings of both sides collect,  
We cannot say where lies the greatest Pain,  
In the fond Pursuit, Loss, or Empty Gain.   

And can it be, Lord of the Sea and Earth,  
Offspring of Heaven, that to thy State and Birth  
Things so incompatible should be joined,  
Passions should thee confound, to Heaven assigned?  
Passions that do the Soul unguarded lay,  
And to the strokes of Fortune ope' a way.  
Were't not that these thy Force did from thee take,  
How bold, how brave Resistance wouldst thou make?  
Defy the Strength and Malice of thy Foes,  
Unmoved stand the World's United Blows?  
For what is't, Man, unto thy Better Part,  
That thou or Sick, or Poor, or Captive art?  
Since no Material Struck the Soul can feel,  
The smart of Fire, or yet the Edge of Steel.  
As little can it Worldly Joys partake,  
Though it the Body does its Agent make,  
And jointly with it Servile Labour bear,  
For Things, alas, in which it cannot share.  
Survey the Land and Sea by Heavens embraced,  
Thou'lt find no sweet th'Immortal Soul can taste:  
Why dost thou then, O Man! thyself torment  
Good here to gain, or Evils to prevent?  
Who only Miserable or Happy art,  
As thou neglects, or wisely act'st thy Part.   

For shame then rouse thyself as from a Sleep,  
The long neglected Reins let Reason keep,  
The Chariot mount, and use both Lash and Bit,  
Nobly resolve, and thou wilt firmly sit:  
Fierce Anger, boggling Fear, Pride prancing still,  
Bounds-hating Hope, Desire which nought can fill,  
Are stubborn all, but thou may'st give them Law;  
theyare hard-mouthed Horses, but they well can draw.  
Lash on, and the well governed Chariot drive,  
Till thou a Victor at the Goal arrive,  
Where the free Soul does all her burden leave,  
And Joys commensurate to herself receive.    

Upon the saying that my VERSES were made by another.  

NExt Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse!)  
I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.   

O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire,  
And warm my Soul with thy Poetic Fire,  
No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart,  
Or yet Ambition in my Breast have Part,  
More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold  
The Muse's Laurel, than a Crown of Gold.  
An Undivided Sacrifice I'll lay  
Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay;  
Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be,  
My All I'll make a Holocaust to thee.   

The Deity that ever does attend  
Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.  
I writ, and the Judicious praised my Pen:  
Could any doubt Ensuing Glory then?  
What pleasing Raptures filled my Ravished Sense?  
How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence?  
And thine, False Hope, that to my flattered sight  
Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright?  
By thee deceived, methought, each Verdant Tree,  
Apollo's transformed Daphne seemed to be;  
And every fresher Branch, and every Bow  
Appeared as Garlands to impale my Brow.  
The Learned in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy  
Does first approach, dressed up in welcome Joy;  
At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight  
Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight,  
Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind  
Their Hearts, than when they more assurance find.   

Emboldened thus, to Fame I did commit,  
(By some few hands) my most Unlucky Wit.  
But, ah, the sad effects that from it came!  
What ought t'have brought me Honour, brought me shame!  
Like Esop's Painted Jay I seemed to all,  
Adorned in Plumes, I not my own could call:  
Rifled like her, each one my Feathers tore,  
And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore.  
My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorned,  
My Numbers they Admired, but Me they scorned:  
An others Brow, that had so rich a store  
Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before;  
Where mine quite lost, (like a small stream that ran  
Into a Vast and Boundless Ocean)  
Was swallowed up, with what it joined and drowned,  
And that Abiss yet no Accession found.   

Orinda, (Albion's and her Sex's Grace)  
Owed not her Glory to a Beauteous Face,  
It was her Radiant Soul that shone Within,  
Which struck a Lustre through her Outward Skin;  
That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roses die,  
Advanced her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye.  
Nor did her Sex at all obstruct her Fame,  
But higher 'mong the Stars it fixed her Name;  
What she did write, not only all allowed,  
But every Laurel, to her Laurel, bowed!   

Th'Envious Age, only to Me alone,  
Will not allow, what I do write, my Own,  
But let 'em Rage, and against a Maid Conspire,  
So Deathless Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre  
Do ever flow; so Phoebus I by thee  
Divinely Inspired and possessed may be;  
I willingly accept Cassandra's Fate,  
To speak the Truth, although believed too late.    

On the Birthday of Queen Katherine.  

WHile yet it was the Empire of the Night,  
And Stars still check'red Darkness with their Light,  
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring,  
But with the Peals a churlish Storm did sing.  
I slumbered; and the Heavens like things did show,  
Like things which I had seen and heard below.  
Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly,  
But through a cloudy and a troubled Sky,  
Some fixed a Throne, and Royal Robes displayed,  
And then a Massy Cross upon it laid.  
I wept: and earnestly implored to know,  
Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.  
An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen,  
Denotes the Birthday of a Saint and Queen.  
Ah, Glorious Minister, I then replied,  
Goodness and Bliss together do reside  
In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below  
These two combined so rarely do we know?  
He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morn  
Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.  
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave,  
God darkened Heaven, when He the World did save.    

TO My Lord Colrane, In Answer to his Complimental Verses sent me under the Name of CLEANOR.  

LOng my dull Muse in heavy slumbers lay,  
Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way,  
Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy,  
Or fancying little worthy her employ.  
When Noble Cleanors obliging Strains  
Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains.  
Confused at first, she raised her drowsy Head,  
Pondered a while, then pleased, forsook her Bed.  
Surveyed each Line with Fancy richly fraught,  
Re-read, and then revolved them in her Thought.   

And can it be? she said, and can it be?  
That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see?  
The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time divide,  
'Twixt dangerous Politics, and formal Pride,  
Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity,  
In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be:  
Leave to Inferiors the despised Arts,  
Let their Retainers be the Men of Parts.  
But here with Wonder and with Joy I find,  
I'th'Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind;  
One, who on Ancestors, does not rely  
For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high!   

The Severe Goddess thus approved the Lays:  
Yet too much pleased, alas, with her own Praise.  
But to vain Pride, My Muse, cease to give place,  
Virgil's immortal Numbers once did grace  
A Smothered Gnat: by high Applause is shown,  
If undeserved, the Praisers worth alone:  
Nor that you should believe't, is't always meant,  
'Tis often for Instruction only sent,  
To praise men to Amendment, and display,  
By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay.  
This Use of these Applauding Numbers make  
Them for Example, not Encomium, take.    

The Discontent.  

I.  

HEre take no Care, take here no Gare, my Muse,  
Nor ought of Art or Labour use:  
But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,  
Nor Equal be their Feet, nor numerous let them flow.  
The ruggeder my Measures run when read,  
They'll livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.  
Who when theyare tempted by the smooth Ascents,  
Which flattering Hope presents,  
Briskly they climb, and Great Things undertake;  
But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make:  
For 'tis not long before their Feet,  
Inextricable Mazes meet,  
Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way,  
Mountains withstand them of Dismay;  
Or to the Brink of black Despair them lead,  
Where's nought their Ruin to impede,  
In vain for Aid they then to Reason call,  
Their Senses dazzle, and their Heads turn round,  
The sight does all their Powers confound,  
And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall:  
Where storms of Sighs for ever blow,  
Where raped streams of Tears do flow,  
Which drown them in a Briny Flood.  
My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good,  
Nought that the World can show,  
Nought that it can bestow.    

II.  

Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay,  
Ah, too successful to betray,  
When spread in our frail Virtue's way:  
For few do run with so Resolved a Pace,  
That for the Golden Apple will not lose the Race.  
And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend,  
Or greedy Avarice would wish to save;  
Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send,  
Or in the Sea has found a Grave,  
Joined in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be,  
The Body from a stern Disease to free,  
Or purchase for the Minds relief  
One Moment's sweet Repose, when restless made by grief,  
But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move:  
When some the Price of what they Dearest Love  
Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand,  
To part with it their Hearts they can't command:  
But chose to miss, what miss does them torment,  
And that to hug, affords them no Content.  
Wife Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold,  
Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold.    

III.  

Nor yet, if rightly understood,  
Does Grandeur carry more of Good;  
To be o'th' Number of the Great enroled,  
A Sceptre o'er a Mighty Realm to hold.  
For what is this?  
If I not judge amiss.  
But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take,  
And of one single Family to make?  
The Wronged, the Poor, th'oppressed, the Sad,  
The Ruined, Malcontent, and Mad?  
Which a great Part of every Empire frame,  
And Interest in the common Father claim.  
Again what is't, but always to abide  
A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend  
A Life that's vain, or Evil without End?  
And which is yet nor safely held, nor laid aside?  
And then, if lesser Titles carry less of Care,  
Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share  
Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best,  
When of the least of it Men are possessed.    

IV.  

But, O, the Laureled Fool! that dotes on Fame,  
Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name;  
Who can accept for Pay  
Of what he does, what others say;  
Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast,  
To toilsome Study than betrays his Rest;  
Now to his Soul denies a just Content,  
Then forces on it what it does resent;  
And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those,  
Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose.  
O famished Soul, which such Thin Food can feed!  
O Wretched Labour crowned with such a Meed!  
Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too shrill,  
To lull a Mind to Rest,  
Or calm a stormy Breast,  
Which asks a Music soft and still.  
'Twas not Amalecks vanquished Cry,  
Nor Israel's shout of Victory,  
That could in Saul the rising Passion lay,  
'Twas the soft strains of David's Lyre the Evil Spirit chaceed away.    

V.  

But Friendship fain would yet itself defend,  
And Mighty Things it does pretend,  
To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Bait,  
The sweet Refection of our toilsome State.  
But though True Friendship a Rich Cordial be,  
Alas, by most 'tis so allayed,  
It's Good so mixed with Ill we see,  
That Dross for Gold is often paid.  
And for one Grain of Friendship that is found,  
Falsehood and Interest do the Mass compound,  
Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound.  
Love in no Two was ever yet the same,  
No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame.    

VI  

Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne'er pressed?  
That Air which never yet by Humane Breast  
Respired, did Life supply?  
Oh, thither let me fly!  
Where from the World at such a distance set,  
All that's past, present, and to come I may forget:  
The Lover's Sighs, and the Afflicteds' Tears,  
What e'er may wound my Eyes or Ears.  
The grating Noise of Private Jars,  
The horrid sound of Public Wars,  
Of babbling Fame the Idle Stories,  
The short-lived Triumphs Noysy-Glories,  
The Curious Nets the subtle weave,  
The Word, the Look that may deceive.  
No Mundan Care shall more affect my Breast,  
My profound Peace shake or molest:  
But Stupor, like to Death, my Senses bind,  
That so I may anticipate that Rest,  
Which only in my Grave I hope to find.     

A Pastoral Dialogue.  Amintor. 

STay gentle Nymph, nor so solic'tous be?  
To fly his sight that still would gaze on thee.  
With other Swains I see thee oft converse,  
Content to speak, and hear what they rehearse:  
But I unhappy, when I ere draw nigh,  
Thou straight dost leave both Place, and Company.  
If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow,  
Ah, sure thou little of my Heart dost know.   Alinda. 

What wonder, Swain, if the Pursued by Flight,  
Seeks to avoid the close Pursuers Sight?  
And if no Cause I have to fly from thee,  
Then thou hast none, why thou dost follow me.   Amin. 

If to the Cause thou wilt propitious prove,  
Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know 'tis Love.   Alin. 

To my just Prayer, ye favouring Gods attend,  
These Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I send,  
My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend.   Amin. 

The Gods which did on thee such Charms bestow,  
ne'er meant thou shouldst to Love have proved a Foe,  
That so Divine a Power thou shouldst defy.  
Could there a Reason be, I'd ask thee, why?   Alin. 

Why does Licoris, once so bright and gay,  
Pale as a Lily pine herself away?  
Why does Elvira, ever sad, frequent  
The lonely shades? Why does yond Monument  
Which we upon our Left Hand do behold,  
Hapless Amintas youthful Limbs enfold?  
Say Shepherd, say: But if thou wilt not tell,  
Damon, Philisides, and Strephon well  
Can speak the Cause, whose Falsehood each upbraids,  
And justly me from Cruel Love dissuades.   Amin. 

Hear me ye Gods. Me and my Flocks forsake,  
If e'er like them my promised Faith I broke.   Alin. 

By others sad Experience wise I'll be,   Amin. 

But such thy Wisdom highly injures me:  
And nought but Death can give a Remedy.  
Ye Learned in Physic, what does it avail,  
That you by Art (wherein ye never fail)  
Present Relief have for the Mad-dogs By't?  
The Serpent's sting? the poisonous Achonite?  
While helpless Love upbraids your baffled skill,  
And far more certain, than the rest, doth kill.   Alin. 

Fond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Rose,  
Whose Beauty with the Morning did disclose,  
And e'er Days King forsakes th'enlighted Earth,  
Withered, returns from whence it took its Birth.  
As much Excuse will there thy Love attend,  
As what thou dost on women's Beauty spend.   Amin. 

Ah Nymph, those Charms which I in thee admire,  
Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire.  
From Heaven they are, and such as ne'er can die,  
But with thy Soul they will ascend the Sky!  
For though my ravished Eye beholds in Thee,  
Such beauty as I can in none else see;  
That Nature there alone is without blame,  
Yet did not this my faithful Heart inflame:  
Nor when in Dance thou movest upon the Plain,  
Or other Sports pursuest among the Train  
Of choicest Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace  
Shows thee alone, though thousands be in place!  
Yet not for these do I Alinda love,  
Hear then what 'tis, that does my Passion move.  
That Thou still Earliest at the Temple art,  
And still the last that does from thence depart;  
Paus Altar is by thee the oftenest pressed,  
Thine's still the fairest Offering and the Best;  
And all thy other Actions seem to be,  
The true Result of Unseign'd Piety;  
Strict in thyself, to others Just and Mild;  
Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguiled;  
Wary, without the least Offence, to live,  
Yet none than thee more ready to forgive!  
Even on thy Beauty thou dost Fetters lay,  
Lest, unawares, it any should betray.  
Far unlike, sure, to many of thy Sex,  
Whose Pride it is, the doting World to vex;  
Spreading their Universal Nets to take  
Who e'er their artifice can captive make.  
But thou command'st thy Sweet, but Modest Eye,  
That no Inviting Glance from thence should fly.  
Beholding with a Generous Disdain,  
The lighter Courtships of each amorous Swain;  
Knowing, true Fame, Virtue alone can give:  
Nor dost thou greedily even that receive.  
And what 'bove this thy Character can raise?  
Thirsty of Merit, yet neglecting Praise!  
While daily these Perfections I descry,  
Matchless Alinda makes me daily die.  
Thou absent, Flowers to me no Odours yield,  
Nor find I freshness in the dewy Field;  
Not Thyrsis Voice, nor Melibeus Lyre,  
Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inspire;  
My thriving Flock ('mong Shepherd's Vows the Chief)  
I unconcerned behold, as they my Grief.  
This I profess, if this thou not believe,  
A further proof I ready am to give,  
Command: there's nothing I'll not undertake,  
And, thy Injunctions, Love will easy make.  
Ah, if thou couldst incline a gentle Ear,  
Of plighted Faith, and hated Hymen hear;  
Thou hourly then my spotless Love shouldst see,  
That all my Study, how to please, should be;  
How to protect thee from disturbing Care,  
And in thy Griefs to bear the greatest share;  
Nor should a Joy, my Wary Heart surprise,  
That first I read not in thy charming Eyes.   Alin. 

If ever I to any do impart,  
My, till this present hour, well-guarded Heart,  
That Passion I have feared, I'll surely prove,  
For one that does, like to Amintor love.   Amintor. 

Ye Gods—   Alin. 

Shepherd, no more: enough it is that I,  
Thus long to Love, have listened patiently.  
Farewell: Pan keep thee, Swain.   Amintor. 

And Blessings Thee,  
Rare as thy Virtues, still accompany.    

A Pastoral Dialogue  
Melibaeus, Alcippe, Asteria, Licida, Alcimedon, and Amira.  Melibaeus. 

WElcome fair Nymphs, most welcome to this shade,  
Distemp'ring Heats do now the Plains invade:  
But you may sit, from Sun securely here,  
If you an old man's company not fear.   Alcippe. 

Most Reverend Swain, far from us ever be  
The imputation of such Vanity.  
From Hill to Holt w'ave thee unwearyed sought,  
And bless the Chance that us hath hither brought.   Asteria. 

Famed Melibaeus for thy Virtuous Lays,  
If thou dost not disdain our Female Praise,  
We come to sue thou wouldst to us recite  
One of thy Songs, which gives such high delight  
To every Ear, wherein thou dost dispense  
Sage Precepts clothed in flowing Eloquence.   Licida. 

Fresh Garlands we will make for thee each morn,  
Thy reverend Head to shade, and to adorn;  
To cooling Springs thy fainting Flock we'll guide,  
All thou command'st, to do shall be our Pride.   Meli. 

Cease, gentle Nymphs, the Willing to entreat,  
To have your Wish, each needs but take a Seat.  
With joy I shall my ancient Art revive,  
With which, when Young, I did for Glory strive.  
Nor for my Verse will I accept a Hire,  
Your bare Attentions all I shall require.   Alci. 

Lo, from the Plain I see draw near a Pair  
That I could wish in our Converse might share.  
Amira 'tis and young Alcimedon.   Lici. 

Serious Discourse industriously they eat.   Alci. 

It being yet their luck to come this way,  
The Fond Ones to our Lecture we'll betray:  
And though they only sought a private shade,  
Perhaps they may depart more Virtuous made.   

I will accost them. Gentle Nymph and Swain,  
Good Melibaeus us doth entertain  
With Lays Divine: if you'll his Hearers be,  
Take straight your Seats without Apology.   Alci. 

Paying short thanks, at fair Amiras feet,  
I'll lay me down: let her choose where 'tis meet.   Al. 

Shepherd, behold, we all attentive sit.   Meli. 

What shall I sing? what shall my Muse rehearse?  
Love is a Theme well suits a pastoral Verse,  
That gen'ral Error, Universal Ill,  
That Darling of our Weakness and our Will;  
By which though many fall, few hold it shame;  
Smile at the Fault, which they would seem to blame.  
What wonder then, if those with Mischief play,  
It to destruction them doth oft betray?   

But by experience it is daily found,  
That Love the softer Sex does sorest wound;  
In Mind, as well as Body, far more weak  
Than Men: therefore to them my Song shall speak,  
Advising well, however it succeed:  
But unto All I say, Of Love take heed.  
So hazardous, because so hard to know  
On whom they are we do our Hearts bestow;  
How they will use them, or with what regard  
Our Faith and high Esteem they will reward:  
For few are found, that truly acted be  
By Principles of Generosity.  
That when they know a Virgin's Heart they've gained,  
(And though by many Vows and Arts obtained)  
Will think themselves obliged their Faith to hold  
Tempted by Friends, by Interest, or by Gold.  
Expect it not: most, Love their Pastime make,  
Lightly they Like, and lightly they forsake;  
Their Roving Humour wants but a pretence  
With Oaths and what's most Sacred to dispense.   

When unto such a Maid has given her Heart,  
And said, Alone my Happiness thou art,  
In thee and in thy Truth I place my Rest.  
Her sad Surprise how can it be expressed,  
When all on which she built her Joy she finds,  
Vanish, like Clouds, dispersed before the Winds;  
Herself, who th'adored Idol wont to be,  
A poor despised Idolater to see?  
Regardless Tears she may profusely spend,  
Unpitied sighs her tender Breast may rend:  
But the false Image she will ne'er erace,  
Though far unworthy still to hold its place:  
So hard it is, even Wiser grown, to take  
Th'Impression out, which Fancy once did make.  
Believe me Nymphs, believe my hoary hairs,  
Truth and Experience waits on many years.   

Before the Eldest of you Light beheld,  
A Nymph we had, in Beauty all excelled,  
Rodanthe called, in whom each Grace did shine,  
Could make a Mortal Maid appear Divine.  
And none could say, where most her Charms did lie,  
In her enchanting Tongue, or conquering Eye.  
Her Virtue yet her Beauties so out-shon,  
As Beauty did the Garments she put on!   

Among the Swains, which here their Flocks then fed,  
Alcander with the highest held his head;  
The most Accomplished was esteemed to be,  
Of comely Form, well-graced Activity;  
The Muses too, like him, did none inspire,  
None so did stop the Pipe, or touch the Lyre;  
Sweet was his Voice, and Eloquent his Tongue;  
Alike admired when he Spoke, or Sung!  
But these so much Excelling parts the Swain,  
With Imperfections no less Great, did slain:  
For proud he was, of an Ungovern'd Will,  
With Love Familiar, but a Stranger still  
To Faith and Constancy; and did his Heart,  
Retaining none, expose to every Dart.  
Hapless Rodanthe, the Fond Rover, caught,  
To whom, for Love, with usual Arts he sought;  
Which she, ah too unwary, did bestow:  
'Cause True herself, believed that he was so.  
But he, alas, more wavering than the Wind,  
Straight broke the Chain, she thought so fast did bind;  
For he no sooner saw her Heart was gained,  
But he as soon the Victory disdained;  
Mad Love elsewhere, as if 'twere like Renown,  
Hearts to subdue, as to take in a Town:  
But in the One as Manhood does prevail,  
Both Truth and Manhood in the other fail.  
And now the Nymph (of late so gay and bright,  
The Glory of the Plains and the Delight,  
Who still in Wit and Mirth all Pastimes led)  
Hung like a withered Flower her drooping Head.   

I need not tell the Grief Rodanthe found,  
How all that should assuage, enraged her Wound;  
Her Form, her Fame, her Virtue, Riches, Wit,  
Like Death's sad Weights upon her Soul did sit:  
Or else like Furies stood before her Face,  
Still urging and Upbraiding her Disgrace,  
In that the World could yield her no Content,  
But what alone the False Alcander sent.  
'Twas said, through just Disdain, at last she broke  
The Disingenuous and Unworthy Yoke:  
But this I know, her Passion held long time,  
Constancy, though Unhappy, is no Crime.   

Remember when you Love, from that same hour  
Your Peace you put into your Lover's Power:  
From that same hour from him you Laws receive,  
And as he shall ordain, you Joy, or Grieve,  
Hope, Fear, Laugh, Weep; Reason aloof does stand,  
Disabled both to Act, and to Command.  
Oh Cruel Fetters! rather wish to feel,  
On your soft Limbs, the Galling Weight of Steel;  
Rather to bloody Wounds oppose your Breast  
No Ill, by which the Body can be pressed;  
You will so sensible a Torment find,  
As Shackles on your captivated Mind.  
The Mind from Heaven its high Descent did draw,  
And brooks uneasily any other Law,  
Than what from Reason dictated shall be,  
Reason, a kind of Inmate Deity.  
Which only can adapt to every Soul  
A Yoke so fit and light, that the Control  
All Liberty excels; so sweet a Sway,  
The same 'tis to be Happy, and Obey;  
Commands so Wise and with Rewards so dressed  
That the according Soul replies, I'm Blest.  
This teaches rightly how to Love and Hate,  
To fear and hope by Measure and just Weight;  
What Tears in Grief ought from our Eyes to flow,  
What Transport in Felicity to show;  
In every Passion how to steer the Will,  
Tho rude the Shock, to keep it steady still.  
Oh happy Mind! what words, can speak thy Bliss,  
When in a Harmony thou mov'ft like this?   

Your Hearts fair Virgins keep smooth as your Brow,  
Not the least Amorous Passion there allow;  
Hold not a Parley with what may betray  
Your inward Freedom to a Foreign Sway;  
And while thus o'er yourselves you Queens remain,  
Unenvied, o'er the World, let others reign:  
The highest Joy which from Dominion flows,  
Is short of what a Mind well-governed knows.   

Whither my Muse, wouldst uncontrolled run?  
Contend in Motion with the restless Sun?  
Immortal thou, but I a mortal Sire  
Exhaust my strength, and Hearers also tyre.   Al. 

O Heaven-taught Bard! to Ages couldst prolong  
Thy Soul-instructing, Health-infusing Song,  
I with unwearyed Appetite could hear,  
And wish my Senses were turned all to Ear.   Alcim. 

Old Man, thy frosty Precepts well betray  
Thy Blood is cold, and that thy Head is grey:  
Who past the Pleasure Love and Youth can give,  
To spoilt in others, now dost only live.  
Wouldst thou, indeed, if so thou couldst persuade,  
The Fair, whose Charms have many Lovers made,  
Should feel Compassion for no one they wound,  
But be to all Inexorable found?   Me. 

Young man, if my advice thou well hadst weighed,  
Thou wouldst have found, for either Sex 'twas made;  
And would from women's Beauty thee no less  
Preserve, than them secure from thy Address.  
But let thy Youth thy rash Reproach excuse.   Alci. 

Fairest Amira let him not abuse  
Thy gentle Heart, by his imprinting there  
His doting Maxims— But I will not fear:  
For when against Love he fiercest did inveigh,  
Methoughts I saw thee turn with Scorn away.   Ami. 

Alcimedon according to his Will  
Does all my Words and Looks interpret still:  
But I shall learn at length how to Disdain,  
Or at the least more cunningly to feign.   Alci. 

No wonder thou Alcimedon art rude,  
When with no Generous Quality endued:  
But hop'st by railing Words Vice to defend,  
Which Foulers made, by having such a Friend.   

Amira, thou art warned, wisely beware,  
Leap not with Open-Eyes into the Snare:  
The Faith that's given to thee, was given before  
To Nais, Amoretta, and many more:  
The Perjured did the Gods to Witness call,  
That unto each he was the only Thrall.   Aste. 

Y'ave made his Cheeks with Conscious blushes glow.   Alci. 

'Tis the best Colour a False Heart can show;  
And well it is with Gild some shame remains.   Meli. 

Hast, Shepherd, hast to cleanse away thy stains,  
Let not thy Youth, of Time the goodly spring,  
Neglected pass, that nothing forth it bring  
But noxious Weeds: which cultivated might  
Produce such Crops, as now would thee delight,  
And give thee after Fame: For Virtue's Fruit  
Believe it, not alone with Age does suit,  
Nought adorns Youth like to a Noble Mind,  
In thee this Union let Amira find.   Lici. 

O fear her not! she'll serve him in his kind.   Meli. 

See how Discourse upon the Time does prey,  
Those hours pass swiftest, that we talk away.  
Declining Sol forsaken hath the Fields,  
And Mountains highest Summits only gilds:  
Which warns us home-wards with our Flocks to make.   Alci. 

Along with thee our Thanks and Praises take.   Aste. 

In which our Hearts do all in One unite,   Lici. 

Our Wishes too, That on thy Head may light,  
What e'er the Gods as their Best Gifts bestow.   Meli. 

Kind Nymphs on you may Equal Blessings flow.    

On my Aunt M A. K. Drowned under London-bridge, in the QUEENS Barge, Anno 1641.  

THe Darling of a Father Good and Wise,  
The Virtue, which a Virtuous Age did prize;  
The Beauty Excellent even to those were Fair,  
Subscribed unto, by such as might compare;  
The Star that 'bove her Orb did always move,  
And yet the Noblest did not Hate, but Love;  
And those who most upon their Title stood,  
Veiled also to, because she did more Good.  
To whom the Wronged, and Worthy did resort,  
And held their Suits obtained, if only brought;  
The highest Saint in all the Heaven of Court.  
So Noble was her Air, so Great her Mien,  
She seemed a Friend, not Servant to the Queen.  
To Sin, if known, she never did give way,  
Vice could not Storm her, could it not betray.   

When angry Heaven extinguished her fair Light,  
It seemed to say, Nought's Precious in my sight;  
As I in Waves this Paragon have drowned,  
The Nation next, and King I will confound.    

On a young Lady Whose LORD was Travelling.  

NO sooner I pronounced Celindas' name,  
But Troops of winged Powers did chant the same:  
Not those the Poets Bows and Arrows lend,  
But such as on the Altar do attend.  
Celinda named, Flowers spring up from the Ground,  
Excited merely with the Charming Sound.  
Celinda, the Courts Glory, and its fear,  
The gazed at Wonder, where she does appear.  
Celinda great in Birth, greater in Mien,  
Yet none so humble as this Fair-One's seen.  
Her Youth and Beauty justly might disdain,  
But the least Pride her Glories ne'er did stain.  
Celinda of each State th'ambitious Strife,  
At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife   

Who, while her Gallant Lord in Foreign parts  
Adorns his Youth with all accomplished Arts,  
Grows ripe at home in Virtue, more than Years,  
And in each Grace a Miracle appears!   

When other of her Age a madding go,  
To th' Park and Plays, and every public Show,  
Proud from their Parent's Bondage they have broke,  
Though justly freed, she still does wear the Yoke;  
Preferring more her Mother's Friend to be,  
Than Idol of the Towns Loose-Gallantry.  
On her she to the Temple does attend,  
Where they their Blessed Hours both save and spend.  
They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray,  
You'd think two Bodies did One Soul obey:  
Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliss,  
And their bright Virtues each the other kiss.   

Return young Lord, while thou abroad dost room  
The World to see, thou losest Heaven at Home.    

ON THE Duchess of Grafton Under the Name of ALINDA.  
A Song.  

I.  
TH'ambitious Eye that seeks alone,  
Where Beauties Wonders most are shown;  
Of all that bounteous Heaven displays,  
Let him on bright Alinda gaze;  
And in her high Example see,  
All can admired, or wished-for, be!   

II.  
An unmatched Form, Mind like endowed,  
Estate, and Title great and proud;  
A Charge Heaven dares to few commit,  
So few, like her, can manage it;  
Without all Blame or Envy bear,  
The being Witty, Great and Fair!   

III.  

So well these Murdering Weapons wield,  
As first Herself with them to shield,  
Then slaughter none in proud Disport,  
Destroy those she invites to Gourt:  
Great are her Charms, but Virtue more,  
She wounds no Hearts, though All adore!   

IV.  
'Tis Amorous Beauty Love invites,  
A Passion, like itself, excites:  
The Paragon, though all admire,  
Kindles in none a fond desire:  
No more than those the King's Renown  
And State applaud, affect his Crown.     

These following Fragments among many more were found among her Papers.  

Penelope to Ulysses.  

REturn my dearest Lord, at length return,  
Let me no longer your sad absence mourn,  
Ilium in Dust, does no more Work afford,  
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.   

Why did not the foreseeing Gods destroy,  
Helin the Firebrand both of Greece and Troy,  
ere yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen,  
ere loved and born away the wanton Queen?  
Then had been stopped the mighty Flood of Woe,  
Which now both Greece and Phrygia overflow:  
Then I, these many Tears, should not have shed,  
Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led:  
I should not then have trembled at the Fame  
Of Hector's warlike and victorious Name.   

Why did I wish the Noble Hector Slain?  
Why Ilium ruined? Rise, O rise again!  
Again great City flourish from thine Urn:  
For though thou'rt burned, my Lord does not return.  
Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,)  
That, for thy Absence, thouart thyself in fault:  
That thou art captived by some captive Dame,  
Who, when thou fired'st Troy, did thee inflame  
And now with her thou leadest thy amorous Life,  
Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.    

An Epitaph on herself.  

WHen I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,  
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.    

An ODE.  

A Rise my Dove, from midst of Pots arise,  
Thy sullied Habitation leave,  
To Dust no longer cleave,  
Unworthy they of Heaven, that will not view the Skies.  
Thy native Beauty reassume,  
Prune each neglected Plume,  
Till more than Silver white,  
Then burnished Gold more bright,  
Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.   

II.  
The Bird to whom the spacious Air was given,  
As in a smooth and trackless Path to go,  
A Walk which does no Limits know  
Pervious alone to Her and Heaven:  
Should she her Airy Race forget,  
On Earth affect to walk and sit;  
Should she so high a Privilege neglect,  
As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect,  
What could she of Wrong complain,  
Who thus her Birdly Kind doth slain,  
If all her Feathers moulted were,  
And naked she were left and bare,  
The Jest and Scorn of Earth and Aire?   

III.  

The Bird of Paradise the Soul,     

Extemporary Counsel given to a Young Gallant in a Frolic.  

AS you are Young, if you'll be also Wise,  
Danger with Honour court, Quarrels despise;  
Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold,  
To Beauty when no Slave, and less to Gold;  
When Virtue you dare own, not think it odd,  
Or ungenteel to say, I fear a God.     

These Three following ODES being found among M killigrew's Papers, I was willing to Print though none of hers.  

Cloris Charms Dissolved by EUDORA.  

I.  
NOt that thy Fair Hand  
Should lead me from my deep Despair,  
Or thy Love, Cloris, End my Care,  
And back my Steps command:  
But if hereafter thou Retire,  
To quench with Tears, thy Wand'ring Fire,  
This Clue I'll leave behind,  
By which thou mayst untwine  
The Saddest Way,  
To shun the Day,  
That ever Grief did find.   

II.  
First take thy Hapless Way  
Along the Rocky Northern Shore,  
Infamous for the Matchless Store  
Of Wracks within that Bay.  
None o'er the Cursed Beach e'er crossed,  
Unless the Robbed, the Wracked, or Lost  
Where on the Strand lie spread,  
The Sculls of many Dead.  
Their mingled Bones,  
Among the Stones,  
Thy Wretched Feet must tread.   

III.  
The Tiees along the Coast,  
Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms,  
As if they plained the North-winds harms,  
And-Youthful Verdure lost.  
There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,  
Where Sun ne'er pierced, nor Wind ere blue.  
In it a Brook doth fleet,  
The Noise must guide thy Feet,  
For there's no Light,  
But all is Night,  
And Darkness that you meet.   

IV.  
Follow th'Infernal Wave,  
Until it spread into a Flood,  
Poisoning the Creatures of the Wood,  
There twice a day a Slave,  
I know not for what Impious Thing,  
Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.  
It adds to the sad Place,  
To hear how at each Pace,  
He curses God,  
Himself, his Load,  
For such his Forlorn Case.   

V.  
Next make no Noise, nor talk,  
Until thouart passed a Narrow Glade,  
Where Light does only break the Shade;  
'Tis a Murderer's Walk.  
Observing this thou needest not fear,  
He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere.  
Though there's no Clock or Chime,  
The Hour he did his Crime,  
His Soul awakes,  
His Conscience quakes  
And warns him that's the Time.   

VI  
Thy Steps must next advance,  
Where Horror, Sin, and Spectars' dwell,  
Where the Woods Shade seems turned Hell,  
Witches here Nightly Dance,  
And Sprights join with them when they call,  
The Murderer dares not view the Ball.  
For Snakes and Toads conspire,  
To make them up a Quire.  
And for their Light,  
And Torches bright,  
The Fiends dance all on fire.   

VII.  
Press on till thou descry  
Among the Trees sad, ghastly, wan,  
Thin as the Shadow of a Man,  
One that does ever cry,  
She is not; and she ne'er will be,  
Despair and Death come swallow me,  
Leave him; and keep thy way,  
No more thou now canst stray  
Thy Feet do stand,  
In Sorrows Land,  
It's Kingdom's every way.   

VIII.  
Here Gloomy Light will show  
Reared like a Castle to the Sky,  
A Horrid Cliff there standing nigh  
Shading a Creek below.  
In which Recess there lies a Cave,  
Dreadful as Hell, still as the Grave.  
Sea-Monsters there abide,  
The coming of the Tide,  
No Noise is near,  
To make them fear,  
God-sleep might there reside.   

IX.  
But when the Boisterous Seas,  
With Roaring Waves resumes this Cell,  
You'd swear the Thunders there did dwell.  
So loud he makes his Plea;  
So Tempests bellow under ground,  
And Echoes multiply the Sound!  
This is the place I chose,  
Changeable like my Woes,  
Now calmly Sad,  
Then Raging Mad,  
As move my Bitter Throws.   

X.  
Such Dread besets this Part,  
That all the Horror thou hast passed,  
Are but Degrees to This at last.  
The sight must break thy Heart:  
Here Bats and Owls that hate the Light  
Fly and enjoy Eternal Night.  
Scales of Serpents, Fish-bones,  
Th'Adders Eye, and Toadstones,  
Are all the Light,  
Hath blest my Sight,  
Since first began my Groans.   

XI.  
When thus I lost the Sense,  
Of all the heathful World calls Bliss,  
And held it Joy, those Joys to miss,  
When Beauty was Offence:  
Celestial Strains did read the Air,  
Shaking these Mansions of Despair;  
A Form Divine and bright,  
Struck Day through all that Night  
As when heavens Queen  
In Hell was seen,  
With wonder and affright!   

XII.  
The Monsters fled for fear,  
The Terrors of the Cursed Wood  
Dismantled were, and where they stood,  
No longer did appear.  
The Gentle Power, which wrought this thing,  
Eudora was, who thus did sing.  
Dissolved is Cloris spell,  
From whence thy Evils fell,  
Send her this Clue,  
'Tis there most due  
●●d thy Fantastic Hell.    

Upon a Little Lady Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person.  

I.  
HOw comes the Day o'ercast? the Flaming Sun  
Darkened at Noon, as if his Course were run?  
He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,  
ne'er courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!  
And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,  
As if not Daphne, but himself were dead!  
And all the little Winged Troop  
Forbear to sing, and sit and droop;  
The Flowers do languish on their Beds,  
And fading hang their Mourning Heads;  
The little Cupids discontented, show,  
In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,  
An other tares his Cheeks and Hair,  
A third fits blubring in Despair,  
Confessing though, in Love, he be,  
A Powerful, Dreadful Deity,  
A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!  
Whence is this Evil hurled,  
On all the sweetness of the World?  
Among those Things with Beauty shine,  
(Both Humane natures, and Divine)  
There was not so much sorrow spied,  
No, not that Day the sweet Adonis died!   

II.  
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,  
The little Weeping Gods I thus bespoke.  
Ye Noblest Powers and Gentlest that Above,  
Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,  
Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,  
Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deity.  
My Prayer not spoken out,  
One of the Winged Rout,  
With Indignation great,  
Sprung from his Airie-Seat,  
And mounting to a Higher Cloud,  
With Thunder, or a Voice as loud  
Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods,  
Where thou findest Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!  
And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,  
He bent his Bow, his Arrow placed, and to the mark it sent!  
I followed with my watchful Eye,  
To the Place where the Shaft did fly,  
But O unheard-of Prodigy.  
It was retorted back again,  
And he that sent it, felt the pain,  
Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain!  
But wanton Darts ne'er pierce where Honours found,  
And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.   

III.  
The Place from which the Arrow did return,  
Swifter than sent, and with the speed did burn,  
Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columns bare,  
Terraced beneath, and open to the Air,  
On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie  
A purfled Curtain, hanging from on high,  
To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower,  
And boast the Owners Dignity and Power!  
This showed the Scene from whence Loves grief arose,  
And Heaven and Nature both did discompose,  
A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright,  
Lay like a Body of Collected Light,  
But not to Love and Courtship so disclosed,  
But to the Rigour of a Dame opposed,  
Who instant on the Fair with Words and Blows,  
Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shows.   

IV.  
But O thou no less Blind,  
Than Wild and Savage Mind,  
Who Discipline dar'st name,  
Thy Outrage and thy shame,  
And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get  
All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit,  
Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like encircle it!  
May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand,  
Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,  
Thy Hand, that Fury like— But see!  
By Apollo's Sacred Tree,  
By his ever Tuneful Lyre,  
And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,  
Eudoras' she has done this Deed  
And made the World thus in its Darling bleed!  
I know the Cruel Dame,  
Too well instructed by my Flame!  
But see her shape! But see her Face!  
In her Temple such is Diana's Grace!  
Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,  
When beauty's wronged, no wonder Music dies!   

V.  
What blood of Centauris did thy Bosom warm,  
And boil the Balsam there up to a Storm?  
Nay Balsam flowed not with so soft a Flood,  
As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!  
How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,  
That Rage of Seas, and People could command,  
And calm Diseases with the Charming strings,  
Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things?   

But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride,  
Because thou didst Excel the World beside,  
And it in Beauty and in Fame outshine,  
Thou wouldst compare thyself to things Divine!  
And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see,  
Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee,  
And punished in the Lady as unfit,  
What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.  
Divine she is, or else Divine must be,  
A Born or else a Growing Deity!   

VI  
While thus I did exclaim,  
And wildly rage and blame,  
Behold the Sylvan-Quire  
Did all at one conspire,  
With shrill and cheerful Throats,  
T'assume their chirping Notes;  
The heavens refulgent Eye  
Danceed in the clear'd-up Sky,  
And so triumphant shone,  
As seven-days Beams he had on!  
The little Loves burned with Nobler Fire,  
Each changed his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,  
Singing chaste Airs unto the tuneful strings,  
And timeed soft Music with their downy Wings.  
I turned the little Nym ph to view,  
She singing and did smiling show;  
Eudora led a heavenly strain,  
Her Angel's Voice did echo it again!  
I than decreed no Sacrilege was wrought,  
But nearer Heaven this Piece of Heaven was brought.  
She also brighter seemed, than she had been,  
Virtue darts forth a lightning 'bove the Skin.  
Eudora also showed as heretofore,  
When her soft Graces I did first adore.  
I saw, what one did Nobly Will,  
The other sweetly did fulfil;  
Their Actions all harmoniously did suit,  
And she had only tuned the Lady like her Lute.    

On the Soft and Gentle Motions of Eudora.  

DIvine Thalia strike th'Harmonious Lute,  
But with a Struck so Gentle as may suit  
The silent gliding of the Hours,  
Or vet the calmer growth of Flowers;  
Th'ascending or the falling Dew,  
Which none can see, though all find true.  
For thus alone,  
Can be shown,  
How downy, how smooth,  
Eudora doth Move,  
How Silken her Actions appear,  
The Air of her Face,  
Of a gentler Grace  
Than those that do struck the Eare.  
Her Address so sweet,  
So Modestly Meet,  
That 'tis not the Loud though Tuneable String,  
Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing!  
O This to express from thy Hand must fall,  
Then Music's self, something more Musical.    
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
IN Mr. Drydens' Ode, Stanzo 5. at the end of the first line read [None.] p. 9 v. 6. for her r. its. p. 24. v. I. for renowned r. renowned. p. 38. v. last but one, for renounced r. renowned. p. 57 v. I. instead of the Interrogation-point, make a Comma, p. 97. v. 13. r. burned with a nobler fire.   

THE TABLE.  
ALexandreis. 
Page 1  To the Queen. 
6  A Pastoral Dialogue. 
11  On Death. 
13  First Epigram, Upon being contended with a Little. 
15  The Second Epigram, On Billinda. 
ibid.  The Third Epigram, On an Atheist. 
16  The Fourth Epigram, On Galla. 
17  A Farewell to Worldly Joys. 
18  The Complaint of a Lover. 
19  Love, the Soul of Poetry. 
22  To my Lady Berkley, Afflicted upon her Son my Lord Berkley's early Engaging in the Sea-Service. 
24  St. John Baptist Painted by herself in the Wilderness, with Angels appearing to him, and with a Lamb by him. 
27  Herodias' Daughter presenting to her Mother St. John's Head in a Silver Charger, also Painted by herself. 
ibid.  On a Picture Painted by herself, representing two Nymphs of Diana's, one in a posture to Hunt, the other Batheing. 
28  An Invective against Gold. 
30  The Miseries of Man. 
32  Upon the saying that my Verses were made by another. 
44  On the Birthday of Queen Katherine. 
47  To my Lord Colrane, in Answer to his Complimental Verses sent me under the Name of Cleanor. 
49  The Discontent. 
51  A Pastoral Dialogue. 
57  A Pastoral Dialogue. 
63  On my Aunt Mrs. A. K. drowned under London-Bridge in the Queen's Barge, 1641. 
76  On a young Lady, whose Lord was Travelling. 
77  On the Duchess of Graston, under the Name of Allinda, a Song. 
79  Penelope to Ulysses. 
81  An Epitaph on herself. 
82  An Ode. 
ibid.  Extemporary Counsel, given to a young Gallant in a Frolic. 
84  Cloris Charms Dissolved by Eudora. 
85  Upon a Little Lady under the Discipline of an Excellent Persont. 
92  On the soft and gentle motions of Eudora. 
99