ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA1660-1720
1660-1720
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,March in a slow procession from afar,Ye silent, ye dejected men of war!Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;For see! where on the bier before ye liesThe pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrificeTo your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,March in a slow procession from afar,Ye silent, ye dejected men of war!Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;For see! where on the bier before ye liesThe pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrificeTo your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,March in a slow procession from afar,Ye silent, ye dejected men of war!Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;For see! where on the bier before ye liesThe pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrificeTo your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,
March in a slow procession from afar,
Ye silent, ye dejected men of war!
Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!
Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;
For see! where on the bier before ye lies
The pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrifice
To your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.
When to the Under-world despis’d he goes,A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows,Who, rioting on the unusual chear,As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.
When to the Under-world despis’d he goes,A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows,Who, rioting on the unusual chear,As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.
When to the Under-world despis’d he goes,A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows,Who, rioting on the unusual chear,As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.
When to the Under-world despis’d he goes,
A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows,
Who, rioting on the unusual chear,
As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.
In such a night, when every louder windIs to its distant cavern safe confin’d;And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight,She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right:In such a night, when passing clouds give place,Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face;When in some river, overhung with green,The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright,And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows;Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes:When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright:When odours, which declin’d repelling day,Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray;When darken’d groves their softest shadows wearAnd falling waters we distinctly hear;When thro’ the gloom more venerable showsSome ancient fabrick, awful in repose,While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads,Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads,Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear,Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,And unmolested kine rechew the cud;When curlews cry beneath the village walls,And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:When a sedate consent the spirit feels,And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;But silent musings urge the mind to seekSomething, too high for syllables to speak;Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:In such a night let me abroad remain,Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again;Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d,Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.
In such a night, when every louder windIs to its distant cavern safe confin’d;And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight,She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right:In such a night, when passing clouds give place,Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face;When in some river, overhung with green,The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright,And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows;Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes:When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright:When odours, which declin’d repelling day,Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray;When darken’d groves their softest shadows wearAnd falling waters we distinctly hear;When thro’ the gloom more venerable showsSome ancient fabrick, awful in repose,While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads,Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads,Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear,Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,And unmolested kine rechew the cud;When curlews cry beneath the village walls,And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:When a sedate consent the spirit feels,And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;But silent musings urge the mind to seekSomething, too high for syllables to speak;Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:In such a night let me abroad remain,Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again;Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d,Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.
In such a night, when every louder windIs to its distant cavern safe confin’d;And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight,She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right:In such a night, when passing clouds give place,Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face;When in some river, overhung with green,The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright,And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows;Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes:When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright:When odours, which declin’d repelling day,Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray;When darken’d groves their softest shadows wearAnd falling waters we distinctly hear;When thro’ the gloom more venerable showsSome ancient fabrick, awful in repose,While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads,Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads,Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear,Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,And unmolested kine rechew the cud;When curlews cry beneath the village walls,And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:When a sedate consent the spirit feels,And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;But silent musings urge the mind to seekSomething, too high for syllables to speak;Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:In such a night let me abroad remain,Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again;Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d,Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.
In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confin’d;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes:
When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright:
When odours, which declin’d repelling day,
Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray;
When darken’d groves their softest shadows wear
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When thro’ the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabrick, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:
When a sedate consent the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,
Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,
O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d,
Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.
Give me there (since Heaven has shownIt was not good to be alone)A partner suited to my mind,Solitary, pleas’d and kind;Who, partially, may something seePreferr’d to all the world in me;Slighting, by my humble side,Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride.When but two the Earth possest,’Twas then happiest days, and best;They by bus’ness, nor by wars,They by no domestick cares,From each other e’er were drawn,But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn,Spent the swiftly flying time,Spent their own and Nature’s prime,In Love; that only passion givenTo perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Give me there (since Heaven has shownIt was not good to be alone)A partner suited to my mind,Solitary, pleas’d and kind;Who, partially, may something seePreferr’d to all the world in me;Slighting, by my humble side,Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride.When but two the Earth possest,’Twas then happiest days, and best;They by bus’ness, nor by wars,They by no domestick cares,From each other e’er were drawn,But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn,Spent the swiftly flying time,Spent their own and Nature’s prime,In Love; that only passion givenTo perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Give me there (since Heaven has shownIt was not good to be alone)A partner suited to my mind,Solitary, pleas’d and kind;Who, partially, may something seePreferr’d to all the world in me;Slighting, by my humble side,Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride.When but two the Earth possest,’Twas then happiest days, and best;They by bus’ness, nor by wars,They by no domestick cares,From each other e’er were drawn,But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn,Spent the swiftly flying time,Spent their own and Nature’s prime,In Love; that only passion givenTo perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Give me there (since Heaven has shown
It was not good to be alone)
A partner suited to my mind,
Solitary, pleas’d and kind;
Who, partially, may something see
Preferr’d to all the world in me;
Slighting, by my humble side,
Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride.
When but two the Earth possest,
’Twas then happiest days, and best;
They by bus’ness, nor by wars,
They by no domestick cares,
From each other e’er were drawn,
But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn,
Spent the swiftly flying time,
Spent their own and Nature’s prime,
In Love; that only passion given
To perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough,Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin,Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen,In all her airs, in all her antick graces,Her various fashions, and more various faces;How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’dJust appellations to each several kind!A right idea of the sight to frame;T’ have guest from what new element she came;T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough,Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin,Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen,In all her airs, in all her antick graces,Her various fashions, and more various faces;How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’dJust appellations to each several kind!A right idea of the sight to frame;T’ have guest from what new element she came;T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough,Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin,Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen,In all her airs, in all her antick graces,Her various fashions, and more various faces;How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’dJust appellations to each several kind!A right idea of the sight to frame;T’ have guest from what new element she came;T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough,
Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,
Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin,
Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antick graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’d
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T’ have guest from what new element she came;
T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.
Strephon, whose person ev’ry graceWas careful to adorn;Thought, by the beauties of his face,In Silvia’s love to find a place,And wonder’d at her scorn.With bows, and smiles he did his part;But Oh! ’twas all in vain:A youth less fine, a youth of Art,Had talk’d himself into her heartAnd wou’d not out again.Strephon with change of habits press’d,And urg’d her to admire;His love alone the other dress’d,As verse or prose became it best,And mov’d her soft desire.This found, his courtship Strephon ends,Or makes it to his glass;There in himself now seeks amends,Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,A Beau is but an ass.
Strephon, whose person ev’ry graceWas careful to adorn;Thought, by the beauties of his face,In Silvia’s love to find a place,And wonder’d at her scorn.With bows, and smiles he did his part;But Oh! ’twas all in vain:A youth less fine, a youth of Art,Had talk’d himself into her heartAnd wou’d not out again.Strephon with change of habits press’d,And urg’d her to admire;His love alone the other dress’d,As verse or prose became it best,And mov’d her soft desire.This found, his courtship Strephon ends,Or makes it to his glass;There in himself now seeks amends,Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,A Beau is but an ass.
Strephon, whose person ev’ry graceWas careful to adorn;Thought, by the beauties of his face,In Silvia’s love to find a place,And wonder’d at her scorn.
Strephon, whose person ev’ry grace
Was careful to adorn;
Thought, by the beauties of his face,
In Silvia’s love to find a place,
And wonder’d at her scorn.
With bows, and smiles he did his part;But Oh! ’twas all in vain:A youth less fine, a youth of Art,Had talk’d himself into her heartAnd wou’d not out again.
With bows, and smiles he did his part;
But Oh! ’twas all in vain:
A youth less fine, a youth of Art,
Had talk’d himself into her heart
And wou’d not out again.
Strephon with change of habits press’d,And urg’d her to admire;His love alone the other dress’d,As verse or prose became it best,And mov’d her soft desire.
Strephon with change of habits press’d,
And urg’d her to admire;
His love alone the other dress’d,
As verse or prose became it best,
And mov’d her soft desire.
This found, his courtship Strephon ends,Or makes it to his glass;There in himself now seeks amends,Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,A Beau is but an ass.
This found, his courtship Strephon ends,
Or makes it to his glass;
There in himself now seeks amends,
Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,
A Beau is but an ass.
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray;To Fable I descend with soft delight,Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:Whilst aery fictions hastily repairTo fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.But here, the critick bids me check this vein.Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies,The easily persuaded poet cries,Since meaner works you men of taste despise.The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage,Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage.The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ artsShall boast such language, to adorn their parts,As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow,Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.Amidst her towers, the dedicated horseShall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,The Muse demands, and in that milder airDescribe some gentle swain’s unhappy smartWhose folded arms still press upon his heart,And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,And softens all the murmurs of the floods.Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streamsWhich still, he cries, their even measures keep,Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,To shew us private, or the publick faults.Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,And warmly sympathizing with the spiteApply to thousands what of one you write.Then, must that single stream the town supply,The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,And all the rest of Helicon be dry?And when so many choice productions swarm,Must only Satire keep your fancies warm?Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve,As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve,Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve.Happy the men, whom we divert with ease,Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray;To Fable I descend with soft delight,Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:Whilst aery fictions hastily repairTo fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.But here, the critick bids me check this vein.Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies,The easily persuaded poet cries,Since meaner works you men of taste despise.The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage,Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage.The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ artsShall boast such language, to adorn their parts,As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow,Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.Amidst her towers, the dedicated horseShall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,The Muse demands, and in that milder airDescribe some gentle swain’s unhappy smartWhose folded arms still press upon his heart,And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,And softens all the murmurs of the floods.Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streamsWhich still, he cries, their even measures keep,Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,To shew us private, or the publick faults.Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,And warmly sympathizing with the spiteApply to thousands what of one you write.Then, must that single stream the town supply,The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,And all the rest of Helicon be dry?And when so many choice productions swarm,Must only Satire keep your fancies warm?Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve,As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve,Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve.Happy the men, whom we divert with ease,Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray;To Fable I descend with soft delight,Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:Whilst aery fictions hastily repairTo fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,
Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray;
To Fable I descend with soft delight,
Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:
Whilst aery fictions hastily repair
To fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,
As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,
And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.
But here, the critick bids me check this vein.Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.
But here, the critick bids me check this vein.
Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,
But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.
Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,
Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.
Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies,The easily persuaded poet cries,Since meaner works you men of taste despise.The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage,Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage.The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ artsShall boast such language, to adorn their parts,As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow,Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.Amidst her towers, the dedicated horseShall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’
Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies,
The easily persuaded poet cries,
Since meaner works you men of taste despise.
The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage,
Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage.
The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ arts
Shall boast such language, to adorn their parts,
As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow,
Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.
Amidst her towers, the dedicated horse
Shall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;
Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,
‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’
Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.
Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,
The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?
I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,
When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,
As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.
To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,The Muse demands, and in that milder airDescribe some gentle swain’s unhappy smartWhose folded arms still press upon his heart,And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,And softens all the murmurs of the floods.
To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,
The Muse demands, and in that milder air
Describe some gentle swain’s unhappy smart
Whose folded arms still press upon his heart,
And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?
Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,
The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;
Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,
And softens all the murmurs of the floods.
Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streamsWhich still, he cries, their even measures keep,Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,To shew us private, or the publick faults.Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,And warmly sympathizing with the spiteApply to thousands what of one you write.Then, must that single stream the town supply,The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,And all the rest of Helicon be dry?And when so many choice productions swarm,Must only Satire keep your fancies warm?Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve,As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve,Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve.Happy the men, whom we divert with ease,Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.
Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,
Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streams
Which still, he cries, their even measures keep,
Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.
But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,
To shew us private, or the publick faults.
Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;
We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,
And warmly sympathizing with the spite
Apply to thousands what of one you write.
Then, must that single stream the town supply,
The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,
And all the rest of Helicon be dry?
And when so many choice productions swarm,
Must only Satire keep your fancies warm?
Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve,
As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve,
Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve.
Happy the men, whom we divert with ease,
Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded swayAll that have life, must certainly obey,The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.My name is on thy roll, and sure I mustEncrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.My soul at this no apprehension feels,But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;At thy contagious darts, that wound the headsOf weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded swayAll that have life, must certainly obey,The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.My name is on thy roll, and sure I mustEncrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.My soul at this no apprehension feels,But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;At thy contagious darts, that wound the headsOf weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded swayAll that have life, must certainly obey,The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.My name is on thy roll, and sure I mustEncrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.My soul at this no apprehension feels,But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;At thy contagious darts, that wound the headsOf weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway
All that have life, must certainly obey,
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.
My name is on thy roll, and sure I must
Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.
My soul at this no apprehension feels,
But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;
Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;
At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads
Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.
Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;
My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.
Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,
And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.