Art she had none, yet wanted none,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 seem'd borrow'd, 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 exprest)Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast,Light as the vapours of a morning dream;So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream….
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,The well-proportion'd 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 contentTo finish all the murder at a blow,To sweep at once her life and beauty too;But, like a harden'd felon, took a prideTo work more mischievously slow,And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.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.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seasHis 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 know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,Thou hast already had her last embrace.But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far,Among the Pleiads a new kindl'd star,If any sparkles than the rest more bright,'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,To raise the nations under ground;When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,The judging God shall close the book of Fate,And there the last assizes keepFor those who wake and those who sleep;When rattling bones together flyFrom the four corners of the sky;When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,And foremost from the tomb shall bound,For they are cover'd 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 quire shalt go,As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
399. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687
FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,This universal frame began:When nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms lay,And could not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from high,'Arise, ye more than dead!'Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,In order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmony,This universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?When Jubal struck the chorded shell,His listening brethren stood around,And, wondering, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound:Less than a God they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shell,That spoke so sweetly, and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangourExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of anger,And mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!
The soft complaining flute,In dying notes, discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passion,For the fair, disdainful dame.
But O, what art can teach,What human voice can reach,The sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;And trees unrooted left their place,Sequacious of the lyre;But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:When to her organ vocal breath was given,An angel heard, and straight appear'dMistaking Earth for Heaven.
As from the power of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the Blest above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky!
John Dryden. 1631-1700
400. Ah, how sweet it is to love!
AH, how sweet it is to love!Ah, how gay is young Desire!And what pleasing pains we proveWhen we first approach Love's fire!Pains of love be sweeter farThan all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blownDo but gently heave the heart:Ev'n the tears they shed aloneCure, like trickling balm, their smart:Lovers, when they lose their breath,Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use,Treat them like a parting friend;Nor the golden gifts refuseWhich in youth sincere they send:For each year their price is more,And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,Swells in every youthful vein;But each tide does less supply,Till they quite shrink in again:If a flow in age appear,'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
401. Hidden Flame
I FEED a flame within, which so torments meThat it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;And while I suffer this to give him quiet,My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.To be more happy I dare not aspire,Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
402. Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring
ASK not the cause why sullen SpringSo long delays her flowers to bear;Why warbling birds forget to sing,And winter storms invert the year:Chloris is gone; and fate providesTo make it Spring where she resides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;She cast not back a pitying eye:But left her lover in despairTo sigh, to languish, and to die:Ah! how can those fair eyes endureTo give the wounds they will not cure?
Great God of Love, why hast thou madeA face that can all hearts command,That all religions can invade,And change the laws of every land?Where thou hadst plac'd such power before,Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
When Chloris to the temple comes,Adoring crowds before her fall;She can restore the dead from tombsAnd every life but mine recall.I only am by Love design'dTo be the victim for mankind.
Charles Webbe. c. 1678
403. Against Indifference
MORE love or more disdain I crave;Sweet, be not still indifferent:O send me quickly to my grave,Or else afford me more content!Or love or hate me more or less,For love abhors all lukewarmness.
Give me a tempest if 'twill driveMe to the place where I would be;Or if you'll have me still alive,Confess you will be kind to me.Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave:More love or more disdain I crave.
Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691
404. Song
LADIES, though to your conquering eyesLove owes his chiefest victories,And borrows those bright arms from youWith which he does the world subdue,Yet you yourselves are not aboveThe empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain,Lest Love on you revenge their pain:You are not free because you're fair:The Boy did not his Mother spare.Beauty 's but an offensive dart:It is no armour for the heart.
Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691
405. To a Lady asking him how long he would love her
IT is not, Celia, in our powerTo say how long our love will last;It may be we within this hourMay lose those joys we now do taste;The Blessed, that immortal be,From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are,Ask not how long our love will last;But while it does, let us take careEach minute be with pleasure past:Were it not madness to denyTo live because we're sure to die?
Thomas Traherne. 1637?-1674
406. News
NEWS from a foreign country cameAs if my treasure and my wealth lay there;So much it did my heart inflame,'Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear;Which thither went to meetThe approaching sweet,And on the threshold stoodTo entertain the unknown Good.It hover'd thereAs if 'twould leave mine ear,And was so eager to embraceThe joyful tidings as they came,'Twould almost leave its dwelling-placeTo entertain that same.
As if the tidings were the things,My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure—Or else did bear them on their wings—With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure.My Soul stood at that gateTo recreateItself with bliss, and toBe pleased with speed. A fuller viewIt fain would take,Yet journeys back would makeUnto my heart; as if 'twould fainGo out to meet, yet stay withinTo fit a place to entertainAnd bring the tidings in.
What sacred instinct did inspireMy soul in childhood with a hope so strong?What secret force moved my desireTo expect my joys beyond the seas, so young?Felicity I knewWas out of view,And being here alone,I saw that happiness was goneFrom me! For thisI thirsted absent bliss,And thought that sure beyond the seas,Or else in something near at hand—I knew not yet—since naught did pleaseI knew—my Bliss did stand.
But little did the infant dreamThat all the treasures of the world were by:And that himself was so the creamAnd crown of all which round about did lie.Yet thus it was: the Gem,The Diadem,The ring enclosing allThat stood upon this earthly ball,The Heavenly eye,Much wider than the sky,Wherein they all included were,The glorious Soul, that was the KingMade to possess them, did appearA small and little thing!
Thomas Flatman. 1637-1688
407. The Sad Day
O THE sad day!When friends shall shake their heads, and sayOf miserable me—'Hark, how he groans!Look, how he pants for breath!See how he struggles with the pangs of death!'When they shall say of these dear eyes—'How hollow, O how dim they be!Mark how his breast doth rise and swellAgainst his potent enemy!'When some old friend shall step to my bedside,Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.
But—when his next companions say'How does he do? What hopes?'—shall turn away,Answering only, with a lift-up hand—'Who can his fate withstand?'
Then shall a gasp or two do moreThan e'er my rhetoric could before:Persuade the world to trouble me no more!
Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 1638-1706
408. Song Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement.
TO all you ladies now at landWe men at sea indite;But first would have you understandHow hard it is to write:The Muses now, and Neptune too,We must implore to write to you—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind,And fill our empty brain,Yet if rough Neptune rouse the windTo wave the azure main,Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,Roll up and down our ships at sea—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Then if we write not by each post,Think not we are unkind;Nor yet conclude our ships are lostBy Dutchmen or by wind:Our tears we'll send a speedier way,The tide shall bring them twice a day—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
The King with wonder and surpriseWill swear the seas grow bold,Because the tides will higher riseThan e'er they did of old:But let him know it is our tearsBring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Should foggy Opdam chance to knowOur sad and dismal story,The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,And quit their fort at Goree:For what resistance can they findFrom men who've left their hearts behind?—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Let wind and weather do its worst,Be you to us but kind;Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,No sorrow we shall find:'Tis then no matter how things go,Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
To pass our tedious hours awayWe throw a merry main,Or else at serious ombre play;But why should we in vainEach other's ruin thus pursue?We were undone when we left you—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
But now our fears tempestuous growAnd cast our hopes away;Whilst you, regardless of our woe,Sit careless at a play:Perhaps permit some happier manTo kiss your hand, or flirt your fan—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
When any mournful tune you hear,That dies in every noteAs if it sigh'd with each man's careFor being so remote,Think then how often love we've madeTo you, when all those tunes were play'd—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
In justice you cannot refuseTo think of our distress,When we for hopes of honour loseOur certain happiness:All those designs are but to proveOurselves more worthy of your love—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
And now we've told you all our loves,And likewise all our fears,In hopes this declaration movesSome pity for our tears:Let 's hear of no inconstancy—We have too much of that at sea—With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701
409. To Chloris
AH, Chloris! that I now could sitAs unconcern'd as whenYour infant beauty could begetNo pleasure, nor no pain!When I the dawn used to admire,And praised the coming day,I little thought the growing fireMust take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood layLike metals in the mine;Age from no face took more awayThan youth conceal'd in thine.But as your charms insensiblyTo their perfection prest,Fond love as unperceived did fly,And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew,And Cupid at my heart,Still as his mother favour'd you,Threw a new flaming dart:Each gloried in their wanton part;To make a lover, heEmploy'd the utmost of his art—To make a beauty, she.
Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701
410. To Celia
NOT, Celia, that I juster amOr better than the rest!For I would change each hour, like them,Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very theeBy every thought I have;Thy face I only care to see,Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is adoredIn thy dear self I find—For the whole sex can but affordThe handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek further store,And still make love anew?When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true!
Aphra Behn. 1640-1689
411. Song
LOVE in fantastic triumph sateWhilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,For whom fresh pains he did createAnd strange tyrannic power he show'd:From thy bright eyes he took his fires,Which round about in sport he hurl'd;But 'twas from mine he took desiresEnough t' undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,From thee his pride and cruelty;From me his languishments and fears,And every killing dart from thee.Thus thou and I the god have arm'dAnd set him up a deity;But my poor heart alone is harm'd,Whilst thine the victor is, and free!
Aphra Behn. 1640-1689
412. The Libertine
A THOUSAND martyrs I have made,All sacrificed to my desire,A thousand beauties have betray'dThat languish in resistless fire:The untamed heart to hand I brought,And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.
I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain,But both, tho' false, were well received;The fair are pleased to give us pain,And what they wish is soon believed:And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart,Love's pleasures only touch'd my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoilI always laughing bore away;The triumphs without pain or toil,Without the hell the heaven of joy;And while I thus at random roveDespise the fools that whine for love.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
413. Return
ABSENT from thee, I languish still;Then ask me not, When I return?The straying fool 'twill plainly killTo wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,That my fantastic mind may proveThe torments it deserves to try,That tears my fix'd heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,To thy safe bosom I retire,Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,May I contented there expire!
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,I fall on some base heart unblest;Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven—And lose my everlasting rest.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
414. Love and Life
ALL my past life is mine no more;The flying hours are gone,Like transitory dreams given o'er,Whose images are kept in storeBy memory alone.
The time that is to come is not;How can it then be mine?The present moment 's all my lot;And that, as fast as it is got,Phillis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,False hearts, and broken vows;If I by miracle can beThis live-long minute true to thee,'Tis all that Heaven allows.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
415. Constancy
I CANNOT change as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since that poor swain that sighs for youFor you alone was born.No, Phillis, no; your heart to moveA surer way I'll try;And, to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on and die.
When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall—That welcome hour, that ends this smart,Will then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
416. To His Mistress (After Quarles)
WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O whyDoes that eclipsing hand of thine denyThe sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me?Thou art my life; my way, my light 's in thee;I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life—if thou but turn awayMy life 's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way—Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art—without thy glorious sightMy eyes are darken'd with eternal night.My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:To whom or whither should my darkness flee,But to that light?—and who 's that light but thee?
If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?
My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me!And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me!Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?
Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely:If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!—O thou that art my life, my light, my way!
Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,My reason shall obey, my wings shall beStretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!
John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720
417. The Reconcilement
COME, let us now resolve at lastTo live and love in quiet;We'll tie the knot so very fastThat Time shall ne'er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom proveWho free from quarrels live:'Tis the most tender part of loveEach other to forgive.
When least I seem'd concern'd, I tookNo pleasure nor no rest;And when I feign'd an angry look,Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me—you'll findHow blest will be our fate.O to be happy—to be kind—Sure never is too late!
John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720
418. On One who died discovering her Kindness
SOME vex their souls with jealous pain,While others sigh for cold disdain:Love's various slaves we daily see—Yet happy all compared with me!
Of all mankind I loved the bestA nymph so far above the restThat we outshined the Blest above;In beauty she, as I in love.
And therefore They, who could not bearTo be outdone by mortals here,Among themselves have placed her now,And left me wretched here below.
All other fate I could have borne,And even endured her very scorn;But oh! thus all at once to findThat dread account—both dead and kind!What heart can hold? If yet I live,'Tis but to show how much I grieve.
Thomas Otway. 1652-1685
419. The Enchantment
I DID but look and love awhile,'Twas but for one half-hour;Then to resist I had no will,And now I have no power.
To sigh and wish is all my ease;Sighs which do heat impartEnough to melt the coldest ice,Yet cannot warm your heart.
O would your pity give my heartOne corner of your breast,'Twould learn of yours the winning art,And quickly steal the rest.
John Oldham. 1653-1683
420. A Quiet Soul
THY soul within such silent pomp did keep,As if humanity were lull'd asleep;So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise,Or the soft journey which a planet goes:Life seem'd all calm as its last breath.A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast,As if some Halcyon were its guest,And there had built her nest;It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.
John Cutts, Lord Cutts. 1661-1707
421. Song
ONLY tell her that I love:Leave the rest to her and Fate:Some kind planet from aboveMay perhaps her pity move:Lovers on their stars must wait.—Only tell her that I love!
Why, O why should I despair!Mercy 's pictured in her eye:If she once vouchsafe to hear,Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!She 's too good to let me die.—Why, O why should I despair?
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
422. The Question to Lisetta
WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?What nymph should I desire to see,But her who leaves the plain for me?To whom should I compose the lay,But her who listens when I play?To whom in song repeat my cares,But her who in my sorrow shares?For whom should I the garland make,But her who joys the gift to take,And boasts she wears it for my sake?In love am I not fully blest?Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,Deserves to be your only care;But, when you and she to-dayFar into the wood did stray,And I happen'd to pass by,Which way did you cast your eye?But, when your cares to her you sing,You dare not tell her whence they spring:Does it not more afflict your heart,That in those cares she bears a part?When you the flowers for Chloe twine,Why do you to her garland joinThe meanest bud that falls from mine?Simplest of swains! the world may seeWhom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
423. To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous bandThat wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,Were summoned by her high commandTo show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,Should dart their kindling fire, and lookThe power they have to be obey'd.
Nor quality, nor reputation,Forbid me yet my flame to tell;Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms bedsWith all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads,In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame;For, though the strictest prudes should know it,She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tearThe rhymes some younger rival sends,She'll give me leave to write, I fear,And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!),That I shall be past making loveWhen she begins to comprehend it.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
424. Song
THE merchant, to secure his treasure,Conveys it in a borrow'd name:Euphelia serves to grace my measure;But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;When Chloe noted her desireThat I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;But with my numbers mix my sighs:And while I sing Euphelia's praise,I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled:And Venus to the Loves aroundRemark'd, how ill we all dissembled.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
425. On My Birthday, July 21
I, MY dear, was born to-day—So all my jolly comrades say:They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,And ask to celebrate my birth:Little, alas! my comrades knowThat I was born to pain and woe;To thy denial, to thy scorn,Better I had ne'er been born:I wish to die, even whilst I say—'I, my dear, was born to-day.'I, my dear, was born to-day:Shall I salute the rising ray,Well-spring of all my joy and woe?Clotilda, thou alone dost know.Shall the wreath surround my hair?Or shall the music please my ear?Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,And bless my birth, and wish to live?Then let me see great Venus chaseImperious anger from thy face;Then let me hear thee smiling say—'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
426. The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus
VENUS, take my votive glass:Since I am not what I was,What from this day I shall be,Venus, let me never see.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
427. A Letter to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child
MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,Let this my First Epistle beg ye,At dawn of morn, and close of even,To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.In double duty say your prayer:Our Father first, then Notre Pere.
And, dearest child, along the day,In every thing you do and say,Obey and please my lord and lady,So God shall love and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,No second letter need I send,And so I rest your constant friend.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
428. For my own Monument
AS doctors give physic by way of prevention,Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;For delays are unsafe, and his pious intentionMay haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid;That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,His virtues and vices were as other men's are;High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears,In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;In public employments industrious and grave,And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about,He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;It says that his relics collected lie here,And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found;False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.
William Walsh. 1663-1708
429. Rivals
OF all the torments, all the cares,With which our lives are curst;Of all the plagues a lover bears,Sure rivals are the worst!By partners in each other kindAfflictions easier grow;In love alone we hate to findCompanions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you seeAre labouring in my breast,I beg not you would favour me,Would you but slight the rest!How great soe'er your rigours are,With them alone I'll cope;I can endure my own despair,But not another's hope.
Lady Grisel Baillie. 1665-1746
430. Werena my Heart's licht I wad dee
THERE ance was a may, and she lo'ed na men;She biggit her bonnie bow'r doun in yon glen;But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day!Come doun the green gait and come here away!
When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me,Because I was twice as bonnie as she;She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his motherThat werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
The day it was set, and the bridal to be:The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain,Till he vow'd he never wad see me again.
His kin was for ane of a higher degree,Said—What had he do wi' the likes of me?Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie—And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
They said I had neither cow nor calf,Nor dribbles o' drink rins thro' the draff,Nor pickles o' meal rins thro' the mill-e'e—And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
His titty she was baith wylie and slee:She spied me as I cam owre the lea;And then she ran in and made a loud din—Believe your ain e'en, an ye trow not me.
His bonnet stood ay fu' round on his brow,His auld ane look'd ay as well as some's new:But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing,And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.
And now he gaes daund'ring about the dykes,And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes:The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e—And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,We should hae been gallopin' doun in yon green,And linkin' it owre the lily-white lea—And wow, gin I were but young for thee!
may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty] sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small quantities. hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the dogs. steeks] closes. linkin'] tripping.
William Congreve. 1670-1729
431. False though She be
FALSE though she be to me and love,I'll ne'er pursue revenge;For still the charmer I approve,Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met:They could not always last;And though the present I regret,I'm grateful for the past.
William Congreve. 1670-1729
432. A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret
FAIR Amoret is gone astray—Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover;I'll tell the signs by which you mayThe wand'ring Shepherdess discover.
Coquette and coy at once her air,Both studied, tho' both seem neglected;Careless she is, with artful care,Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance,Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them,For she'd persuade they wound by chance,Tho' certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hatesFor that which in herself she prizes;And, while she laughs at them, forgetsShe is the thing hat she despises.
Joseph Addison. 1672-1719
433. Hymn
THE spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.Th' unwearied Sun from day to dayDoes his Creator's power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;And nightly to the listening EarthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though nor real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In Reason's ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice;For ever singing as they shine,'The Hand that made us is divine.'
Isaac Watts. 1674-1748
434. The Day of Judgement
WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forcesRears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;And the red lightning with a storm of hail comesRushing amain down;
How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,Roars a loud onset to the gaping watersQuick to devour them.
Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder(If things eternal may be like these earthly),Such the dire terror when the great ArchangelShakes the creation;
Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven,Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,Sees the graves open, and the bones arising,Flames all around them.
Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!Lively bright horror and amazing anguishStare thro' their eyelids, while the living worm liesGnawing within them.
Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds theLofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeanceRolling afore him.
Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver,While devils push them to the pit wide-yawningHideous and gloomy, to receive them headlongDown to the centre!
Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horridDoleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus,How He sits God-like! and the saints around HimThroned, yet adoring!
O may I sit there when He comes triumphant,Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,While our Hosannas all along the passageShout the Redeemer.
Isaac Watts. 1674-1748
435. A Cradle Hymn
HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou'rt attendedThan the Son of God could be,When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay.
Blessed babe! what glorious features—Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a mangerCursed sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,Though my song might sound too hard;'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful storyHow the Jews abused their King,How they served the Lord of Glory,Makes me angry while I sing.
See the kinder shepherds round Him,Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him,With His Virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, the mother's blessingSoothed and hush'd the holy child.
Lo, He slumbers in His manger,Where the horned oxen fed:Peace, my darling; here 's no danger,Here 's no ox anear thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,Save my dear from burning flame,Bitter groans and endless crying,That thy blest Redeemer came.
May'st thou live to know and fear Him,Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell for ever near Him,See His face, and sing His praise!
Thomas Parnell. 1670-1718
436. Song
WHEN thy beauty appearsIn its graces and airsAll bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky,At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:So strangely you dazzle my eye!
But when without artYour kind thoughts you impart,When your love runs in blushes through every vein;When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,Then I know you're a woman again.
There 's a passion and prideIn our sex (she replied),And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:Still an angel appear to each lover beside,But still be a woman to you.
Allan Ramsay. 1686-1758
437. Peggy
MY Peggy is a young thing,Just enter'd in her teensFair as the day, and sweet as May,Fair as the day, and always gay;My Peggy is a young thing,And I'm not very auld,Yet well I like to meet her atThe wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetlyWhene'er we meet alane,I wish nae mair to lay my care,I wish nae mair of a' that's rare;My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,To a' the lave I'm cauld,But she gars a' my spirits glowAt wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindlyWhene'er I whisper love,That I look down on a' the town,That I look down upon a crown;My Peggy smiles sae kindly,It makes me blyth and bauld,And naething gi'es me sic delightAs wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftlyWhen on my pipe I play,By a' the rest it is confest,By a' the rest, that she sings best;My Peggy sings sae saftly,And in her sangs are tauldWith innocence the wale of sense,At wawking of the fauld.
wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best.
William Oldys. 1687-1761
438. On a Fly drinking out of his Cup
BUSY, curious, thirsty fly!Drink with me and drink as I:Freely welcome to my cup,Couldst thou sip and sip it up:Make the most of life you may,Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thineHastening quick to their decline:Thine 's a summer, mine 's no more,Though repeated to threescore.Threescore summers, when they're gone,Will appear as short as one!
John Gay. 1688-1732
439. Song
O RUDDIER than the cherry!O sweeter than the berry!O nymph more brightThan moonshine night,Like kidlings blithe and merry!Ripe as the melting cluster!No lily has such lustre;Yet hard to tameAs raging flame,And fierce as storms that bluster!
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
440. On a certain Lady at Court
I KNOW a thing that 's most uncommon;(Envy, be silent and attend!)I know a reasonable woman,Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour;Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;An equal mixture of good-humourAnd sensible soft melancholy.
'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?'Yes, she has one, I must aver:When all the world conspires to praise her,The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
441. Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shadeInvites my steps, and points to yonder glade?'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored,Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well?To bear too tender or too firm a heart,To act a lover's or a Roman's part?Is there no bright reversion in the skyFor those who greatly think, or bravely die?Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspireAbove the vulgar flight of low desire?Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;The glorious fault of angels and of gods;Thence to their images on earth it flows,And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,And close confined to their own palace, sleep.From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.As into air the purer spirits flow,And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below,So flew the soul to its congenial place,Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.But thou, false guardian of a charge too good!Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death:Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.There passengers shall stand, and pointing say(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way),'Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'dAnd cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.'Thus unlamented pass the proud away,The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glowFor others' good, or melt at others' woe!What can atone (O ever-injured shade!)Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tearPleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier.By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear,Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,And bear about the mockery of woeTo midnight dances, and the public show?What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow;While angels with their silver wings o'ershadeThe ground now sacred by thy reliques made.So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not,To whom related, or by whom begot;A heap of dust alone remains of thee,'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;Then from this closing eyes thy form shall part,And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
442. The Dying Christian to his Soul
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!Quit, O quit this mortal frame:Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,O the pain, the bliss of dying!Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,Sister Spirit, come away!What is this absorbs me quite?Steals my senses, shuts my sight,Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!Heav'n opens on my eyes! my earsWith sounds seraphic ring!Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!O Grave! where is thy victory?O Death! where is thy sting?
George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe. 1691?-1762
443. Shorten Sail
LOVE thy country, wish it well,Not with too intense a care;'Tis enough that, when it fell,Thou its ruin didst not share.
Envy's censure, Flattery's praise,With unmoved indifference view:Learn to tread Life's dangerous mazeWith unerring Virtue's clue.
Void of strong desire and fear,Life's wide ocean trust no more;Strive thy little bark to steerWith the tide, but near the shore.
Thus prepared, thy shorten'd sailShall, whene'er the winds increase,Seizing each propitious gale,Waft thee to the port of Peace.
Keep thy conscience from offenceAnd tempestuous passions free,So, when thou art call'd from hence,Easy shall thy passage be.
—Easy shall thy passage be,Cheerful thy allotted stay,Short the account 'twixt God and thee,Hope shall meet thee on thy way.
Henry Carey. 1693?-1743
444. Sally in our Alley
OF all the girls that are so smartThere 's none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.There is no lady in the landIs half so sweet as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,And through the streets does cry 'em;Her mother she sells laces longTo such as please to buy 'em;But sure such folks could ne'er begetSo sweet a girl as Sally!She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
When she is by, I leave my work,I love her so sincerely;My master comes like any Turk,And bangs me most severely:But let him bang his bellyful,I'll bear it all for Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that 's in the weekI dearly love but one day—And that 's the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I'm drest all in my bestTo walk abroad with Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,And often am I blamedBecause I leave him in the lurchAs soon as text is named;I leave the church in sermon-timeAnd slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,O, then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up, and box it all,I'll give it to my honey:I would it were ten thousand pound,I'd give it all to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
My master and the neighbors allMake gave of me and Sally,And, but for her, I'd better beA slave and row a galley;But when my seven long years are out,O, then I'll marry Sally;O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed—But not in our alley!
Henry Carey. 1693?-1743
445. A Drinking-Song
BACCHUS must now his power resign—I am the only God of Wine!It is not fit the wretch should beIn competition set with me,Who can drink ten times more than he.
Make a new world, ye powers divine!Stock'd with nothing else but Wine:Let Wine its only product be,Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea—And let that Wine be all for me!
William Broome. ?-1745
446. The Rosebud
QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose,The beauties of thy leaves disclose!—But thou, fair Nymph, thyself surveyIn this sweet offspring of a day.That miracle of face must fail,Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail:Swift as the short-lived flower they fly,At morn they bloom, at evening die:Though Sickness yet a while forbears,Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares:Now Helen lives alone in fame,And Cleopatra's but a name:Time must indent that heavenly brow,And thou must be what they are now.
William Broome. ?-1745
447. Belinda's Recovery from Sickness
THUS when the silent grave becomesPregnant with life as fruitful wombs;When the wide seas and spacious earthResign us to our second birth;Our moulder'd frame rebuilt assumesNew beauty, and for ever blooms,And, crown'd with youth's immortal pride,We angels rise, who mortals died.
James Thomson. 1700-1748
448. On the Death of a particular Friend
AS those we love decay, we die in part,String after string is sever'd from the heart;Till loosen'd life, at last but breathing clay,Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow!Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death,Till, dying, all he can resign is—breath.
George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. 1709-1773
449. Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love
WHEN Delia on the plain appears,Awed by a thousand tender fearsI would approach, but dare not move:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd earNo other voice than hers can hear,No other wit but hers approve:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,Though I was once his fondest friend,His instant enemy I prove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no moreDelight in all that pleased before—The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain,Her nets she spread for every swain,I strove to hate, but vainly strove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784
450. One-and-Twenty
LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty,Ling'ring year, at length is flown:Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,Great * * * * * * *, are now your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,Free to mortgage or to sell,Wild as wind, and light as feather,Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies,All the names that banish care;Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and follyJoy to see their quarry fly:There the gamester, light and jolly,There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,Let it wander as it will;Call the jockey, call the pander,Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonny blade carouses,Pockets full, and spirits high—What are acres? What are houses?Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian friend or motherTell the woes of wilful waste,Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;—You can hang or drown at last!
Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784
451. On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,As on we toil from day to day,By sudden blasts or slow declineOur social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,See Levet to the grave descend,Officious, innocent, sincere,Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;Nor, letter'd Arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call'd for aid,And hov'ring death prepared the blow,His vig'rous remedy display'dThe power of art without the show.
In Misery's darkest cavern known,His useful care was ever nigh,Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,No petty gain disdained by pride;The modest wants of every dayThe toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure th' Eternal Master foundThe single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;His frame was firm—his powers were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke at once the vital chain,And freed his soul the nearest way.