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So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;
Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass,
See Nero milder than Augustus was.
Hereafter, such, in thy behalf, shall be
Th' indulgent censure of posterity.

To banish those, who with such art can sing,
Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring:
Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,
Nor how to love their present youth be taught.
This to thyself.-Now to thy matchless book,
Wherein those few that can with judgment look,
May find old love in pure fresh language told;
Like new-stamp'd coin, made out of angel-gold:
Such truth in love, as th' antique world did know,
In such a style, as courts may boast of now;
Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,
But human passions, such as with us dwell.
Man is thy theme; his virtue, or his rage,
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Mars, nor Bellona, are not named here,
But such a Gondibert as both might fear:
Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshin'd,
By thy bright Birtha, and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds,
Betwixt thy worthies, and the Grecian gods!
Whose deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the sovereign crown:
Such as, of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood,
Though not resisted, may be understood.

ΤΟ ΜΥ

WORTHY FRIEND MR. WASE,

THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.

THUS, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves, that on Parnassus grow.

The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne:
And young Apollo winds the horn.

Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs, for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed:

What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat, or to tame;
With all the mysteries of that game.
But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far,
From what our fiery battles are.
Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone.

No quarter now: but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text,
To tell how modern beasts are vext.

Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage:

Since none doth more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts, which you so early know.

TO HIS

WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

LUCRETIUS (with a stork-like fate,
Born and translated in a state)
Comes to proclaim, in English verse,
No monarch rules the universe:
But chance and atoms make this ALL
In order democratical;

Where bodies freely run their course,
Without design, or fate, or force.
And this in such a strain he sings,
As if his Muse, with angels' wings,
Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere,
And other worlds discover'd there.
For his immortal, boundless wit,
To Nature does no bounds permit;
But boldly has remov'd those bars

Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars,.
By which they were before suppos'd,
By narrow wits, to be inclos'd;

Till his free muse threw down the pale,
And did at once dispark them all.

So vast this argument did seem,
That the wise author did esteem
The Roman language (which was spread
O'er the whole world, in triumph led)
A tongue too narrow to unfold
The wonders which he would have told.
This speaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend:
For here Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his music, and his mind.
Thy art has to our country brought
All that he writ, and all he thought.

Ovid translated, Virgil too,

Show'd long since what our tongue could do:
Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spar'd;
Only Lucretius was too hard.
Lucretius, like a fort, did stand
Untouch'd, till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear.
A garland! made of such new bays,
And sought in such untrodden ways,
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's, and your own.

TO HIS

WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOS. HIGGONS,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.

THE winged lion's 9 not so fierce in fight,
As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight;
Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce,
Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse:

9 The arms of Venice.

VERSES TO DR. ROGERS...CHLORIS AND HYLAS.

But your translation does all three excel,
The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel.
As their small gallies may not hold compare
With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air;
So does th' Italian to your genius vail,
Mov'd with a fuller and a nobler gale.
Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story,
You make all Europe emulate her glory:
You make them blush, weak Venice should defend
The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend;
Shed Christian blood, and populous cities rase,
Because they're taught to use some different phrase.
If, listening to your charms, we could our jars
Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars;
Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest
From pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East:
And then you might our own high deeds recite,
And with great Tasso celebrate the fight.

VERSES TO DR. GEORGE ROGERS,
ON HIS TAKING THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR IN PHYSIC AT
PADUA, IN THE YEAR 1664.

WHEN, as of old, the Earth's bold children strove,
With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove,
Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side,
And their bright arms in his defence employ'd;
While the wise Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace, and love the muses best,
Descending from their so distemper'd seat,
Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat.
There first Apollo try'd the various use
Of herbs, and learn'd the virtues of their juice,
And fram'd that art, to which who can pretend
A juster title than our noble friend,
Whom the like tempest drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?
This crowns him here; and in the bays so earn'd,
His country's honour is no less concern'd;
Since it appears not all the English rave,
To ruin bent; some study how to save:
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His sacred art, whole cities to amend;

So we, brave friend, suppose that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example, will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle,
Thy spirits calm, and peace again shall smile.
EDM. WALLER, Anglus.

CHLORIS AND HYLAS.

MADE TO A SARABAND.

CHLORIS.

HYLAS, oh Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring?
Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing :
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYL Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose;

Yet no particular taste it brings

Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose: So, love the result is of all the graces,

Which flow from a thousand several faces.

57

CHLO. Hylas! the birds which chaunt in this grove,
Could we but know the language they use,
They would instruct us better in love,

And reprehend thy inconstant Muse:
For love their breasts does fill with such a fire,
That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.

HYL. Chloris! this change the birds do approve,
Which the warm season hither does bring:
Time from yourself does further remove

You, than the winter from the gay spring:
She that like lightning shin'd while her face lasted,
The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.

IN ANSWER OF

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.

CON.

STAY here, fond youth, and ask no more; be wise;
Knowing too much long since lost Paradise.

PRO. And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft
Of all that Paradise, which yet is left. [should still
CON. The virtuous joys thon hast, thou wouldst
Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill
If rudely, from sweet dreams, and for a toy,
Thou wak'd: he wakes himself that does enjoy.
PRO. How can the joy, or hope, which you allow,
Be styled virtuous, and the end not so?
Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire!
'Tis true, he wakes, that feels this real fire,
But-to sleep better: for whoe'er drinks deep
Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.

CON. Fruition adds no new wealth, but destroys;
And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys.
Who thinks he should be happier made for that,
As reasonably might hope he might grow fat
By eating to a surfeit: this once past,
What relishes? ev'n kisses lose their taste.

PRO. Blessings may be repeated, while they cloy;
But shall we starve, 'cause surfeitings destroy?
And if fruition did the taste impair

Of kisses, why should yonder happy pair,
Whose joys just Hymen warrants all the night,
Consume the day too in this less delight?

CON. Urge not 'tis necessary; alas! we know
The homeliest thing that mankind does is so.
The world is of a large extent we see,

And must be peopled, children there must be:-
So must bread too: but since there are enough
Born to that drudgery, what need we plough?
PRO. I need not plough, since what the stooping
Gets of my pregnant land must all be mine:
But in this nobler tillage, 'tis not so;
For when Anchises did fair Venus know,
What interest had poor Vulcan in the boy,
Famous Æneas, or the present joy?

[hine

CON. Women enjoy'd, whate'er before they've been,
Are like romances read, or scenes once seen:
Fruition dulls or spoils the play much more,
Than if one read or knew the plot before.

PRO. Plays and romances, read and seen, do fall
In our opinions: yet, not seen at all,
Whom would they please? To an heroic tale
Would you not listen, lest it should grow stale?
CON. 'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear;
Heaven were not Heaven, if we knew what it were.
PRO. If 'twere not Heaven, if we knew what it were,
'Twould not be Heaven to those who now are there.

CON. And as in prospects we are there pleas'd most, Where something keeps the eye from being lost, And leaves us room to guess: so here, restraint Holds up delight, that with excess would faint.

PRO. Restraint preserves the pleasure we have got, But he ne'er has it, that enjoys it not.

In goodly prospects, who contracts the space,
Or takes not all the beauty of the place?
We wish remov'd what standeth in our light,
And Nature blame for limiting our sight;
Where you stand wisely winking, that the view
Of the fair prospect may be always new.

CON. They, who know all the wealth they have, are He's only rich, that cannot tell his store. [poor;

PRO. Not he that knows the wealth he has is poor; But he that dares not touch, nor use his store.

To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Admiring, in the gloomy shade,

Those little drops of light:
Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand
Remov'd them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertain'd his eyes.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determin'd there,

And could no higher rise:
He neither might, nor wish'd to know
A more refulgent light:
For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employ'd his utmost sight.

TO A FRIEND,

OF THE DIFFERENT SUCCESS OF THEIR LOVES.

THRICE happy pair! of whom we cannot know
Which first began to love, or loves most now:
Fair course of passion! where two lovers start,
And run together, heart still yok'd with heart:
Successful youth! whom love has taught the way
To be victorious, in the first essay.

Sure love's an art best practised at first,
And where th' experienced still prosper worst!
I, with a different fate, pursued in vain
The haughty Cælia; till my just disdain
Of her neglect, above that passion borne,
Did pride to pride oppose, and scorn to scorn.
Now she relents; but all too late, to move
A heart directed to a nobler love:

1

falls,

The scales are turn'd, her kindness weighs no more
Now, than my vows and service did before.
So, in some well-wrought hangings, you may see
How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee:
Here, the fierce Mars his courage so inspires,
That with bold hands the Argive fleet he fires:
But there, from Heaven the blue-ey'd virgin
And frighted Troy retires within her walls:
They that are foremost in that bloody race
Turn head anon, and give the conquerors chase.
So like the chances are of love and war,
That they alone in this distinguish'd are;
In love, the victors from the vanquish'd fly,
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.

AN APOLOGY

FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

THEY, that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.

So they, that are to love inclin'd,
Sway'd by chance, not choice or art,
To the first that's fair or kind,

Make a present of their heart: 'Tis not she that first we love, But whom dying we approve.

' Minerva.

TO ZELINDA.

FAIREST piece of well-form'd earth!
Urge not thus your haughty birth:
The power which you have o'er us, lies
Not in your race, but in your eyes.
None but a prince!-Alas! that voice
Confines you to a narrow choice.
Should you no honey vow to taste,
But what the master-bees have plac'd
In compass of their cells, how small
A portion to your share would fall!
Nor all appear, among those few,
Worthy the stock from whence they grew:
The sap, which at the root is bred,
In trees, through all the boughs is spread;
But virtues, which in parents shine,
Make not like progress through the line.
'Tis not from whom, but where, we live:
The place does oft those graces give.
Great Julius, on the mountains bred,
A flock perhaps, or herd, had led:
He2, that the world subdued, had been
"Tis art, and knowledge, which draw forth
But the best wrestler on the green.

The hidden seeds of native worth:
They blow those sparks, and make them rise
Into such flames as touch the skies.
To the old heroes hence was given
A pedigree, which reach'd to heaven:
Of mortal seed they were not held,
Which other mortals so excell'd.
And beauty too, in such excess
As your's, Zelinda! claims no less.
Smile but on me, and you shall scorn,
Henceforth, to be of princes born.
I can describe the shady grove,

Where your lov'd mother slept with Jove,
And yet excuse the faultless dame,

Caught with her spouse's shape and name:
Thy matchless form will credit bring
To all the wonders I shall sing.

TO MY LADY MORTON,

ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, AT THE LOUVRE IN PARIS, MADAM! new years may well expect to find Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind;

• Alexander.

Still as they pass, they court and smile on you,
And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new.
To the fair Villars we Dalkeith prefer,
And fairest Morton now as much to her:
So like the Sun's advance your titles show,
Which, as he rises, does the warmer grow.

But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise,
Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays:
From armed foes to bring a royal prize 3,

Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes.
If Judith, marching with the general's head,
Can give us passion when her story's read;
What may the living do, which brought away
Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey;
Who, from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand,
Snatch'd her fair charge, the princess, like a brand?
A brand! preserv'd to warm some prince's heart,
And make whole kingdoms take her brother's 4 part.
So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shrowd
The hope of Rome 5, and sav'd him in a cloud.
This gallant act may cancel all our rage,
Begin a better, and absolve this age.
Dark shades become the portrait of our time;
Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime!
Let him that draws it hide the rest in night;
This portion only may endure the light, [shape,
Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless
Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to scape,
When through the guards, the river, and the sea,
Faith, Beauty, Wit, and Courage, made their way.
As the brave eagle does with sorrow see
The forest wasted, and that lofty tree,
Which holds her nest, about to be o'erthrown,
Before the feathers of her young are grown;
She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,
But bears them boldly on her wings away:
So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore
Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore.
Born in the storms of war, this royal fair,
Produc'd like lightning in tempestuous air,
Though now she flies her native isle (less kind,
Less fafe for her than either sea or wind!)
Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown,
See her great brother on the British throne:
Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,
But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.

TO A FAIR LADY,

PLAYING WITH A SNAKE.

STRANGE! that such horrour, and such grace,
Should dwell together in one place;

A fury's arm, an angel's face!

'Tis innocence, and youth, which makes

In Chloris' fancy such mistakes,

To start at love, and play with snakes.
By this, and by her coldness, barr'd,
Her servants have a task too hard:
The tyrant has a double guard!
Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve
May boldly creep; we dare not give
Our thoughts so unconfin'd a leave.
Contented in that nest of snow
He lies, as he his bliss did know,
And to the wood no more would go.

3 Henrietta Maria, youngest daughter to king Charles I. 4 King Charles II. 5 Eneas.

Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make Another tempter of this snake:

A marble one, so warm'd, would speak.

THE NIGHT-PIECE:

OR A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE DARK.

DARKNESS, which fairest nymphs disarms,
Defends us ill from Mira's charms:
Mira can lay her beauty by,
Take no advantage of the eye,
Quit all that Lely's art can take,
And yet a thousand captives make.

Her speech is grac'd with sweeter sound,
Than in another's song is found:
And all her well-plac'd words are darts,
Which need no light to reach our hearts.

As the bright stars, and milky way,
Show'd by the night, are hid by day:
So we, in that accomplish'd mind,
Help'd by the night, new graces find,
Which, by the splendour of her view
Dazzled before, we never knew.

While we converse with her, we mark
No want of day, nor think it dark:
Her shining image is a light
Fixt in our hearts, and conquers night.

Like jewels to advantage set,
Her beauty by the shade does get:
There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain,
All that our passion might restrain,
Is hid, and our indulgent mind
Presents the fair idea kind.

Yet, friended by the night, we dare
Only in whispers tell our care:
He, that on her his bold hand lays,
With Cupid's pointed arrows plays;
They with a touch (they are so keen!)
Wound us unshot, and she unseen.

All near approaches threaten death,
We may be shipwreck'd by her breath:
Love, favour'd once with that sweet gale,
Doubles his haste, and fills his sail,
Till he arrive where she must prove
The haven, or the rock, of love.

So we th' Arabian coast do know
At distance, when the spices blow;
By the rich odour taught to steer,
Though neither day nor stars appear.

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As, when loud winds a well-grown oak would rend
Up by the roots, this way and that they bend
His reeling trunk, and with a boisterous sound
Scatter his leaves, and strew them on the ground,
He fixed stands; as deep his roots do lie
Down to the centre, as his top is high:
No less on every side the hero prest,
Feels love, and pity, shake his noble breast,

And down his cheeks though fruitless tears do roll,
Unmov'd remains the purpose of his soul.
Then Dido, urged with approaching fate,
Begins the light of cruel Heaven to hate.
Her resolution to dispatch, and die,
Confirm'd by many a horrid prodigy!
The water, consecrate for sacrifice,
Appears all black to her amazed eyes;
The wine to putrid blood converted flows,
Which from her none, not her own sister, knows.
Besides, there stood, as sacred to her lord,
A marble temple which she much ador'd,
With snowy fleeces and fresh garlands crown'd:
Hence every night proceeds a dreadful sound;
Her husband's voice invites her to his tomb,
And dismal owls presage the ills to come.
Besides, the prophecies of wizards old
Increas'd her terrour, and her fall foretold:
Scorn'd and deserted to herself she seems,
And finds Eneas cruel in her dreams.

So, to mad Pentheus, double Thebes appears,
And furies howl in his distemper'd ears.
Orestes so, with like distraction tost,
Is made to fly his mother's angry ghost.

Now grief and fury to their height arrive;
Death she decrees, and thus does it contrive.
Her grieved sister, with a cheerful grace,
(Hope well dissembled shining in her face)
She thus deceives. Dear sister! let us prove
The cure I have invented for my love.
Beyond the land of Æthiopia lies

The place where Atlas does support the skies:
Hence came an old magician, that did keep
Th' Hesperian fruit, and made the dragon sleep:
Her potent charms do troubled souls relieve,
And, where she lists, makes calmest minds to grieve:
The course of rivers, and of heaven, can stop,
And call trees down from th' airy mountain's top.
Witness, ye gods! and thou, my dearest part!
How loth I am to tempt this guilty art.
Erect a pile, and on it let us place
That bed, where I my ruin did embrace:
With all the relics of our impious guest,
Arms, spoils, and presents, let the pile be drest;
(The knowing woman thus prescribes) that we
May rase the man out of our memory.

Thus speaks the queen, but hides the fatal end
For which she doth those sacred rites pretend.
Nor worse effects of grief her sister thought
Would follow, than Sichæus' murder wrought;
Therefore obeys her: and now, heaped high,
The cloven oaks and lofty pines do lie;
Hung all with wreaths and flowery garlands round;
So by herself was her own funeral crown'd!
Upon the top the Trojan's image lies,
And his sharp sword, wherewith anon she dies.
They by the altar stand, while with loose hair
The magic prophetess begins her prayer:
On Chaos, Erebus, and all the gods,
Which in th' infernal shades have their abodes,

8 Sichæus.

She loudly calls, besprinkling all the room
With drops, suppos'd from Lethe's lake to come.
She seeks the knot, which on the forehead grows
Of new foal'd colts, and herbs by moonlight mows.
A cake of leaven in her pious hands

Holds the devoted queen, and barefoot stands:
One tender foot was bare, the other shod,
Her robe ungirt, invoking every god,
And every power, if any be above,
Which takes regard of ill-requited love!

Now was the time, when weary mortals steep
Their careful temples in the dew of sleep:
On seas, on earth, and all that in them dwell,
A death-like quiet and deep silence fell;
But not on Dido! whose untamed mind
Refus'd to be by sacred night confin'd:
A double passion in her breast does move,
Love, and fierce anger for neglected love.
Thus she afflicts her soul: What shall I do?
With fate inverted, shall I humbly woo?
And some proud prince, in wild Numidia born,
Pray to accept me, and forget my scorn?
Or, shall I with th' ungrateful Trojan go,
Quit all my state, and wait upon my foe?
Is not enough, by sad experience! known
The perjur'd race of false Laomedon?
With my Sidonians shall I give them chase,
Bands hardly forced from their native place?
No:-die! and let this sword thy fury tame;
Nought but thy blood can quench this guilty flame.
Ah, sister! vanquish'd with my passion, thou
Betray'dst me first, dispensing with my vow.
Had I been constant to Sichæus still,
And single liv'd, I had not known this ill!

Such thoughts torment the queen's enraged breast, While the Dardanian does securely rest

In his tall ship, for sudden flight prepar'd;
To whom once more the son of Jove appear'd;
Thus seems to speak the youthful deity,
Voice, hair, and colour, all like Mercury.

Fair Venus' seed! canst thou indulge thy sleep,
Nor better guard in such great danger keep?
Mad, by neglect to lose so fair a wind!
If here thy ships the purple morning find,
Thou shalt behold this hostile harbour shine
With a new fleet, and fires, to ruin thine:
She meditates revenge, resolv'd to die;
Weigh anchor quickly, and her fury fly.

This said, the god in shades of night retir'd. Amaz'd Æneas, with the warning fir'd, Shakes off dull sleep, and rousing up his men, Behold! the gods command our flight again. Fall to your oars, and all your canvass spread: What god soe'er that thus vouchsafes to lead, We follow gladly, and thy will obey, Assist us still, smoothing our happy way, And make the rest propitious!-With that word, He cuts the cable with his shining sword: Through all the navy doth like ardour reign, They quit the shore, and rush into the main: Plac'd on their banks, the lusty Trojans sweep Neptune's smooth face, and cleave the yielding deep.

ON THE PICTURE OF A FAIR YOUTH,

TAKEN AFTER HE WAS DEAD.

As gather'd flowers, while their wounds are new, Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew,

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