As chemifls gold from brass by fire would draw, Though mighty raptures we in Homer find,
Pretexts are into treafon forg'd by law.
His wifdom fuch, at once it did appear
Three kingdoms wonder, and three kingdoms fear;
While fingle he food forth, and feem'd, although
Each had an army, as an equal foe.
Such was his force of eloquence, to make
The hearers more concern'd than he that fpake;
Each feem'd to act that part he came to fee,
And none was more a looker-on than he;
So did he move our paffions, fome were known
To wifh, for the defence, the crime their own.
Now private pity ftrove with public hate,
Reafon with rage, and eloquence with fate:
Now they could him, if he could them forgive;
He's not too guilty, but too wife to live;
Lefs feem thofe facts which treafon's nick name
bore,
Than fuch a fear'd ability for more.
They after death their fears of him express,
His innocence and their own guilt confefs.
Their legislative frenzy they repent:
Enacting it should make no precedent.
This fate he could have 'fcap'd, but would not lofe
Honour for life, but rather nably chose
Death from their fears, than fafety from his own,
That his laft action all the reft might crown.
ON HIS INCOMPARABLE JOEM".
Yet, like himself, his characters were blind:
Virgil's fublimed eyes not only gaz'd,
But his fublimed thoughts to Heaven were rais'd.
Who reads the honours which he paid the gods, 21
Would think he had beheld their bleft abodes;
And, that his hero might accomplish'd be,
From divine blood he draws his pedigree.
From that great judge your judgment takes its law,
And by the best original does draw
Bonduca's honour, with thofe heroes Time
Had in oblivion wrapt, his faucy crime;
To them and to your nation you are juft,
In raising up their glories from the dust;
And to Old England you that right have done,
To fhew, no story nobler than her own.
READER, preferve thy peace; thofe bufy eyes
Will weep at their own fad difcoveries;
When every line they add improves thy lofs,
Till, having view'd the whole, they fum a crofs;
Such as derides thy paffions' best relief,
And fcorns the fuccours of thy cafy grief.
Yet, left thy ignorance betray thy name
Of man and pious, read and mourn: the fhame
Of an exemption, from just sense, doth shew
HAT mighty gale hath rais'd a flight fo Irrational, beyond excefs of woe.
ftrong?
So high above all vulgar eyes? fo long?
One fingle rapture fcarce itfelf confiucs
Within the limits of four thousand lines:
And yet I hope to fee this noble heat
Continue, till it makes the piece compleat,
That to the latter age it may defcend,
And to the end of time its beams extend.
When pocfy joins profit with delight,
Her images fhould be most exquifite,
Since man to that perfection cannot rife,
Of always virtuous, fortunate, and wife;
Therefore the patterns man fhould inuitate
Above the life our mafters fhould create.
Herein, if we confult with Greece and Rome, 15
Grecce (as in war) by Rome was overcome;
• The Honourable Edward Howard, by his poem called "The British Princes," engaged the attention of by far the moft eminent of his contemporaries; who played upon his vanity, as the Wits of half a century before had done on that of Thomas Coryat, by writing extravagant compliments on his works. See Butler's, Waller's, Sprat's, and Dorfet's verfes, in their refpective volumes; and in the "Select Collection of Mifcellaneous Poems, 1780," vol. iii. p. 105, are other verics on the fame fubject by Martin Clifford, and the Lord Vaughan. N.
Since reafon, then, can privilege a tear,
Manhood, uncenfur'd, pay that tribute here,
Upon this noble urn. Here, here remains
For what deftroys our hope, fecures our fear.
What fin unexpiated, in this land
Of groans, hath guided fo fevere a hand?
The late great victim that your altars knew,
Ye angry gods, might have excus'd this new
Oblation, and have fpar'd one lofty light
Of virtue, to inform our steps aright;
By whofe example good, condemned we
Might have run on to kinder definy.
But, as the leader of the herd fell firft
Of indam'd vengeance for paft crimes; fo none
A facrifice, to quench the raging thirst
But this white-fatted youngling could atone,
By his untimely fate, that impious smoke,
That fullied earth, and did Heaven's pity choak.
Let it fuffice for us, that we have loft
In him, more than the widow'd world can boast
In any lump of her remaining clay.
Fair as the grey-ey'd morn he was: the day,
35
No hatte like that of his increafing parts:
Youthful and climbing upwards fti"!, imparts
But who fays he was not
A man of much plot,
May repent that falfe accufation;
Having plotted and penn'd
Six plays, to attend
The farce of his negotiation.
Before you were told
How Satan the old
Came here with a beard to his middle; Though he chang'd face and name, Old Will was the fame,
At the noife of a can and a fiddle.
These statesmen, you believe,
Send ftraight for the fhrieve,
For he is one too, or would be;
But he drinks no wine,
Which is a fhrewd fign
That all's not fo well as it fhould be.
Thefe three, when they drink,
How little do they think
Of banishment, debts, or dying:
Not old with their years,
Nor cold with their fears;
But their angry ftars ftill defying.
Mirth makes them not mad,
Nor fobriety fad;
But of that they are feldom in danger;
At Paris, at Rome,
At the Hague they're at home;
The good fellow is no where a stranger.
But oh! the roof of linen,
Intended for a shelter!
But the rain made an afs
Of tilt and canvas;
And the snow, which you know is a melter.
But with thee to inveigle
That tender stripling Aftcot,
Who was foak'd to the skin,
Through drugget so thin,
Having neither coat nor waistcoat.
He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
Defy'd cart fo base,
For thief without grace,
That goes to make a wry mouth.
Nor did he like the omen,
For fear it might be his doom
One day for to fing,
With gullet in ftring,
-A hymn of Robert Wisdom.
But what was all this business?
For fure it was important:
For who rides i' th' wet
When affairs are not great,
The neighbours make but a sport on't.
To a goodly fat fow's baby,
O John, thou hadst a malice,
The old driver of swine
That day fure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.
TO SIR JOHN MENNIS,
BEING INVITED FROM CALAIS TO BOLOGNE, TO FAT A PIG.
A with a fat Bulgarian doven,
LL on a weeping Monday,
Little admiral John
To Bologne is gone,
Whom I think they call old Loven.
Hadit thou not thy fill of carting,
Will Aubrey, count of Oxon,
When nofe lay in breech,
And breech made a speech,
So often cry'd a pox on?
A knight by land and water
Efteem'd at fuch a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent,
In a cart that he went,
They'll fay now, hang him pirate.
Thou might't have ta'en example,
From what thou read'it in ftory;
Being as worthy to fit
On an ambling tit
As thy predeceffor Dory.
HAT gives us that fantaftic fit That all our judgment and our wit To vulgar cuftom we fubmit?
Treafon, theft, murder, and all the rest
Of that foul legion we so deteft,
Are in their proper names exprest.
Why is it then thought fin or shame,
Thofe neceffary parts to name,
From whence we went, and whence we came?
Nature, whate'er fhe wants, requires;
With love enflaming our defires,
Finds engines fit to quench those fires:
Death fhe abhors; yet when men die,
We're prefent: but no ftander-by
Looks on when we that lofs fupply.
Forbidden warcs fell twice as dear;
Ev'n fack prohibited last year,
A moft abominable rate did bear.
'Tis plain our eyes and ears are nice,
Only to raife, by that device,
Of thofe commodities the price.
Thus reafon's fhadows us betray,
By tropes and figures led aftray,
From nature, both her guide and way.
BARPEDON'S SPEECH TO GLAUCUS.
IN THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER.
THUS to Glaucus spake
Divine Sarpedon, fince he did not find Others, as great in place, as great in mind. Above the reft why is our pomp, our power, Our flocks, our herds, and our poffeffions more? Why all the tributes land and fea affords
Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous boards?
Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears
Of the rich grape, whilst music charms their ears.
Why, as we país, do thofe on Xanthus' fhore,
As gods behold us, and as gods adore?
But that, as well in danger as degree,
We ftand the first; that when our Lycians fee
Our brave examples, they admiring fay,
Behold our gallant leaders! Thefe are they
Derve the greatnefs; and unenvy'd stand:
Since what they act, tranfcends what they command.
Could the declining of this fate (oh friend)
Our date to immortality extend?
Or if death fought not them who feek not death,
Would I advance? or fhould my vainer breath
With fuch a glorious folly thee infpire?
But fince with fortune nature doth conspire,
Since age, difeafe, or fome lefs noble end,
Though not lefs certain, doth our days attend;
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead
A thoufand ways, the nobleft path we'll tread;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,
A common facrifice to honour fall.
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Kind and brifk, and gay like me ;
I pretend not to the wife ones,
To the grave, to the grave,
Or the precife ones.
'Tis not cheeks, nor lips, nor eyes,
That I prize,
Quick conceits, or fharp replies,
If wife thou wilt appear and knowing,
Repartie, Repartie,
To what I'm doing.
Pr'ythee why the room fo dark?
Not a fpark
Left to light me to the mark;
I love day-light and a candle,
And to fee, and to fee,
As well as handle.
Why fo many bolts and locks,
Coats and fmocks,
And those drawers with a pox?
I could wish, could nature make it,
Nakedness, nakedness
Itfelf were naked.
But if a miftrefs I must have,
Wife and grave,
Let her fo herself behave
All the day long Sufan civil,
Pap by night, pap by night,
Or fuch a devil.
FRIENDSHIP AND SINGLE LIFE,
OVE! in what poifon is thy dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know, but they who feel the smart.
It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazzle the optics of our mind.
Love to our citadel reforts,
Through thofe deceitful fally-ports,
Our fentinels betray our forts.
What fubtle witchcraft man constrains,
To change his pleasure into pains,
And all his freedom into chains?
May not a prifon, or a grave,
Like wedlock, honour's title have?
That word makes free-born man a flave.
How happy he that loves not, lives!
Him neither hope nor fear deceives,
To fortune who no hoftage gives.
How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneafy; finds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.
Secure from low and private ends,
His life, his zeal, his wealth attends
His prince, his country, and his friends.
Danger and honour are his joy;
But a fond wife, or wanton boy,
May all those generous thoughts destroy.
Then he lays-by the public care,
Thinks of providing for an heir;
Learns how to get, and how to spare.
Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night,
The Trojan hero did affright,
Who bravely twice renew'd the fight.
Though ftill his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows flew,
Yet left alone, no fear he knew.
But death in all her forms appears,
From every thing he fees and hears,
For whom he leads, and whoni he bears.
Love, making all things elfe his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his courfe oppose.
This was the cause the poets fung
Thy mother from the fea was fprung,
But they were mad to make thee young.
Her father, not her fon, art thou:
From our defires our actions grow;
And from the cause th' effect must flow.
Love is as old as place or time;
'Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Grandfire of father Adam's crime.
Well may't thou keep this world in awe;
Religion, wifdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumph draw.
'Tis he commands the powers above;
Phœbus refigus his darts, and Jove
His thunder, to the God of Love.
To him doth his feign'd mother yield;
Nor Mars (her champion)'s flaming fhield
Guards him, when Cupid takes the field.
He clips Hope's wings, whofe airy blifs
Much higher than fruition is;
But less than nothing, if it miss.
When matches Love alone projects,
The caufe tranfcending the effects,
That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects.
Whilft thofe conjunctions prove the beft,
Where Love's of blindnefs difpoffeft,
By perfpectives of intereft.
Though Solomon with a thousand wives,
To get a wife fucceffor ftrives,
But one (and he a fool) furvives.
Old Rome of children took no care,
They with their friends their beds did share,
Secure t' adopt a hopeful heir.
Love, drowsy days and ftormy nights
Makes; and breaks friendship, whofe delights
Feed, but not glut our appetites.
Well-chofen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
And into halves divides our trouble.
But when th' unlucky knot we tie,
Care, avarice, fear, and jealoufy,
Make friendship languifh till it die.
The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themfelves forbear.
Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep,
When love into their veins doth creep,
That law of nature ceafe to keep.
Who then can blame the amorous boy,
Who, the fair Helen to enjoy,
To quench his own, fet fire on Troy?
Such is the world's prepofterous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.
But love may beafts excufe, for they
Their actions not by reason fway,
Pat their brute appetites obey.
But man's that favage beast whose mind, From reason to felf-love declin'd, Delights to prey upon his kind.
MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH,
AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS.
LD Chaucer, like the morning ftar, To us difcovers day from far; His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv'd, Which our dark nation long involv'd: But he defcending to the fhades, Darkness again the age invades. Next (like Aurora) Spenfer rofe, Whofe purple blush the day foreshews; The other three, with his own fires, Phoebus, the poets' god, infpires; By Shakespeare's, Jonfon's, Fletcher's lines, Our flage's luftre Rome's outfhines: These poets near our princes fleep, And in one grave their manfion keep. They liv'd to fee so many days, Till time had blafted ali their bays: But curfed be the fatal hour That pluck'd the faircft, fweeteft flower That in the Mufes' garden grew, And amongst wither'd laurels threw. Time, which made them their fame outlive, To Cowley fcarce did ripeness give. Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have; In Spenfer, and in Jonson, Art Of flower Nature got the start; But both in him fo equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share : To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Jonfon, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman flores
Of poets, and of orators:
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not feal, but emulate!
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their cloaths, did wear;
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jafon, brought the golden fleece;
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a ftiff gale (as Flaccus fings)
The Theban fwan extends his wings,
When through th' ætherial clouds he flies,
To the fame pitch our fwan doth rise;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd
When on that gale his wings are ftretch'd;
His fancy and his judgment such,
Each to the other feem'd too much,
His fevere judgment (giving law)
His modeft fancy kept in awe :
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