Was that a present for a new-made widow,
All in her dismal dumps, like doleful Dido?
When one peep'd in-and hop'd for something
good,
There was-Oh! Gad! a nasty heart and blood.
If the old man had shown himself a father,
His bowl should have inclos'd a cordial rather,
Something to cheer me up amidst my trance,
L'eau de Bardè-or comfortable nants"!
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cry'd, he'd send the beart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover,
Were I our sex's secrets to discover,
"Tis what we never look'd for in a lover.
Let but the bridegroom prudently provide
All other matters fitting for a bride,
So he make good the jewels and the jointure,
To miss the heart does seldom disappoint her.
Faith, for the fashion hearts of late are made in,
They are the vilest baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With hearts of oak, so much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late
Swore to be true to mother-church and state;
While theirs-but satire silently disdains
To name what lives not, but in madmen's brains
Like bawds, each lurking pastor seeks the dark,
And fears the justice's inquiring cleik.
In close back-rooms his routed flocks he rallies,
And reigns the patriarch of blind lanes and allies:
There safe, he lets his thundering censures fly,
Unchristens, damns us, gives our laws the lie,
And excommunicates three stories high.
Why, since a land of liberty they hate,
Still will they linger in this free-born state?
Here, every hour, fresh, hateful objects rise,
Peace and prosperity afflict their eyes;
With anguish, prince and people they survey,
Their just obedience and his righteous sway.
Ship off, ye slaves, and seek some passive land,
Where tyrants after your own hearts command.
To your transalpine masters rule resort,
And fill an empty abdicated court:
Turn your possessions here to ready rhino,
And buy ye lands and lordships at Urbino.
When their false hearts were secretly maintaining HORACE, BOOK II. ODE iv. imitated.
Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning;
Shame on the canting crew of soul-insurers,
The Tyburn tribe of speech-making non-jurors;
Who, in new-fangled terms, old truths explaining,
Teach honest Englishmen, damn'd double-mean-
Oh! would you lost integrity restore, [ing.
And boast that faith your plain fore-fathers bore;
What surer pattern can you hope to find,
Than that dear pledge 3 your monarch left behind!
See how his looks his honest heart explain,
And speak the blessings of his future reign!
In his each feature, truth and candour trace,
And read plain-dealing written in his face.
PROLOGUE TO THE NON-JUROR :
A COMEDY. BY MR. CIBBER. AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1718. SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS.
TO NIGHT, ye Whigs and Tories, both be safe,
Nor hope at one another's cost to laugh.
We mean to souse old Satan and the pope ;
They've no relations here, nor friends, we hope.
A tool of theirs supplies the comic stage
With just materials for satiric rage:
Nor think our colours may too strongly paint
The stiff non-juring separation saint.
Good-breeding ne'er commands us to be civil
To those who give the nation to the devil;
Who at our surest, best foundation strike,
And hate our monarch and our church alike;
Our church-which, aw'd with reverential fear,
Scarcely the Muse presumes to mention here.
Long may she these her worst of foes defy,
And lift her mitred head triumphant to the sky:
'This tragedy was founded upon the story of Segismonda and Guiscardo, one of Boccace's novels; wherein the heart of the lover is sent by the father to his daughter, as à present.
i, e, Citron-water and good brandy. • The prince of Wales then present.
THE LORD GRIFFIN TO THE EARL OF SCARSDALE.
Do not, most fragrant earl, disclaim
Thy bright, thy reputable flame,
To Bracegirdle the brown:
But publicly espouse the dame,
And say, G.
d- the town.
Full many heroes, fierce and keen,
With drabs have deeply smitten been,
Although right good commanders;
Some who with you have Hounslow seen,
And some who 've been in Flanders.
Did not base Greber's Peg' inflame
The sober earl of Nottingham,
Of sober sire descended?
That, careless of his soul and fame,
To play-houses he nightly came,
And left church undefended.
The monarch who of France is hight,
Who rules the roast with matchless might,
Since William went to Heaven;
Loves Maintenon, his lady bright,
Who was but Scarron's leaving.
Though thy dear's father kept an inn
At grisly head of Saracen,
For carriers at Northampton;
Yet she might come of gentler kin,
Then e'er that father dreamt on.
Of proffers large her choice had she,
Of jewels, plate, and land in fee,
Which she with scorn rejected:
And can a nymph so virtuous be
Of base-born blood suspected?
Her dimple cheek, and roguish eye,
Her slender waist, and taper thigh,
I always thought provoking;
But, faith, though I talk waggishly,
I mean no more than joking.
1 Signora Francesco Marguareta de l'Epine, an Italian songstress.
HORACE BOOK III. ODE XXI.
TO HIS CASK.
HAIL, gentle cask, whose venerable head
With hoary down and ancient dust o'er-spread, Proclaims, that since the vine first brought thee Old age has added to thy worth. [forth Whether the sprightly juice thou dost contain, Thy votaries will to wit and love, Or senseless noise and lewdness move,
Or sleep, the cure of these and every other pain.
1 The dialect of the elder Tonson.
2 Sir Richard Temple, afterwards lord Cobham. 3 Jacob's term for his corns,
Since to some day propitious and great,
Justly at first thou wast design'd by fate;
This day, the happiest of thy many years,
With thee I will forget my cares:
To my Corvinus' health thou shalt go round,
(Since thou art ripen'd for to day,
And longer age would bring decay) [drown'd.
Till every anxious thought in the rich stream be
To thee my friend his roughness shall submit,
And Socrates himself a while forget.
Thus when old Cato would sometimes unbend
The rugged stiffness of his mind,
Stern and severe, the stoic quaff'd his bowl,
His frozen virtue felt the charm,
And soon grew pleas'd, and soon grew warm, And bless'd the sprightly power that cheer'd his
With kind constraint ill-nature thou dost bend,
And mould the snarling cynic to a friend.
The sage reserv'd, and fam'd for gravity,
Finds all he knows summ'd up in thee,
And by thy power unlock'd, grows easy, gay, and
The swain, who did some credulous nymph per-
To grant him all, inspir'd by thee, [suade
Devotes her to his vanity,
And to his fellow-fops toasts the abandon'd maid.
The wretch who, press'd beneath a load of cares,
And labouring with continual woes, despairs,
If thy kind warmth does bis chill'd sense invade,
From earth be rears his drooping head,
Reviv'd by thee, he ceases now to mourn;
His flying cares give way to haste,
And to the god resign his breast,
Where hopes of better days, and better things re
The labouring hind, who with hard toil and pains,
Amidst his wants, a wretched life maintains;
If thy rich juice his homely supper crown,
Hot with thy fires, and bolder grown,
Of kings, and of their arbitrary power,
And how by impious arms they reign,
Fiercely he talks with rude disdain,
And vows to be a slave, to be a wretch no more.
Fair queen of love, and thou great god of wine,
Hear, every grace, and all ye powers divine,
All that to mirth and friendship do incline,
Crown this auspicious cask, and happy night,
With all things that can give delight;
Be every care and anxious thought away;
Ye tapers, still be bright and clear,
Rival the Moon, and each pale star,
Your beams shall yield to none, but his who
brings the day.
Stiff and unequal to the labour now,
With pain my neck beneath thy yoke I bow.
Why dost thou urge me still to bear? Oh! why
Dost thou not much rather fly
To youthful breasts, to mirth and gaiety?
Go, bid thy swans their glossy wings expand,
And swiftly through the yielding air
To Damon thee their goddess bear,
Worthy to be thy slave, and fit for thy command.
Noble, and graceful, witty, gay, and young,
Joy in his heart, love on his charming tongue.
Skill'd in a thousand soft prevailing arts,
With wondrous force the youth imparts
Thy power to unexperienc'd virgins hearts.
Far shall be stretch the bounds of thy command;
And if thou shalt his wishes bless,
Beyond his rivals with success,
In gold and marble shall thy statues stand.
Beneath the sacred shade of Odel's wood,
Or on the banks of Ouse's gentle flood,
With odorous beams a temple he shall raise,
For ever sacred to thy praise,
Till the fair stream, and wood, and love itself de-
There while rich incense on thy altar burns,
Thy votaries, the nymphs and swains,
In melting soft harmonious strains,
Say what thou dost in thy retirément find,
Worthy the labours of thy active mind;
Whether the tragic Muse inspires thy thought,
To emulate what moving Otway wrote;
Or whether to the covert of some grove
Thou and thy thoughts do from the world remove,
Where to thyself thou all those rules dost show,
That good men ought to practise, or wise know.
For sure thy mass of men is no dull clay,
But well-inform'd with the celestial ray.
The bounteous gods, to thee completely kind,
In a fair frame enclos'd thy fairer mind;
And though they did profusely wealth bestow,
They gave thee the true use of wealth to know.
Could e'en the nurse wish for her darling boy
A happiness which thou dost not enjoy:
What can her fond ambition ask beyond
A soul by wisdom's noblest precepts crown'd?
To this fair speech, and happy utterance join'd,
T' unlock the secret treasures of the mind,
And make the blessing common to mankind.
On these let health and reputation wait,
The favour of the virtuous and the great:
A table cheerfully and cleanly spread,
Stranger alike to riot and to need:
Such an estate as no extremes may know,
A free and just disdain for all things else below.
Amidst uncertain hopes, and anxious cares,
Mix'd with their softer flutes, shall tell their Tumultuous strife, and miserable fears,
As love and beauty with the light are born,
So with the day thy honours shall return;
Some lovely youth, pair'd with a blushing maid,
A troop of either sex shall lead,
And twice the Salian measures round thy altar tread.
Thus with an equal empire o'er the light,
The queen of love, and god of wit,
Together rise, together sit:
But, goddess, do thou stay, and bless alone the
There may'st thou reign, while I forget to love;
No more false beauty shall my passion move;
Nor shall my fond believing heart be led,
By mutual vows and oaths betray'd,
To hope for truth from the protesting maid.
With love the sprightly joys of wine are fled;
The roses too shall wither now,
That us'd to shade and crown my brow, [shed.
And round my cheerful temples fragrant odours
But tell me, Cynthia, say, bewitching fair,
What mean these sighs? why steals this falling tear?
And when my struggling thoughts for passage
Why did my tongue refuse to move; [strove,
Tell me, can this be any thing but love?
Still with the night my dreams my griefs renew,
Still she is present to my eyes,
And still in vain I, as she flies,
O'er woods, and plains, and seas, the scornful
maid pursue.
HORACE, BOOK I. EPISTLE IV. IMITATED.
TO RICHARD THORNHILL, ESQ.1
THORNHILL, whom doubly to my heart commend,
The critic's art, and candour of a friend,
1 Who fought the duel with sir Cholmondley, Deering.
Prepare for all events thy constant breast,
And let each day be to thee as thy last.
That morning's dawn will with new pleasure rise
Whose light shall unexpected bless thy eyes.
Me, when to town in winter you repair,
Battening in ease you'll find, sleek, fresh, and fair;
Me, who have learn'd from Epicurus' lore,
To snatch the blessings of the flying hour,
Whom every Friday at the Vine' you'll find
His true disciple and your faithful friend.
THE UNION.
WHILE rich in brightest red the blushing rose
Her freshest opening beauties did disclose;
Her, the rough thistle from a neighbouring field,
With fond desires and lover's eyes beheld:
Straight the fierce plant lays by his pointed darts,
And wooes the gentle flower with softer arts.
Kindly she heard, and did his flame approve,
And own'd the warrior worthy of her love.
Flora, whose happy laws the seasons guide,
Who does in fields and painted meads preside,
And crowns the gardens with their flowery pride.
With pleasure saw the wishing pair combine,
To favour what their goddess did design,
And bid them in eternal union join.
"Henceforth," she said, " in each returning year,
One stem the thistle and the rose shall bear:
The thistle's lasting grace, thou, O my Rose!
shalt be,
The warlike thistle's arms, a sure defence to thee."
ON CONTENTMENT.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD 1.
MANY that once, by fortune's bounty rear'd,
Amidst the wealthy and the great appear'd;
2 A tavern in Long-Acre.
In his Meditationes Sacræ.
Have wisely from those envy'd heights declin❜d,
Have sunk to that just level of mankind,
Where not too little nor too much gives the true
peace of mind.
AND THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD.
IN that bless'd day, from every part, the just,
Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering dust,
The various products of Time's fruitful womb,
All of past ages, present and to come,
In full assembly shall at once resort,
And meet within high Heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long succession ran;
The reverend sires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat
Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all those tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more sacred friendship know,
Firm, constant, and unchangeable shall grow.
Refin'd from passion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlasting being shall commence:
There, like their days, their joys shall ne'er be done,
No night shall rise, to shade Heaven's glorious sun,
But one eternal holy-day go on.
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false-one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.
"And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, "Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
"Twas hers to be false and to change,
'Tis mine to be constant and die.
"If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.
The last humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.
"Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day; While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be taik'd of, or seen, Unless when beneath the pale Moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green."
COLIN'S COMPLAINT.
A SONG, TO THE TUNE OF "GRIM KING OF THE GHOSTS."
DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
"Alas, silly swain that I was!"
Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd,
"When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue;
When she smil'd, twas a pleasure too great.
I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?
"How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?
"What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.
REPLY, BY ANOTHER HAND. YE winds, to whom Colin complains, In ditties so sad and so sweet, Believe me, the shepherd but feigns He's wretched to show he has wit. No charmer like Colin can move, And this is some pretty new art; Ah! Colin's a juggler in love,
And likes to play tricks with my heart.
When he will, he can sigh and look pale,
Seem doleful and alter his face,
Can tremble, and alter his tale,
Ah! Colin has every pace:
The willow my rover prefers
To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie, And the stream, that he swells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than 1.
His head my fond bosom would bear,
And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair,
But Colin is only in jest ;
No death the deceiver designs,
Let the maid that is ruin'd despair; For Colin but dies in his lines,
And gives himself that modish air.
Can shepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes passion his sport,
Beware of so fatal a game;
My voice of no music can boast,
Nor my person of ought that is fine,
But Colin may find to his cost,
A face that is fairer than mine.
SONG ON A FINE WOMAN WHO HAD A DULL HUSBAND.
Ah! then I will break my lov'd crook,
To thee I'll bequeath all my sheep, And die in the much-favour'd brook,
Where Colin does now sit and weep: Then mourn the sad fate that you gave, In sonnets so smooth and divine; Perhaps, I may rise from my grave, To hear such soft music as thine.
Of the violet, daisy, and rose,
The heart's-ease, the lily, and pink, Did thy fingers a garland compose,
And crown'd by the rivulet's brink; How oft, my dear swain, did I swear,
How much my fond love did admire Thy verses thy shape, and thy air,
Though deck'd in thy rural attire! Your sheep-hook you rul'd with such art, That all your small subjects obey'd; And still you reign'd king of this heart, Whose passion you falsely upbraid; How often, my swain, have I said,
Thy arms are a palace to me, And how well I could live in a shade, Though adorned with nothing but thee!
Oh! what are the sparks of the town,
Though never so fine and so gay? I freely would leave beds of down,
For thy breast on a bed of new hay: Then, Colin, return once again,
Again make me happy in love, Let me find thee a faithful true swain, And as constant a nymph I will prove.
ON A LADY WHO SHED HER WATER AT SEEING THE TRAGEDY OF CATO; OCCASIONED BY AN EPIGRAM ON A LADY WHO WEPT AT IT.
VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER-
RED ON THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF HALI-
FAX, 1714; BEING THAT YEAR INSTALLED
KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE
GARTER.
PHOEBUS and Cæsar once conspir'd to grace
A noble knight of ancient Tuscan race.
The monarch, greatly conscious of his worth,
From books and his retirement call'd him forth;
Adorn'd the patriot with the civic crown,
The consul's fasces and patrician gown:
The world's whole wealth he gave him to bestow,
And teach the streams of treasure where to flow:
To him he bade the suppliant nations come,
And on his counsels fix'd the fate of Rome.
The god of wit, who taught him first to sing, And tune high numbers to the vocal string, With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king.
"Forbear," he cry'd, " to rob me of my share; Our common favourite is our common care. Honours and wealth thy grateful hand may give; But Phœbus only bids the poet live. The service of his faithful heart is thine; There let thy Julian star an emblem shine; His mind, and her imperial seat are mine. Then bind his brow ye Thespian maids," he said: The willing Muses the command obey'd, And wove the deathless laurel for his head.
ON THE PRINCE OF WALES'S, THEN REGENT, APPEARING AT THE FIRE IN SPRING-GARDEN, 1726.
THY guardian, blest Britannia, scorns to sleep,
When the sad subjects of his father weep;
Weak princes by their fears increase distress;
He faces danger, and so makes it less.
WHILST mandlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate, Tyrants on blazing towns may smile with joy;
He knows, to save, is greater than destroy.
ON A FINE WOMAN WHO HAD A DULL HUSBAND.
WHEN on fair Celia's eyes I gaze,
And bless their light divine;
I stand confounded with amaze,
To think on what they shine.
On one vile clod of earth she seems
To fix their influence;
Which kindles not at those bright beams,
Nor wakens into sense.
Lost and bewilder'd with the thought,
That Nature's lavish hand had wrought
I could not but complain,
This fairest work in vain.
Thus some, who have the stars survey'd,
Are ignorantly led,
To think those glorious lamps were made
To light Tom-fool to bed.
|