To lay down thy pack,

And lighten thy back,

The world was a fool e'er since it begun :
And since neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor I,
Can hinder the crimes,

Or mend the bad times,

'fis better to laugh than to cry.

Cho. of all three.] ""Tis better to laugh than to cry."

Jan. Since Momus comes to laugh below, Old Time begin the show,

That he may see in every scene

What changes in this age have been.

Chro. Then, goddess of the silver bow, begin. [Horns, or hunting music within.]

Enter DIANA.

Dia. With horns and with hounds I waken the

day,

And hie to the woodland-walks away;

1 tuck up my robe, and am buskin'd soon, And tie to my forehead a wexing moon;

I course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox,

And chase the wild goats o'er summits of rocks; With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.

Cho. of all] "With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry."
Jan. Then our age was in its prime;
Chro. Free from rage,

And free from crime.

Dia. Mom. A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. Cho. of all.] "Then our age was in its prime; Free from rage, and free from crime. And very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time." [Dance of DIANA's attendants.]

Enter MARS.

Mars. Inspire the vocal brass, inspire; The world is past its infant age: Arms and honour,

Arms and honour,

Set the martial mind on fire,

And kindle manly rage.

Mars has look'd the sky to red,

And Peace, the lazy god, is fled.
Plenty, Peace, and Pleasure fly;
The sprightly green

In woodland walks no more is seen;

The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian die. Cho. of all. Plenty, Peace, and Pleasure fly; The sprightly green

In woodland walks no more is seen;

The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian die."
Mars. Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;
Through all the world around

Sound a reveille, sound, sound;
The warrior god is come.

Cho. of all.] "Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;

Through all the world around

Sound a reveille, sound, sound;

The warrior god is come."

Mom. Thy sword within the scabbard keep, And let mankind agree:

Better the world were fast asleep

The fools are only thinner,

Than kept awake by thee.

With all our cost and care,

But neither side a winner,
For things are as they were.

Cho. of all.] "The fools are only thinner,
With all our cost and care,
But neither side a winner,
For things are as they were."

61

But since the Queen of Pleasure left the ground, I faint, I lag,

And feebly drag

The ponderous orb around.

Mom. All, all of a piece throughout;

Pointing to Diana.] Thy chase had a beast in view ;

To Mars.] Thy wars brought nothing about,
To Venus.] Thy lovers were all untrue.
Jan. 'Tis well an old age is out,

Chro. And time to begin a new.

Cho. of all.]" All, all of a piece throughout;
Thy chase had a beast in view;

Thy wars brought nothing about;
Thy lovers were all untrue.
"Tis well an old age is out,,
And time to begin a new."

Dance of huntsmen, nymphs, warriors, and lover.

TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY.

A PANEGYRIC ON HIS CORONATION. In that wild deluge where the world was drown'd, When Life and Sin one common tomb had found, The first small prospect of a rising hill With various notes of joy the Ark did fill; Yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd, It left behind it false and slippery ground; And the more solemn pomp was still deferr'd Till new-born Nature in fresh looks appear'd. Thus, Royal Sir, to see you landed here Was cause enough of triumph for a year: Nor would your care those glorious joys repeat Till they at once might be secure and great; Till your kind beams, by their continued stay, Had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps

away.

Such vapours while your powerful influence dries,
Then soonest vanish when they highest rise.
Had greater haste these sacred rites prepared,
Some guilty months had in your triumphs shared :
But this untainted year is all your own;
Your glories may without our crimes be shown.
We had not yet exhausted all our store
When you refresh'd our joys by adding more:
As Heaven of old dispensed celestial dew,
You gave us manna, and still give us new.

Now our sad ruins are removed from sight,
The season too comes fraught with new delight
Time seems not now beneath his years to stoop,
Nor do his wings with sickly feathers droop:
Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy Spring,
And open'd scenes of flowers and blossoms bring
To grace this happy day, while you appear
Not king of us alone but of the year.

All eyes you draw, and with the eyes the heart;
Of your own pomp yourself the greatest part.
Loud shouts the nation's happiness proclaim,
And heaven this day is feasted with your name.
Your cavalcade the fair spectators view
From their high standings, yet look up to you.
From your brave train each singles out a prey,
And longs to date a conquest from your day.
Now charged with blessings while you seek repose,
Officious Slumbers haste your eyes to close;
And glorious Dreams stand ready to restore
The pleasing shapes of all you saw before.
Next, to the sacred temple you are led,
Where waits a crown for your more sacred head
How justly from the church that Crown is due,
Preserved from ruin and restored by you!
The grateful choir their harmony employ,
Not to make greater, but more solemn joy.
Wrapt soft and warm, your name is sent on high,
As flames do on the wings of incense fly:
Music herself is lost, in vain she brings
Her choicest notes to praise the best of kings:
Her melting strains in you a tomb have found,
And lie like bees in their own sweetness drown'd.
He that brought peace all discord could atone,
His name is music of itself alone.

Now while the sacred oil anoints your head,
And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large dome, the people's joyful sound,
Sent back, is still preserved in hallow'd ground,
Which in one blessing mix'd descends on you,
As heighten'd spirits fall in richer dew.

Not that our wishes do increase your store,
Full of yourself, you can admit no more:
We add not to your glory, but employ
Our time like angels in expressing joy.
Nor is it duty or our hopes alone
Create that joy, but full fruition:

We know those blessings which we must possess,

And judge of future by past happiness.

No promise can oblige a prince so much
Still to be good, as long to have been such.

A noble emulation heats your breast,

And your own fame now robs you of your rest.
Good actions still must be maintain'd with good,
As bodies nourish with resembling food.
You have already quench'd Sedition's brand,
And Zeal which burnt it only warms the land.
The jealous sects that dare not trust their cause
So far from their own will as to the laws,
You for their umpire and their synod take,
And their appeal alone to Cæsar make.
Kind Heaven so rare a temper did provide,
That Guilt repenting might in it confide.
Among our crimes oblivion may be set;
But 'tis our King's perfection to forget.
Virtues unknown to these rough northern climes
From milder heavens you bring, without their
crimes.

Your calmness does no after-storms provide,
Nor seeming patience mortal anger hide,
When empire first from families did spring
Then every father govern'd as a king;
But, you that are a sovereign prince, allay
Imperial power with your paternal sway.

From those great cares when ease your soul unbends,

[please.

Your pleasures are design'd to noble ends:
Born to command the mistress of the seas,
Your thoughts themselves in that blue empire
Hither in summer evenings you repair
To take the fraicheur of the purer air:
Undaunted here you ride, when Winter raves,
With Cæsar's heart, that rose above the waves.
More I could sing, but fear my numbers stays;
No loyal subject dares that courage praise.
In stately frigates most delight you find,
Where well-drawn battles fire your martial mind;
What to your cares we owe is learn'd from hence,"
When e'en your pleasures serve for our defence.
Beyond your court flows in th' admitted tide,
Where in new depths the wondering fishes glide;
Here in a royal bed the waters sleep:
When tired at sea, within this bay they creep.
Here the mistrustful fowl no harm suspects,
So safe are all things which our king protects.
From your loved Thames a blessing yet is due,
Second alone to that it brought in you;

A queen, near whose chaste womb, ordain'd by
The souls of kings unborn for bodies wait. [Fate,
It was your love before made discord cease;
Your love is destined to your country's peace.
Both Indies, rivals in your bed, provide
With gold or jewels to adorn your bride.
This to a mighty King presents rich ore,
While that with incense does a god implore.
Two kingdoms wait your doom, and as you choose,
This must receive a crown or that must lose.
Thus from your Royal Oak, like Jove's of old,
Are answers sought, and destinies foretold;
Propitious oracles are begg'd with vows,
And crowns that grow upon the sacred boughs.
Your subjects, while you weigh the nation's fate,
Suspend to both their doubtful love or hate:
Choose only, Sir, that so they may possess,
With their own peace, their children's happiness.

AN

ESSAY UPON SATIRE.

BY MR. DRYDEN AND THE E. OF MULGRAVE.

How dull and how insensible a beast

Is man who yet would lord it o'er the rest?
Philosophers and poets vainly strove

In every age the lumpish mass to move:

But those were pedants, when compared with these,
Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way
Mysterious morals gently to convey

In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults,

To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts
In satire, too, the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.
But of these two the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd:
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall,
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forced scenes of our declining stage:
Above all censure too each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit,

Who judging better though concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old storytellers too must pine and die
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And grieved to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear,
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits that's more against our rules:
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar,
As Dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like sop's fox, became a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be named,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed;

With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:

Yet sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other sold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylsbury, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
As council set, as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

But there's no meddling with such nauseous

men;

Their very names have tired my lazy pen: 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Some fitter subjects for a sharper Muse.

First let's behold the merriest man alive Against his careless genius vainly strive, Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day; Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and he Just as good company as Nokes and Lee; But when he aims at reason or at rule, He turns himself the best to ridicule. Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,

[wit,

Show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with
That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.

Till mouse appear'd and thought himself secure;

So cat, transform'd, sat gravely and demure,

But soon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.

Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find,
That nimblest creature of the busy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes,
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler logs him still
Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill.
"Twere crime in any man but him alone
To use a body so, though 'tis one's own:

Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er, [soar.
That whilst he creeps his vig'rous thoughts can
Alas! that soaring to those few that know
Is but a busy grovelling here below.

So men in raptures think they mount the sky,
Whilst on the ground th' entranced wretches lie;
So modern fops have fancied they could fly.
As the new earl, with parts deserving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways,
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights,
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.

And what is that at best, but one whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if some odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives
Who his own harm so wittingly contrives?
Will any dog that has his teeth and stones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones
To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond mar, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Though satire, nicely writ with humour, stings
But those who merit praise in other things,
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for Folly Tropos' sake,
Who was too much despised to be accused,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abused;
Raised only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing smoothly and for reasoning wrong.
As boys, on holydays let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way,
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress
Some silly Cit in her flower'd foolish dress;
So have I mighty satisfaction found
To see his tinsel reason on the ground;
To see the florid fool despised and know it,

By some who scarce have words enough to show it;
For Sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay, sometimes the wittiest, speaker.
But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquired by such little sense,
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolsack, fop at council-table.
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease;
To live dissolved in pleasures till they feign!
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain;
So much of surfeits, headachs, claps, are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between;
Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake.
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain we squander life away.

Thus Dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Married, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that;
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,
Like Pembroke's mastiffs at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife.
Swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load,
Till Fortune, blindly kind, as well as he,
Has ill restored him to his liberty,

Which he would use in his old sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Duil as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had famed for dulness in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, Though learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair;

For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluding parents dried their weeping eyes
To see him catch his Tartar for his prize;
Th' impatient Town waited the wish'd-for-change,
And cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge,
Till Petworth-plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too, was free:
Him. no soft thoughts, no gratitude, could move,
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still,
Forced to live happily against his will.
'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and power
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.

And little Sid, for simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought but never found:
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can :
What we uncharitably take for sin
Are only rules of this odd Capuchin:
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has lived more contrary to common sense,
And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilful nose,
Which from all stink can, with peculiar art,
Extract perfume and essence from a fart.
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night;
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.

Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find;
And so like witches justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.
False are his words, affected is his wit,
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks.
Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes every creature;
A very Killigrew, without good nature;
For what a Bessus has he always lived,
And his own kickings notably contrived?
For, there's the folly that's still mixed with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear.

Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still :
Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose.
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry,
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,

'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinder-woman's trade,
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deserve no comments here,
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all
alone,

For a whole page of dulness must atone.

How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise!
E'en he who would himself the most despise !
I, who so wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride cann't see.
While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown,
We pull down others but to raise our own;
That we may angels seem we paint them elves,
And are but satires to set up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault
E'en with my master, who first satire taught,
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward,
Now labour, with unequal force, to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time;
"Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

64

TO THE

LORD CHANCELLOR HYDE.

PRESENTED ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1662.

MY LORD,

WHILE flattering crowds officiously appear
To give themselves, not you, a happy year,
And by the greatness of their presents prove
How much they hope, but not how well they love,
The Muses, who your early courtship boast,
Though now your flames are with their beauty lost,
Yet watch their time, that if you have forgot
They were your mistresses the world may not;
Decay'd by time and wars, they only prove
Their former beauty by your former love,
And now present, as ancient ladies do,

That courted long at length are forced to woo:
For still they look on you with such kind eyes
As those that see the church's sovereign rise,
From their own order chose, in whose high state
They think themselves the second choice of Fate.
When our great Monarch into exile went,
Wit and religion suffer'd banishment.
Thus once, when Troy was wrapp'd in fire and
smoke,

The helpless gods their burning shrines forsook;
They with the vanquish'd prince and party go,
And leave their temples empty to the foe.
At length the Muses stand, restored again
To that great charge which Nature did ordain,
And their loved Druids seem revived by Fate,
Why you dispense the laws and guide the state.
The nation's soul, our Monarch, does dispense
Through you to us his vital influence;
You are the channel where those spirits flow,
And work them higher as to us they go.

In open prospect nothing bounds our eye,
Until the earth seems join'd unto the sky;
So in this hemisphere our utmost view
Is only bounded by our King and you.
Our sight is limited where you are join'd,
And beyond that no farther heaven can find.
So well your virtues do with his agree,

That, though your orbs of different greatness be,
Yet both are for each other's use disposed,
His to enclose, and yours to be enclosed:
Nor could another in your room have been,
Except an emptiness had come between.
Well may he then to you his cares impart,
And share his burden where he shares his heart.
In you his sleep still wakes; his pleasures find
Their share of business in your labouring mind.
So when the weary Sun his place resigns,
He leaves his light, and by reflection shines.

Justice, that sits and frowns where public laws
Exclude soft mercy from a private cause,
In your tribunal most herself does please;
There only smiles, because she lives at ease;
And, like young David, finds her strength the more,
When disencumber'd from those arms she wore.
Heaven would our royal master should exceed
Most in that virtue which we most did need;
And his mild father (who too late did find
All mercy vain but what with power was join'd)
His fatal goodness left to fitter times,
Not to increase, but to absolve our crimes:
But when the heir of this vast treasure knew
How large a legacy was left to you,
(Too great for any subject to retain)
He wisely tied it to the crown again

[ore.

Yet passing through your hands it gathers more,
As streams through mines bear tincture of their
While empiric politicians use deceit,
Hide what they give, and cure but by a cheat,
You boldly show that skill which they pretend,
And work by means as noble as your end:
Which should you veil, we might unwind the clue,
As men do Nature, till we came to you.
And as the Indies were not found before
Those rich perfumes which from the happy shore
The winds upon their balmy wings convey'd,
Whose guilty sweetness first their world betray'd,
So by your counsels we are brought to view
A rich and undiscover'd world in you.
By you our Monarch does that fame assure
Which kings must have, or cannot live secure;
For prosperous princes gain their subjects' heart,
Who love that praise in which themselves have
part

By you he fits those subjects to obey,
As heaven's eternal Monarch does convey
His power unseen, and man to his designs
By his bright ministers, the stars, inclines.

Our setting sun, from his declining seat,
Shot beams of kindness on you, not of heat;
And when his love was bounded in a few,
That were unhappy that they might be true,
Made you the favourite of his last sad times,
That is a sufferer in his subjects' crimes.
Thus those first favours you received were sent.
Like Heaven's rewards, in earthly banish ment,
Yet fortune, conscious of your destiny,
E'en then took care to lay you softly by,
And wrapp'd your fate among her precious thin
Kept fresh, to be unfolded with your King's.
Shown, all at once you dazzled so our eyes,
A new-born Pallas did the gods surprise.
When, springing forth from Jove's new -closing
wound,

She struck the warlike spear into the ground,
Which sprouting leaves did suddenly enclose,
And peaceful olives shaded as they rose.

How strangely active are the arts of peace,
Whose restless motions less than wars do cease!
Peace is not freed from labour, but from noise,
And war more force, but not more pains, employs.
Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind,
That like the earth it leaves our sense behind,
While you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere
That rapid motion does but rest appear.
For as in Nature's swiftness, with the throng
Of flying orbs while ours is borne along,
All seems at rest to the deluded eye,
Moved by the soul of the same harmony;
So carried on by your unwearied care,
We rest in peace, and yet in motion share.
Let Envy then those crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free;
Envy, that does with Misery reside,

The joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride.
Think it not hard if, at so cheap a rate,
You can secure the constancy of Fate,

Whose kindness sent what does their malice seem,
By lesser ills the greater to redeem.
Nor can we this weak shower a tempest call,
But drops of heat that in the sunshine fall.
You have already weary'd Fortune so,
She cannot farther be your friend or foe,
But sits all breathless, and admires to feel
A fate so weighty, that it stops her wheel.
In all things else above our humble fate
Your equal mind yet swells not into state,
But, like some mountain in those happy isles,
Where in perpetual spring young Nature smiles,
Your greatness shows; no horror to affright,
But trees for shade, and flowers to court the sight.
Sometimes the hill submits itself awhile
In small descents, which do its height beguile;
And sometimes mounts, but so as billows play,
Whose rise not hinders, but makes short our way.
Your brow, which does no fear of thunder know,
Sees rolling tempests vainly beat below;

And like Olympus' top, th' impression wears
Of love and friendship writ in former years:
Yet unimpair'd with labours or with time,
Your age but seems to a new youth to climb.
Thus heavenly bodies do our time beget,
And measure change, but share no part of it;
And still it shall without a weight increase,
Like this New-year, whose motions never cease;
For since the glorious course you have begun
Is led by Charles, as that is by the sun,
It must both weightless and immortal prove,
Because the centre of it is above.

UPON THE

DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS.
MUST noble Hastings immaturely die,
The honour of his ancient family;
Beauty and learning thus together meet
To bring a winding for a wedding sheet?
Must virtue prove Death's harbinger? must she,
With him expiring, feel mortality?

Is death, sin's wages, grace's now ? shall art
Make us more learned only to depart?
If merit be disease, if virtue death;
To be good not to be, who'd then bequeath

Himself to discipline? who'd not esteem
Labour a crime? study self-murder deem?
Our noble youth now have pretence to be
Dunces securely, ignorant healthfully. [praise,
Rare linguist? whose worth speaks itself, whose
Though not his own, all tongues besides do raise :
Than whom great Alexander may seem less
Who conquered men, but not their languages.
In his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.

His native soil was the four parts o' th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle, and, with reverence may
I speak it, inspired with gift of tongues as they.
Nature gave him, a child, what men in vain
Oft' strive, by art though further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his sublime soul
Did move on Virtue's and on Learning's pole;
Whose regular motions better to our view
Than Archimedes' sphere the heavens did shew
Graces and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others, all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his soul; and thence
Shone through his body with sweet influence,
Letting their glories so on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.'
Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make
If thou this hero's altitude canst take:
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all
Could we but prove thus astronomical.

Lived Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone
More bright in th' morn' than others beam at

noon,

He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for such a foul disease?
The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which
Our dayspring in so sad benighting clouds; [shrouds
Heaven would no longer trust its pledge, but thu
Recall'd it, rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthiness of Pandora's box?

So many spots, like næves on Venus' soil,
One jewel set off with so many a foil:

Blisters with pride swell'd, which through 's flesh did sprout

Like rose-buds stuck i' th' lily-skin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rising did commit;
Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife,
Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer soul within?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whose corpse might seem a constellation.
O! had he died of old, how great a strife [life:
Had been, who from his death should draw their
Who should, by one rich draught, become what-
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were?
[e'er
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
A universal metempsychosis.
Must all these aged sires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
Who, had he lived his life out, his great fame
Had swoll'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hasty Winter with one blast had brought
The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to
nought.
[corn;

Thus fades the.oak i' th' sprig; i' th' blade the
Thus, without young, this Phoenix dies new-born.
Must then old three-legg'd graybeards, with their

gout,

Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal!

Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live
With such helps as broths, possets, physic, give?
None live but such as should die ? shall we meet
With none but ghostly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way,
And showers of tears tempestuous sighs best lay.
The tongue may fail, but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.

But thou, O Virgin-widow! left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd, spouse is gone,
Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than Platonic love, O wed
His soul, though not his body, to thy bed:

Let that make thee a mother; bring thou fortn
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Hastings o' th' better part; so shall he live
In 's nobler half; and the great grandsire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An issue which t' eternity shall last,
Yet but th' irradiations which he cast.
Erect no mausoleums; for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

EPISTLES.

I.

To my honoured friend, SIR ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent poems.

As there is music, uninform'd by art,

In those wild notes which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure and its art excels.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face,
Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose thein deep,
Such is your Muse: no metaphor swell'd high,
With dangerous boldness, lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should
bear,

And yet no sign of toil, no sweat, appear.
Either your art hides art, as Stoicks feign
Then least to feel when most they suffer pain,
And we, dull souls! admire but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be;
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all: this is a piece too fair
To be the child of Chance and not of Care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world:
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit
As would destroy the providence of Wit.
'Tis your strong genius then which does not feel
Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier Odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make their second end;
We're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that

WOO

At once a beauty and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge Poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been,
Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,
And not content with that, debauch'd their

charge:

Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exiled to her crown again,
And gives us hope that, having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
"A sober prince's government is best."
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' improven.ent of the richest ground;
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Aneas had obey'd
What Dido rather than what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has discharged those,
Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of Peace.
But if Æneas be obliged, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess,
Who, dress'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin-robes he took.