Chapter II: Preface (2)

When from the world I shall be ta’en,
And from earth’s necessary pain,
Then let no blacks be worn for me,
Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.
But this bright diamond, let it be
Worn in rememberance of me.
And when it sparkles in your eye,
Think ’tis my shadow passeth by.
For why, more bright you shall me see,
Than that or any gem can be.
Dress not the house with sable weed,
As if there were some dismal deed
Acted to be when I am gone,
There is no cause for me to mourn.
And let no badge of herald be
The sign of my antiquity.
It was my glory I did spring
From heaven’s eternal powerful King:
To his bright palace heir am I,
It is his promise, he’ll not lie.
By my dear brother pray lay me,
It was a promise made by thee,
And now I must bid thee adieu,
For I’m a parting now from you.

ANN COLLINS

c. 1650

_11. Song_

The Winter being over,
In order comes the Spring,
Which doth green herbs discover,
And cause the birds to sing.
The night also expirèd,
Then comes the morning bright,
Which is so much desirèd
By all that love the light.
This may learn
Them that mourn,
To put their grief to flight:
The Spring succeedeth Winter,
And day must follow night.
He therefore that sustaineth
Affliction or distress,
Which every member paineth,
And findeth no release:
Let such therefore despair not,
But on firm hope depend,
Whose griefs immortal are not,
And therefore must have end.
They that faint
With complaint
Therefore are to blame:
They add to their afflictions,
And amplify the same.

_12. The Soul’s Home_

Such is the force of each created thing
That it no solid happiness can bring,
Which to our minds can give contentment sound;
For, like as Noah’s dove no succour found,
Till she return’d to him that sent her out,
Just so, the soul in vain may seek about
For rest or satisfaction any where,
Save in his presence who hath sent her here;
Yea though all earthly glories should unite
Their pomp and splendour to give such delight,
Yet could they no more sound contentment bring
Than star-light can make grass or flowers spring.

KATHERINE PHILIPS (_ORINDA_)

1631-1664

_13. To my Excellent Lucasia, on our Friendship_

I did not live until this time
Crown’d my felicity,
When I could say without a crime,
I am not thine, but thee.

This carcass breath’d, and walkt, and slept,
So that the world believ’d
There was a soul the motions kept;
But they were all deceiv’d.

For as a watch by art is wound
To motion, such was mine:
But never had Orinda found
A soul till she found thine;

Which now inspires, cures and supplies,
And guides my darkned breast:
For thou art all that I can prize,
My joy, my life, my rest.

No bridegroom’s nor crown-conqueror’s mirth
To mine compar’d can be:
They have but pieces of the earth,
I’ve all the world in thee.

Then let our flames still light and shine,
And no false fear controul,
As innocent as our design,
Immortal as our soul.

_14. A Revery_

Death is a leveller; beauty and kings,
And conquerours, and all those glorious things,
Are tumbled to their graves in one rude heap,
Like common dust as quiet and as cheap.
At greater changes who would wonder then,
Since Kingdoms have their fates as well as men?
They must fall sick and die; nothing can be
In this world certain, but uncertainty.
Since power and greatness are such slippery things,
Who’d pity cottages or envy Kings?
Now least of all, when, weary of deceit,
The world no longer flatters with the great.
Though such confusions here below we find,
As Providence were wanton with mankind:
Yet in this chaos some things do send forth
(Like jewels in the dark) a native worth.
He that derives his high nobility
Not from the mention of a pedigree;
Who scorns to boast the glories of his blood,
And thinks he can’t be great that is not good;
Who knows the world, and what we pleasure call,
Yet cannot sell one conscience for them all;
Who hates to hoard that gold with an excuse,
For which he can find out a nobler use;
Who dares not keep that life that he can spend,
To serve his God, his country and his friend;
Who flattery and falsehood doth so hate,
He would not buy ten lives at such a rate;
Whose soul, then diamonds more rich and clear,
Naked and open as his face doth wear,
Who dares be good alone in such a time,
When vertue’s held and punish’d as a crime;
Who thinks dark crooked plots a mean defence,
And is both safe and wise in innocence;
Who dares both fight and die, but dares not fear;
Whose only doubt is, if his cause be clear;
Whose courage and his justice equal worn,
Can dangers grapple, overcome and scorn,
Yet not insult upon a conquer’d foe,
But can forgive him and oblige him too;
Whose friendship is congenial with his soul,
Who where he gives a heart bestows it whole;
Whose other ties and titles here do end,
Or buried or completed in the friend;
Who ne’er resumes the soul he once did give,
While his friend’s honesty or honour live;
And if his friend’s content would cost the price,
Would count himself a happy sacrifice;
Who from the top of his prosperities
Can take a fall, and yet without surprize;
Who with the same august and even state
Can entertain the best and worst of fate;
Whose suffering’s sweet, if honour once adorn it;
Who slights revenge, yet does not fear, but scorn it;
Whose happiness in ev’ry fortune lives,
For that no fortune either takes or gives;
Who no unhandsome ways can bribe his fate,
Nay, out of prison marches through the gate;
Who, losing all his titles and his pelf,
Nay, all the world, can never lose himself;
This person shines indeed, and he that can
Be vertuous is the great immortal man.

_15. Orinda to Lucasia_

Observe the weary birds ere night be done,
How they would fain call up the tardy sun,
With feathers hung with dew,
And trembling voices too.
They court their glorious planet to appear,
That they may find recruits of spirits there.
The drooping flowers hang their heads,
And languish down into their beds:
While brooks more bold and fierce than they
Wanting those beams, from whence
All things drink influence,
Openly murmur and demand the day.

Thou my Lucasia are far more to me,
Than he to all the under-world can be;
From thee I’ve heat and light,
Thy absence makes my night.
But ah! my friend, it now grows very long,
The sadness weighty, and the darkness strong:
My tears (its dew) dwell on my cheeks,
And still my heart thy dawning seeks,
And to thee mournfully it cries,
That if too long I wait,
Ev’n thou may’st come too late,
And not restore my life, but close my eyes.

_16. An Answer to another persuading a Lady to Marriage_

Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here,
And what you do aver,
To others, courtship may appear,
’Tis sacriledge to her.

She is a publick deity,
And were’t not very odd
She should depose her self to be
A petty household god?

First make the sun in private shine,
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In complement to you.

But if of that you do despair,
Think how you did amiss,
To strive to fix her beams which are
More bright and large than this.

_17. Orinda upon Little Hector Philips_

Twice forty months of wedlock I did stay,
Then had my vows crown’d with a lovely boy,
And yet in forty days he dropt away,
O swift vicissitude of human joy.

I did but see him and he disappear’d,
I did but pluck the rose-bud and it fell,
A sorrow unforeseen and scarcely fear’d,
For ill can mortals their afflictions spell.

And now (sweet babe) what can my trembling heart
Suggest to right my doleful fate or thee,
Tears are my Muse and sorrow all my art,
So piercing groans must be thy elegy.

Thus whilst no eye is witness of my moan,
I grieve thy loss (Ah boy too dear to live)
And let the unconcernèd world alone,
Who neither will, nor can refreshment give.

An off’ring too for thy sad tomb I have,
Too just a tribute to thy early hearse,
Receive these gasping numbers to thy grave,
The last of thy unhappy mother’s verse.

ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON

1632-1685

_18. On the Storm between Gravesend and Dieppe (Made at that Time)_

When the tempestuous sea did foam and roar,
Tossing the bark from the long-wish’d-for shore,
With false affected fondness it betray’d,
Striving to keep what perish’d, if it stay’d.
Such is the love of impious men, where’re
Their cruel kindness lights, ’tis to ensnare:
I, toss’d in tedious storms of troubled thought,
Was careless of the waves the ocean brought.
My anchor Hope was lost, and too too near
On either hand were rocks of sad despair,
Mistaken seamen prais’d my fearless mind,
Which, sunk in seas of grief, could dare the wind.
In Life, tempestuous Life, is dread and harm,
Approaching Death had no unpleasing form;
Approaching Death appeases ev’ry storm.

_19. A Song_

How hardly I conceal’d my tears!
How oft did I complain!
When many tedious days my fears
Told me I lov’d in vain.

But now my joys as mild are grown,
And hard to be conceal’d:
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
But joy will be reveal’d.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,
To every stream and tree,
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks,
For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy
We want, we wish, believe;
’Tis hard such passion to destroy,
But easie to deceive.

APHRA BEHN

1640-1689

_20. Song_

Love in fantastic triumph sat
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow’d,
For whom fresh paines he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he show’d;

From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl’d;
But ’twas from mine he took desire,
Enough to undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.

Thus thou and I the god have arm’d,
And set him up a deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm’d,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

_21. Song_

(from ‘Lycidus’)

A constancy in love I’ll prize,
And be to beauty true:
And doat on all the lovely eyes,
That are but fair and new.
On Cloris’ charms to day I’ll feed,
To-morrow Daphne move;
For bright Lucinda next I’ll bleed,
And still be true to love.

But glory only and renown
My serious hours shall claim;
My nobler minutes those shall crown,
My looser hours, my flame.
All the fatigues of love I’ll hate,
And Phillis’s new charms
That hopeless fire shall dissipate,
My heart for Cloe warms.

The easy nymph I once enjoy’d
Neglected now shall pass,
Possession, that has love destroy’d,
Shall make me pitiless.
In vain she now attracts and mourns,
Her moving power is gone,
Too late (when once enjoy’d) she burns,
And yielding, is undone.

My friend, the little charming boy,
Conforms to my desires,
And ’tis but to augment my joy
He pains me with his fires;
All that’s in happy love I’ll taste,
And rifle all his store,
And for one joy that will not last,
He brings a thousand more.

_22. Song_

Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain,
Thy languishments give o’er,
Why should’st thou sigh because the swain
Another does adore?
Those charms, fond maid, that vanquish’d thee,
Have many a conquest won,
And sure he could not cruel be
And leave ’em all undone.

The youth a noble temper bears,
Soft and compassionate,
And thou canst only blame thy stars,
That made thee love too late;
Yet had their influence all been kind
They had not cross’d my fate,
The tenderest hours must have an end,
And passion has its date.

The softest love grows cold and shy,
The face so late ador’d
Now unregarded passes by,
Or grows at last abhorr’d;
All things in Nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think so in time thy hopeless love
Will die, as flowers decay.

_23. Song_

How strongly does my passion flow,
Divided equally ’twixt two?
Damon had ne’er subdued my heart,
Had not Alexis took his part;
Nor could Alexis powerful prove,
Without my Damon’s aid, to gain my love.

When my Alexis present is,
Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;
But when Alexis I do miss,
Damon gains nothing but my scorn.
But if it chance they both are by,
For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.

Cure then, thou mighty wingèd god,
This restless fever in my blood;
One golden-pointed dart take back:
But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?
If Damon’s, all my hopes are crost;
Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.

_24. Song_

A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betray’d,
That languish in resistless fire.
The untam’d heart to hand I brought,
And fixed the wild and wandering thought.

I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, tho’ false, were well receiv’d.
The fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,
Love’s pleasures only touched my heart.

Alone the glory and the spoil
I always laughing bore away;
The triumphs, without pain or toil,
Without the hell, the heav’n of joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despis’d the fools that whine for love.

‘EPHELIA’

16?-16?

_25. Love’s First Approach_

Strephon I saw, and started at the sight,
And interchangeably looked red and white;
I felt my blood run swiftly to my heart,
And a chill trembling seize each outward part:
My breath grew short, my pulse did quicker beat,
My heart did heave, as it would change its seat:
A faint cold sweat o’er all my body spread,
A giddy megrim wheel’d about my head:
When for the reason of this change I sought,
I found my eyes had all the mischief wrought;
For they my sort to Strephon had betray’d,
And my weak heart his willing victim made:
The traitors, conscious of the treason
They had committed ’gainst my reason,
Looked down with such a bashful guilty fear,
As made their fault to every eye appear.
Though the first fatal look too much had done,
The lawless wanderers would still gaze on,
Kind looks repeat, and glances steal, till they
Had looked my liberty and heart away:
Great Love, I yield; send no more darts in vain,
I am already fond of my soft chain;
Proud of my fetters, so pleased with my state,
That I the very thought of Freedom hate.
O mighty Love! thy art and power join,
To make his frozen breast as warm as mine;
But if thou try’st, and canst not make him kind,
In Love such pleasant, real sweets I find,
That, though attended with despair it be,
’Tis better still than a wild liberty.

_26. Song_

You wrong me, Strephon, when you say,
I’m jealous or severe,
Did I not see you kiss and play
With all you came a-near?
Say, did I ever chide for this,
Or cast one jealous eye
On the bold nymphs, that snatch’d my bliss
While I stood wishing by.

Yet though I never disapproved
This modish liberty,
I thought in them you only loved
Change and variety:
I vainly thought my charms so strong,
And you so much my slave,
No nymph had power to do me wrong,
Or break the chains I gave.

But when you seriously address
With all your winning charms,
Unto a servile shepherdess,
I’ll throw you from my arms:
I’d rather choose you should make love
To every face you see,
Than Mopsa’s dull admirer prove,
And let her rival me.

_27. To one that asked me why I loved J. G._

Why do I love? go ask the glorious sun
Why every day it round the world doth run:
Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow:
Ask damask roses why in June they blow:
Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold:
Decaying beauties, why they will grow old:
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to love.
There is no reason for our love or hate,
’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate;
’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me:
Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won,
For that at least is equalled by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity:
Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind,
Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d:
His temper could not have so great a power,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous years that women so adore
Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless man,
With all the passion that a woman can;
Doat on his imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to love; I love, and know not why.
Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate,
That I should love, and he should be ingrate.

_28. Mocked in Anger_

Farewell, ungrateful man, sail to some land,
Where treachery and ingratitude command;
There meet with all the plagues that man can bear,
And be as wretched as I’m happy here.
’Twere vain to wish that Heav’n would punish thee,
’Twere vain to invocate the wind and sea,
To fright thee with rude storms, for surely Fate
Without a wish, will punish the ingrate.
Its justice and thy crimes Heav’n so well knows,
That all its creatures it will make thy foes
(If they’re not so already), but none can
Love such a worthless, such a sordid man;
And though we’ve now no public enemies,
And you’re too strong for private piracies,
Yet is the vessel in more danger far,
Than when with all our neighbours we had war:
For all that know what guest it doth contain,
Will strive to fire or sink it in the main.
Plagued for thy sake, they all will reckon thee
The Achan, or accursèd thing to be.

_29. Fortune Mistaken_

Though Fortune have so far from me removed
All that I wish, or all I ever loved,
And robbed our Europe of its chief delight,
To bless the Africk world with Strephon’s sight:
There with a lady beauteous, rich and young,
Kind, witty, virtuous, the best born among
The Africk maids, presents this happy swain,
Not to oblige him, but to give me pain:
Then to my ears, by tattling fame, conveys
The tale with large additions; and to raise
My anger higher, tells me ’tis designed
That Hymen’s rites their hands and hearts must bind.
Now she believes my business done, and I
At the dire news would fetch a sigh and die:
But she’s deceived, I in my Strephon grow,
And if he’s happy, I must needs be so:
Or if Fate could our interests disjoin,
At his good fortune I should ne’er repine,
Though ’twere my ruin; but I exult to hear,
Insulting Mopsa I no more shall fear;
No more he’ll smile upon that ugly Witch:
In that one thought I’m happy, great and rich.
And blind dame Fortune, meaning to destroy,
Has filled my soul with extasies of joy:
To him I love she’s given a happy fate,
And quite destroyed and ruined her I hate.

_30. To Phylocles, inviting him to Friendship_

Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can
Dwell in the bosom of inconstant man,
As cold and clear as ice, as snow unstained,
With Love’s loose crimes unsullied, unprofaned,

Or you a woman with that name dare trust,
And think to friendship’s ties we can be just,
In a strict league together we’ll combine,
And [ ] friendship’s bright example shine.

We will forget the difference of sex,
Nor shall the world’s rude censure us perplex
Think me all man: my soul is masculine,
And capable of as great things as thine.

I can be generous, just and brave,
Secret and silent as the grave,
And if I cannot yield relief,
I’ll sympathise in all thy grief.

I will not have a thought from thee I’ll hide,
In all my actions thou shalt be my guide;
In every joy of mine thou shalt have share,
And I will bear a part in all thy care.

Why do I vainly talk of what we’ll do?
We’ll mix our souls, you shall be me, I you;
And both so one it shall be hard to say
Which is Phylocles, which Ephelia.

Our ties shall be as strong as the chains of Fate,
Conquerors and kings our joys shall emulate;
Forgotten friendship, held at first divine,
To its native purity we will refine.

_31. My Fate_

Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be?
When satisfied with tormenting me?
What have I e’er designed, but thou hast crost?
All that I wished to gain by thee, I’ve lost:
From my first infancy, thy spite thou’st shown
And from my cradle, I’ve thy malice known;
Thou snatch’st my parents in their tender age,
Made me a victim to the furious rage
Of cruel fortune, as severe as thee;
Yet I resolved to brave my destiny,
And did, with more than female constancy.
Not all thy malice could extort a tear,
Nor all thy rage could ever teach me fear:
Still as thy power diminished my estate
My fortitude did my desires abate,
In every state I did my mind content
And nicely did thy cross designs prevent;
Seeing thy plots did unsuccessful prove,
As a sure torment next, thou taught’st me love:
But here thou wert deceived too, for my swain,
As soon as he perceived, pitied my pain:
He met my passion with an equal fire,
Both sweetly languished in a soft desire:
Clasped in each other’s arms we sat all day,
Each smile I gave he’d with a kiss repay:
In every hour an age’s bliss we reaped,
And lavish favours on each other heaped.
Now sure (thought I) destiny doth relent,
And her insatiate tyranny repent:
But how mistaken! how deceived was I!
Alas! she only raised my hopes thus high,
To cast me down with greater violence;
For midst our joys, she snatched my shepherd hence
To Africa: yet though I was neglected,
I bore it better than could be expected:
Without regret I let him cross the sea,
When I was told it for his good would be,
But when I heard the nuptial knot he’d tied,
And made an Africk nymph his happy bride:
My temper then I could no longer hold,
I cursed my fate, I cursed the power of gold,
I cursed the easiness believed at first,
And (Heaven forgive me) Him I almost cursed.
Hearing my loss, to him was mighty gain;
I checked my rage, and soon grew calm again:
Malicious Fate, seeing this would not do,
Made Strephon wretched, to make me so too.
Of all her plagues, this was the weightiest stroke,
This blow my resolved heart hath almost broke:
Yet, spite of Fate, this comfort I’ve in store,
She’s no room left for any ill thing more.

MARY MOLLINEUX

c. 1648-1695

_32. On the Sight of a Skull_

Behold, ambitious lump of clay refined,
Thy epilogue; see, see to what design’d!
So soon as thou wert born, so soon as air
Affords thee breath, thy vitals to repair,
So soon as thy small feeble embrion breast
Is of an active power, unknown, possess’d;
So soon thou may’st expect the dreadful day,
When thou once more must be reduc’d to clay,
And the whole fabrick of thy body must
Again be brought to its first nothing, dust:
Then shall those eyes, those crystal eyes of thine,
Which now like sparkling diamonds do shine,
Their little chambers circular forsake,
And them to essence more obscure betake;
The tender funnel of thy nose must thence
Corroded be, and lose its smelling Sense;
And all the volume of thy face will be
So chang’d, none may thereby remember thee.

_33. To Her Lord_

Alas, how hard a Thing
It is to bring
Into a true Subjection Flesh and Blood,
Quietly to entertain
(And not complain)
Those Exercises that attend for Good!

My Life, my Joy, my Love,
If thus thou please to prove
And exercise my poor perplexèd Mind,
Teach me to wait in Fear,
That I may learn to hear
What Trials may attend, of any Kind:

And, guarded by thy Ray,
Walk in the Way,
That leads directly to the Throne of Grace;
Where in Humility,
Poor I may be
Admitted to sit down i’ th’ heav’nly Place.

And there to thee discharge
My griefs at large,
As to a Bosom-Friend, that bears with me,
And often passes by
Faults of Infirmity:
Alas, I cannot bear too much for thee!

ANNE KILLIGREW

1661 (?)-1685

_34. On a Picture painted by Herself, representing Two Nymphs of Diana_

We are Diana’s virgin train,
Descended of no mortal strain;
Our bows and arrows are our goods,
Our pallaces, the lofty woods,
The hills and dales, at early morn,
Resound and eccho with our horn;
We chase the hind and fallow deer,
The wolf and boar both dread our spear,
In swiftness we outstrip the wind,
An eye and thought we leave behind;
We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe,
To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:
Whatever does provoke our hate,
Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;
We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil,
Contracted by our eager toil;
In which we shine like glittering beams
Or christal in the christal streams;
Though Venus we transcend in form,
No wanton flames our bosomes warm!
If you ask where such wights do dwell,
In what bless’t clime, that so excel?
The poets onely that can tell.

_35. Upon the Saying that My Verses were made by Another_

Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!
I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,
And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,
No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,
Or yet ambition in my breast have part,
More rich, more noble I will ever hold
The Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold.
An undivided sacrifice I’ll lay
Upon thine altar, soul and body pay;
Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,
My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.
The deity that ever does attend
Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen:
Could any doubt ensuing glory then?
What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense,
How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence!
And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sight
Didst glories represent so near and bright!
By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant tree
Apollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be;
And every fresher branch, and every bough
Appear’d as garlands to empale my brow.
The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boy
Does first approach, drest up in welcome joy;
At first he to the cheated lover’s sight
Nought represents but rapture and delight,
Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bind
Their hearts, than when they more assurance find.
Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit
(By some few hands) my most unlucky wit.
But ah, the sad effects that from it came!
What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame!
Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all,
Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call:
Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore,
And, as they thought, unto the owner bore.
My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d,
My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d:
Another’s brow that had so rich a store
Of sacred wreaths that circled it before;
Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ran
Into a vast, and boundless ocean)
Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,
And that abyss yet no accession found.
Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)
Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;
It was her radiant soul that shone within,
Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;
That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,
Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.
Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,
But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;
What she did write, not only all allow’d,
But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!
The envious age, only to me alone,
Will not allow what I do write my own;
But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,
So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyre
Do ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by thee
Inspir’d divinely, and possest may be;
I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate,
To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.

_36. Epitaph on Herself_

When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse,
And for a monument I leave my verse.

MRS. TAYLOR

c. 1685

_37. Song_

Strephon hath fashion, wit, and youth,
With all things else that please;
He nothing wants but Love and Truth
To ruin me with ease.

But he is flint, and bears the art
To kindle fierce desire,
Whose pow’r enflames another’s heart,
And he ne’re feels the fire.

O how it does my soul perplex,
When I his charms recall,
To think he shou’d despise our sex;
Or, what’s worse love ’em all.

So that my heart, like Noah’s dove,
In vain has sought for rest,
Finding no hope to fix my love,
Returns into my breast.

MARY, LADY CHUDLEIGH

1656-1710

_38. Solitude_

When all alone in some belov’d retreat,
Remote from noise, from bus’ness and from strife,
Those constant curst attendants of the great,
I freely can with my own thoughts converse,
And cloath them in ignoble verse,
’Tis then I tast the most delicious feast of life;
There, uncontroul’d, I can my self survey,
And from observers free,
My intellectual pow’rs display,
And all th’ opening scenes of beauteous Nature see:
Form bright ideas, and enrich my mind,
Enlarge my knowledge, and each error find;
Inspect each action, ev’ry word dissect,
And on the failure of my life reflect:
Then from my self, to books, I turn my sight,
And there, with silent wonder and delight,
Gaze on th’ instructive venerable dead,
Those that in vertue’s school were early bred,
And since by rules of honour always led;
Who its strict laws with nicest care obey’d,
And were by calm unbyass’d reason sway’d:
Their great examples elevate my mind,
And I the force of all their precepts find;
By them inspir’d, above dull earth I soar,
And scorn those trifles which I priz’d before.

_39. Song_

Why, Damon, why, why, why so pressing?
The heart you beg’s not worth possessing:
Each look, each word, each smile’s affected,
And inward charms are quite neglected;
Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish swain,
And sigh no more, no more, in vain;

Beauty’s worthless, fading, flying;
Who would for trifles think of dying?
Who for a face, a shape, would languish,
And tell the brooks and groves his anguish,
Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him,
And all, and all beside despise him?

ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA

1660-1720

_40. The Soldier’s Death_

Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,
March in a slow procession from afar,
Ye silent, ye dejected men of war!
Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!
Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;
For see! where on the bier before ye lies
The pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrifice
To your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.

_41. The Sensual Man_

When to the Under-world despis’d he goes,
A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows,
Who, rioting on the unusual chear,
As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.

_42. A Nocturnal Reverie_

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confin’d;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes:
When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright:
When odours, which declin’d repelling day,
Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray;
When darken’d groves their softest shadows wear
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When thro’ the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabrick, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:
When a sedate consent the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,
Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,
O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d,
Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.

_43. A Wish for Her Retreat_

Give me there (since Heaven has shown
It was not good to be alone)
A partner suited to my mind,
Solitary, pleas’d and kind;
Who, partially, may something see
Preferr’d to all the world in me;
Slighting, by my humble side,
Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride.
When but two the Earth possest,
’Twas then happiest days, and best;
They by bus’ness, nor by wars,
They by no domestick cares,
From each other e’er were drawn,
But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn,
Spent the swiftly flying time,
Spent their own and Nature’s prime,
In Love; that only passion given
To perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.

_44. Adam Pos’d_

Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough,
Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,
Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin,
Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antick graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’d
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T’ have guest from what new element she came;
T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.

_45. The Wit and the Beau_

Strephon, whose person ev’ry grace
Was careful to adorn;
Thought, by the beauties of his face,
In Silvia’s love to find a place,
And wonder’d at her scorn.

With bows, and smiles he did his part;
But Oh! ’twas all in vain:
A youth less fine, a youth of Art,
Had talk’d himself into her heart
And wou’d not out again.

Strephon with change of habits press’d,
And urg’d her to admire;
His love alone the other dress’d,
As verse or prose became it best,
And mov’d her soft desire.

This found, his courtship Strephon ends,
Or makes it to his glass;
There in himself now seeks amends,
Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,
A Beau is but an ass.

_46. The Critick and the Writer of Fables_

Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,
Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray;
To Fable I descend with soft delight,
Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:
Whilst aery fictions hastily repair
To fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,
As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,
And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.

But here, the critick bids me check this vein.
Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,
But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.
Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,
Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.

Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies,
The easily persuaded poet cries,
Since meaner works you men of taste despise.
The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage,
Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage.
The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ arts
Shall boast such language, to adorn their parts,
As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow,
Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.
Amidst her towers, the dedicated horse
Shall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;
Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,
‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’

Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,
The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?
I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,
When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,
As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.

To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,
The Muse demands, and in that milder air
Describe some gentle swain’s unhappy smart
Whose folded arms still press upon his heart,
And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?
Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,
The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;
Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,
And softens all the murmurs of the floods.

Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,
Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streams
Which still, he cries, their even measures keep,
Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.
But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,
To shew us private, or the publick faults.
Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;
We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,
And warmly sympathizing with the spite
Apply to thousands what of one you write.
Then, must that single stream the town supply,
The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,
And all the rest of Helicon be dry?
And when so many choice productions swarm,
Must only Satire keep your fancies warm?
Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve,
As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve,
Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve.
Happy the men, whom we divert with ease,
Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.

_47. To Death_

O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway
All that have life, must certainly obey,
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.
My name is on thy roll, and sure I must
Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.
My soul at this no apprehension feels,
But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;
Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;
At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads
Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.
Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;
My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.
Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,
And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.

LADY GRISEL BAILLIE

1665-1746

_48. Werena my Heart’s licht_

There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men;
She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen;
But now she cries, Dool, and a well-a-day!
Come doun the green gait and come here away!

When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that loe’d na me,
Because I was twice as bonny as she;
She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his mother
That werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;
She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain,
Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said—What had he do wi’ the likes of me?
Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

They said I had neither cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o’ drink ring through the draff,
Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill e’e—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

His titty she was baith wylie and slee:
She spied me as I cam owre the lea;
And then she ran in, and made a loud din—
Believe your ain e’en, and ye trow not me.

His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,
His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new
But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes,
And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes:
The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,
We should hae been gallopin’ doun on yon green,
And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea—
And wow, gin I were but young for thee!

_49. The Ewe-Buchtin’s Bonnie_

The ewe-buchtin’s bonnie, baith e’enin’ and morn,
When owr blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we’re milking, they’re lilting, baith pleasant and clear;
But my heart’s fit to break when I think on my dear.

O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks o’ sheep soon in the morn;
On the bonnie green banks they feed pleasand and free,
But alas, my dear heart, all my sighing’s for thee!

HON. MARY MONK

?-1715

_50. On a Favourite Dog_

Press gently on him, earth, and all around
Ye flowers spring up, and deck th’ enamelled ground,
Breathe forth your choicest odours, and perfume
With all your fragrant sweets his little tomb.

_51. Epitaph on a Gallant Lady_

O’er this marble drop a tear
Here lies fair Rosalind:
All mankind was pleased with her
And she with all mankind.

_52. Verses, written on her Death-bed at Bath to her Husband in London_

Thou who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy,
Thou tenderest husband and thou dearest friend,
To thee this first, this last adieu I send!
At length the conqueror death asserts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy sight;
He wooes me to him with a cheerful grace,
And not one terror clouds his meagre face;
He promises a lasting rest from pain,
And shews that all life’s fleeting joys are vain;
Th’ eternal scenes of heaven he sets in view,
And tells me that no other joys are true.
But love, fond love, would yet resist his power,
Woud fain awhile defer the parting hour;
He brings thy mourning image to my eyes,
And would obstruct my journey to the skies.
But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend!
Say, should’st thou grieve to see my sorrows end?
Thou know’st a painful pilgrimage I’ve past;
And should’st thou grieve that rest is come at last?
Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,
And die as I have liv’d, thy faithful wife.

ELIZABETH (SINGER) ROWE

1674-1737

_53. From Her Elegy on Her Husband, who died Young_

Lost in despair, distracted and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate’er to such superior worth was due,
Whate’er excess the fondest passion knew,
I felt for thee, dear youth; my joys, my care,
My prayers themselves were thine, and only where
Thou wast concern’d, my virtue was sincere.
Whene’er I begg’d for blessings on thy head,
Nothing was cold or formal that I said.
My warmest vows to Heav’n were made for thee,
And love still mingled with my piety.
O! thou wast all my glory, all my pride;
Thro’ life’s uncertain paths my constant guide.
Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise
Was all that could my just ambition raise.
...
List’ning to him, my cares were charm’d to rest,
And love and silent rapture fill’d my breast,
Unheeded, the gay moments took their flight,
And time was only measur’d by delight.
I hear the lov’d, the melting accent still,
And still the warm, the tender transport feel:
Again I see the sprightly passions rise,
And life and pleasure kindle in his eyes.
My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace,
But ah! the dear resemblance mocks my fond embrace,
The flatt’ring vision takes its hasty flight,
And scenes of horror swim before my sight;
Grief and despair in all their terrors rise;
A dying lover pale and gasping lies.
Each dismal circumstance appears in view,
The fatal object is for ever new,
...
Why did they tear me from thy breathless clay?
I should have stay’d and wept my life away.
Yet, gentle shade! whether thou now dost rove,
Thro’ some blest vale, or ever-verdant grove,
One moment listen to my grief, and take
The softest vows that ever love can make.
For thee, all thoughts of pleasure I forgo,
For thee my tears shall never cease to flow;
For thee at once I from the world retire,
To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire.
My bosom all thy image shall retain,
The full impression there shall still remain:
As thou hast taught my kinder heart to prove
The noblest height, and elegance of love;
That sacred passion I to thee confine,
My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.

_54. To a Friend who Persuades me to Leave the Muse_

Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite
Of your ill-natur’d prophecy I’ll write;
And for the future paint my thoughts at large,
I waste no paper at the Hundred’s charge:
I rob no neighb’ring geese of quills, nor slink,
For a collection, to the church for ink:
Beside, my Muse is the most gentle thing
That ever yet made an attempt to sing:
I call no lady punk, nor gallants fops,
Nor set the married world an edge for ropes;
Yet I’m so nat’rally inclin’d to rhyming,
That undesign’d, my thoughts burst out a-chiming;
My active genius will by no means sleep,
Pray let it then its proper channel keep.
I’ve told you, and you may believe me too,
That I must this, or greater mischief do;
And let the world think me inspir’d or mad,
I’ll surely write whilst paper’s to be had.

CATHARINE COCKBURN

1679-1749

_55. Song—The Vain Advice_

Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear
That soft enchanting voice to hear:
Not looks of basilisks give surer death,
Nor syrens sing with more destructive breath.

Fly, if thy freedom thou’dst maintain;
Alas! I feel, th’ advice is vain!
A heart, whose safety but in flight does lie,
Is too far lost to have the power to fly.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

1689-1762

_56. Verses addressed to the Imitator[2] of the First Satire of the Second Book of Horace_

In two large columns on thy motley page,
Where Roman wit is strip’d with English rage;
Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence;
And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense:
Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought;
And on the other how he never wrote:
Who can believe, who view the bad and good,
That the dull copyist better understood
That Spirit, he pretends to imitate,
Than heretofore that Greek he did translate?

Thine is just such an image of _his_ pen,
As thou thyself art of the sons of men:
Where our own species in burlesque we trace,
A sign-post likeness of the human race,
That is at once resemblance and disgrace.
If _he_ has thorns, they all on roses grow;
Thine like rude thistles, and mean brambles show,
With this exception, that tho’ rank the soil,
Weeds as they are they seem produc’d by toil.
Satire should, like a polish’d razor keen,
Wound with a touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen.
Thine is an oyster-knife that hacks and hews;
The rage but not the talent to abuse;
And is in _hate_, what _love_ is in the stews.
’Tis the gross _lust_ of hate, that still annoys,
Without distinction, as gross love enjoys:
Neither to folly, nor to vice confin’d;
The object of thy spleen is human kind:
It preys on all, who yield or who resist;
To thee ’tis provocation to exist....

If none do yet return th’ intended blow,
You all your safety to your dullness owe:
But whilst that armour thy poor corps defends,
’Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends;
Those, who thy nature loath’d, yet lov’d thy art,
Who lik’d thy head, and yet abhorr’d thy heart;
Chose thee, to read, but never to converse,
And scorn’d in prose, him whom they priz’d in verse;
Even they shall now their partial error see,
Shall shun thy writings, like thy company,
And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more,
Than to thy person they wou’d do their door.

FOOTNOTES

[2] Pope, who had libelled her.

_57. An Answer to a Love-Letter_

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?
Are heaven’s choicest gifts bestowed in vain?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify’d your pride:
Yet leaving her—’tis me that you pursue
Without one single charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I detest their ways
Of artful falsehood, and designing praise!
Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight,
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin’d?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan
While roves unpunish’d the destroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unrestrain’d by shame,
In sport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Not that your art can be successful here,
Th’ already plunder’d need no robber fear:
Nor sighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move,
Too well secur’d against a second love.
Once, and but once, that devil charm’d my mind;
To reason deaf, to observation blind;
I idly hop’d (what cannot love persuade?)
My fondness equal’d, and my love repaid:
Slow to distrust, and willing to believe,
Long hush’d my doubts, and did myself deceive;
But oh! too soon—this tale would ever last;
Sleep, sleep my wrongs, and let me think them past.
For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief,
And ask so boldly like a begging thief,
May soon some other nymph inflict the pain,
You know so well with cruel art to feign.
Though long you sported with Dan Cupid’s dart,
You may see eyes, and you may feel a heart.
So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach,
Laugh at the fear which follows their approach;
With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise
The passenger’s pale cheek and staring eyes:
But seiz’d by Justice, find a fright no jest,
And all the terror doubled in their breast.

_58. In Answer to a Lady Who Advised Retirement_

You little know the heart that you advise;
I view this various scene with equal eyes:
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I know,
Pity the madness, and despise the show:
Well as I can my tedious part I bear,
And wait for my dismission without fear.
Seldom I mark mankind’s detested ways,
Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise;
And, unconcern’d, my future fate I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just.

FANNY GREVILLE

18th century.

_59. Prayer for Indifference_

I ask no kind return in Love;
No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart such gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe;
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound
’Tis pain in each degree;
’Tis bliss but to a certain bound,
Beyond—is agony.

LAETITIA PILKINGTON

1712-1750

_60. Written on her Death-Bed_

My Lord, my Saviour, and my God,
I bow to thy correcting rod;
Nor will I murmur or complain,
Tho’ every limb be fill’d with pain;
Tho’ my weak tongue its aid denies;
And daylight wounds my wretched eyes.

ALISON COCKBURN

1712-1794

_61. The Flowers of the Forest_