Chapter IV

'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites,
A Passion, like it self, excites:
The Paragon, though all admire,
Kindles in none a fond desire:
No more than those the Kings Renown
And State applaud, affect his Crown.

_These following Fragments among many more were found among her Papers._

Penelope to Ulysses.

Return my dearest Lord, at length return,
Let me no longer your sad absence mourn,
_Ilium_ in Dust, does no more Work afford,
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.

Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy,
_Helin_ the Fire-brand both of _Greece_ and _Troy_,
E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen,
E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen?
Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe,
Which now both _Greece_ and _Phrygia_ over-flow:
Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed,
Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led:
I should not then have trembled at the Fame
Of _Hectors_ warlike and victorious Name.

Why did I wish the Noble _Hector_ Slain?
Why _Ilium_ ruin'd? Rise, O rise again!
Again great City flourish from thine Urne:
For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.
Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,)
That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault:
That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame,
Who, when thou fired'st _Troy_, did thee inflame
And now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life,
Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.

An Epitaph on her Self.

When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.

An ODE.

Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise,
Thy sully'd Habitation leave,
To Dust no longer cleave,
Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.
Thy native Beauty re-assume,
Prune each neglected Plume,
Till more than Silver white,
Then burnisht Gold more bright,
Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.

II.

The Bird to whom the spacious Aire was given,
As in a smooth and trackless Path to go,
A Walk which does no Limits know
Pervious alone to Her and Heaven:
Should she her Airy Race forget,
On Earth affect to walk and sit;
Should she so high a Priviledge neglect,
As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect,
What could she of Wrong complain,
Who thus her Birdly Kind doth stain,
If all her Feathers moulted were,
And naked she were left and bare,
The Jest and Scorn of Earth and Aire?

III.

The Bird of Paradice the Soul,

_Extemporary Counsel given to a_ Young Gallant _in a_ Frolick.

As you are Young, if you'l be also Wise,
Danger with Honour court, Quarrels despise;
Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold,
To Beauty when no Slave, and less to Gold;
When Vertue you dare own, not think it odd,
Or ungenteel to say, I _fear a God_.

_These Three following_ ODES _being found among_ Mrs Killigrews _Papers, I was willing to Print though none of hers_.

Cloris Charmes _Dissolved by_ EUDORA.

I.

Not that thy Fair Hand
Should lead me from my deep Dispaire,
Or thy Love, _Cloris_, End my Care,
And back my Steps command:
But if hereafter thou Retire,
To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire,
This Clue I'll leave behinde,
By which thou maist untwine
The Saddest Way,
To shun the Day,
That ever Grief did find.

II.

First take thy Hapless Way
Along the Rocky Northern Shore,
Infamous for the Matchless Store
Of Wracks within that Bay.
None o're the Cursed Beach e're crost,
Unless the Robb'd, the Wrack'd, or Lost
Where on the Strand lye spread,
The Sculls of many Dead.
Their mingl'd Bones,
Among the Stones,
Thy Wretched Feet must tread.

III.

The Trees along the Coast,
Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms,
As if they plaind the North-winds harms,
And Youthful Verdure lost.
There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,
Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew.
In it a Brooke doth fleet,
The Noise must guide thy Feet,
For there's no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkness that you meet.

IV.

Follow th'Infernal Wave,
Until it spread into a Floud,
Poysoning the Creatures of the Wood,
There twice a day a Slave,
I know not for what Impious Thing,
Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.
It adds to the sad Place,
To hear how at each Pace,
He curses God,
Himself, his Load,
For such his Forlorn Case.

V.

Next make no Noyse, nor talk,
Until th'art past a Narrow Glade,
Where Light does only break the Shade;
'Tis a Murderers Walk.
Observing this thou need'st not fear,
He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere.
Though there's no Clock or Chime,
The Hour he did his Crime,
His Soul awakes,
His Conscience quakes
And warns him that's the Time.

VI.

Thy Steps must next advance,
Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell,
Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell,
Witches here Nightly Dance,
And Sprights joyn with them when they call,
The Murderer dares not view the Ball.
For Snakes and Toads conspire,
To make them up a Quire.
And for their Light,
And Torches bright,
The Fiends dance all on fire.