Chapter X: Epilogue: To the 'maid's Tragedy.'

SPOKEN BY THE KING.

The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compassion find, But died--because the killer had been kind! Nor is't less strange, such mighty wits as those Should use a style in tragedy like prose. Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage, Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage. 10 By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids, We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades; And verses are the potent charms we use, Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, we shall be slain. The innocent Aspasia's life or death, Amintor's too, depends upon your breath. Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause. 20

ANOTHER EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.' DESIGNED UPON THE FIRST ALTERATION OF THE PLAY, WHEN THE KING ONLY WAS LEFT ALIVE.

Aspasia bleeding on the stage does lie, To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy. The fierce Melantius was content, you see, The king should live; be not more fierce than he; Too long indulgent to so rude a time, When love was held so capital a crime, That a crown'd head could no compassion find, But died--because the killer had been kind! This better-natured poet had reprieved Gentle Amintor too, had he believed 10 The fairer sex his pardon could approve, Who to ambition sacrificed his love. Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound (Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.

When next we act this tragedy again, Unless you like the change, I must be slain. Excess of love was heretofore the cause; Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.

EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS.

UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.

Such Helen was! and who can blame the boy[1] That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy? But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek, The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seek Or hope for pity; but with silent moan, And better fate, had perished alone.

[1] Paris.

OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.

While she pretends to make the graces known Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own; And when she would another's praise indite, Is by her glass instructed how to write.

TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.

Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!) Be buried in those monumental arms, All we can wish is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.

AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net So grossly woven and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show If she would bite; her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are disabused when first she gapes; The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL.[1]

Our guard upon the royal side! On the reverse our beauty's pride! Here we discern the frown and smile, The force and glory of our isle. In the rich medal, both so like Immortals stand, it seems antique; Carved by some master, when the bold Greeks made their Jove descend in gold, And Danaë[2] wond'ring at their shower, Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower. Britannia there, the fort in vain Had batter'd been with golden rain; Thunder itself had fail'd to pass; Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

[1] 'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the
unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the
medals to which the poet here alludes.
[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the
second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more
conventional diaresis shown here.

WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY TORE AT OMBRE.

The cards you tear in value rise; So do the wounded by your eyes. Who to celestial things aspire, Are by that passion raised the higher.

TO MR GRANVILLE (NOW LORD LANSDOWNE), ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II.

An early plant! which such a blossom bears, And shows a genius so beyond his years; A judgment! that could make so fair a choice; So high a subject to employ his voice; Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing The growing greatness of our matchless king!

LONG AND SHORT LIFE.

Circles are praised, not that abound In largeness, but th'exactly round: So life we praise that does excel Not in much time, but acting well.

TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.

Though we may seem importunate,
While your compassion we implore;
They whom you make too fortunate,
May with presumption vex you more.

TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.

Fade, flowers! fade, Nature will have it so; 'Tis but what we must in our autumn do! And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground, The loss alone by those that loved them found; So in the grave shall we as quiet lie, Miss'd by some few that loved our company; But some so like to thorns and nettles live, That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.

SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED FOR A FRIEND, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF OVID'S 'FASTI.'

Rome's holy-days you tell, as if a guest With the old Romans you were wont to feast. Numa's religion, by themselves believed, Excels the true, only in show received. They made the nations round about them bow, With their dictators taken from the plough; Such power has justice, faith, and honesty! The world was conquer'd by morality. Seeming devotion does but gild a knave, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave; But where religion does with virtue join, It makes a hero like an angel shine.

ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES I., AT CHARING CROSS, IN THE YEAR 1674.

That the First Charles does here in triumph ride, See his son reign where he a martyr died, And people pay that rev'rence as they pass, (Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass, Is not the effect of gratitude alone, To which we owe the statue and the stone; But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought, That mortals may eternally be taught Rebellion, though successful, is but vain, And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again. This truth the royal image does proclaim, Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.

PRIDE.

Not the brave Macedonian youth[1] alone, But base Caligula, when on the throne, Boundless in power, would make himself a god, As if the world depended on his nod. The Syrian king[2] to beasts was headlong thrown, Ere to himself he could be mortal known. The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line, Would never stop till he were thought divine. All might within discern the serpent's pride, If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide. Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread, And woo the female to his painted bed; Let winds and seas together rage and swell-- This Nature teaches, and becomes them well. 'Pride was not made for men;'[3] a conscious sense Of guilt, and folly, and their consequence, Destroys the claim, and to beholders tells, Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.

[1] 'Macedonian youth': Alexander. [2] 'Syrian king': Nebuchadnezzar. [3] 'For men': Ecclus. x. 18.

EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE.

Under this stone lies virtue, youth, Unblemish'd probity, and truth, Just unto all relations known, A worthy patriot, pious son; Whom neighb'ring towns so often sent To give their sense in Parliament; With lives and fortunes trusting one Who so discreetly used his own. Sober he was, wise, temperate, 9 Contented with an old estate, Which no foul avarice did increase, Nor wanton luxury make less. While yet but young his father died, And left him to a happy guide; Not Lemuel's mother with more care Did counsel or instruct her heir, Or teach with more success her son The vices of the time to shun. An heiress she; while yet alive, All that was hers to him did give; 20 And he just gratitude did show To one that had obliged him so; Nothing too much for her he thought, By whom he was so bred and taught. So (early made that path to tread, Which did his youth to honour lead) His short life did a pattern give How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.

The virtues of a private life Exceed the glorious noise and strife 30 Of battles won; in those we find The solid int'rest of mankind.

Approved by all, and loved so well, Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.

EPITAPH ON COLONEL CHARLES CAVENDISH.[1]

Here lies Charles Ca'ndish; let the marble stone That hides his ashes make his virtue known. Beauty and valour did his short life grace, The grief and glory of his noble race! Early abroad he did the world survey, As if he knew he had not long to stay; Saw what great Alexander in the East, And mighty Julius conquer'd in the West; Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he came To find at home occasion for his fame; 10 Where dark confusion did the nations hide, And where the juster was the weaker side. Two loyal brothers took their sov'reign's part, Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art; The elder[2] did whole regiments afford; The younger brought his conduct and his sword. Born to command, a leader he begun, And on the rebels lasting honour won. The horse, instructed by their general's worth, Still made the king victorious in the north. 20 Where Ca'ndish fought, the Royalists prevail'd; Neither his courage nor his judgment fail'd. The current of his vict'ries found no stop, Till Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop. Equal success had set these champions high, And both resolved to conquer or to die. Virtue with rage, fury with valour strove; But that must fall which is decreed above! Cromwell, with odds of number and of fate, Removed this bulwark of the church and state; 30 Which the sad issue of the war declared, And made his task, to ruin both, less hard. So when the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown, The boundless torrent does the country drown. Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;-- Strew bays and flowers on his honoured grave!

[1] 'Charles Cavendish': younger son of the Earl of Devonshire, and
brother of Lady Rich; slain in 1643 at Gainsborough, fighting on the
king's side, in the twenty-third year of his age.
[2] 'The elder': afterwards Earl of Devonshire.

EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.[1]

Here lies the learned Savil's heir, So early wise, and lasting fair, That none, except her years they told, Thought her a child, or thought her old. All that her father knew or got, His art, his wealth, fell to her lot; And she so well improved that stock, Both of his knowledge and his flock, That wit and fortune, reconciled In her, upon each other smiled. 10 While she to every well-taught mind Was so propitiously inclined, And gave such title to her store, That none, but th'ignorant, were poor. The Muses daily found supplies, Both from her hands and from her eyes. Her bounty did at once engage, And matchless beauty warm their rage. Such was this dame in calmer days, Her nation's ornament and praise! 20 But when a storm disturb'd our rest, The port and refuge of the oppress'd. This made her fortune understood, And look'd on as some public good. So that (her person and her state, Exempted from the common fate) In all our civil fury she Stood, like a sacred temple, free. May here her monument stand so, To credit this rude age! and show To future times, that even we Some patterns did of virtue see; And one sublime example had Of good, among so many bad.

[1] 'Lady Sedley': daughter of Sir Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and who
married Sir John Sedley.

EPITAPH, TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY SON OF THE LORD ANDOVER.[1]

'Tis fit the English reader should be told, In our own language, what this tomb does hold. 'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie Under this stone, but a whole family. His parents' pious care, their name, their joy, And all their hope, lies buried with this boy; This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan, That knew his worth, as he had been our own.

Had there been space and years enough allow'd, His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd, 10 We had not found, in all the num'rous roll Of his famed ancestors, a greater soul; His early virtues to that ancient stock Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.

Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past, To become man he made such fatal haste, And to perfection labour'd so to climb, Preventing slow experience and time, That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19 He's seldom old that will not be a child.

[1] 'Lord Andover': the eldest son of the Earl of Berkshire.

EPITAPH UNFINISHED.

Great soul! for whom Death will no longer stay, But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away. O cruel Death! to those you take more kind, Than to the wretched mortals left behind! Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shined, Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind. Inspirèd verse may on this marble live, But can no honour to thy ashes give--

DIVINE POEMS.[1]

OF DIVINE LOVE. A POEM IN SIX CANTOS.

Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant, Sic nos Scripturæ depascimur aurea dicta; Aurea! perpetua semper dignissima vita! Nam divinus amor cum coepit vociferari, Diffugiunt animi terrores.... _Lucretius_, lib. iii.

Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non fama, petita est, Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis: Namque ubi mota calent sacra mea pectora Musa, Altior humano spiritua ille malo est. OVID. _De Trist_. lib. iv. el. I.

ARGUMENTS.

I. Asserting the authority of the Scripture, in which this love is revealed.--II. The preference and love of God to man in the creation.-- III. The same love more amply declared in our redemption.--IV. How necessary this love is to reform mankind, and how excellent in itself.-- V. Showing how happy the world would be, if this love were universally embraced.--VI. Of preserving this love in our memory, and how useful the contemplation thereof is.

[1] These were Waller's latest poems, composed when he was eighty-two.