Chapter VIII: Canto III (4)

But we recover not so fast The sense of such a danger past; We that esteem'd you sent from heaven, A pattern to this island given, To show us what the bless'd do there, And what alive they practised here, When that which we immortal thought, We saw so near destruction brought, Felt all which you did then endure, And tremble yet, as not secure. 20 So though the sun victorious be, And from a dark eclipse set free, The influence, which we fondly fear, Afflicts our thoughts the following year.

But that which may relieve our care Is, that you have a help so near For all the evil you can prove, The kindness of your royal love; He that was never known to mourn, So many kingdoms from him torn, 30 His tears reserved for you, more dear, More prized, than all those kingdoms were! For when no healing art prevail'd, When cordials and elixirs fail'd, On your pale cheek he dropp'd the shower, Revived you like a dying flower.

[1] 'Dangerous sickness': the Queen of Charles II. These verses belong
to the year 1663.

TO MR KILLIGREW,[1] UPON HIS ALTERING HIS PLAY, 'PANDORA,' FROM A TRAGEDY INTO A COMEDY, BECAUSE NOT APPROVED ON THE STAGE.

Sir, you should rather teach our age the way Of judging well, than thus have changed your play; You had obliged us by employing wit, Not to reform Pandora, but the pit; For as the nightingale, without the throng Of other birds, alone attends her song, While the loud daw, his throat displaying, draws The whole assemblage of his fellow-daws; So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould; Whilst nobler fancies make a flight too high For common view, and lessen as they fly.

[1] 'Mr. Killigrew': a gentleman usher to Charles II., and one of the
playwrights of the period.

TO A PERSON OF HONOUR, UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE POEM, ENTITLED, 'THE BRITISH PRINCES.'[1]

Sir! you've obliged the British nation more Than all their bards could ever do before, And, at your own charge, monuments as hard As brass or marble to your fame have rear'd; For, as all warlike nations take delight To hear how their brave ancestors could fight, You have advanced to wonder their renown, 7 And no less virtuously improved your own; That 'twill be doubtful whether you do write, Or they have acted, at a nobler height. You of your ancient princes, have retrieved More than the ages knew in which they lived; Explain'd their customs and their rights anew, Better than all their Druids ever knew; Unriddled those dark oracles as well As those that made them could themselves foretell. For as the Britons long have hoped, in vain, Arthur would come to govern them again, You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone, And in your poem placed him on his throne. 20 Such magic power has your prodigious pen To raise the dead, and give new life to men, Make rival princes meet in arms and love, Whom distant ages did so far remove; For as eternity has neither past Nor future, authors say, nor first nor last, But is all instant, your eternal Muse All ages can to any one reduce. Then why should you, whose miracles of art Can life at pleasure to the dead impart, 30 Trouble in vain your better-busied head, T'observe what times they lived in, or were dead? For since you have such arbitrary power, It were defect in judgment to go lower, Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd, As use to take the vulgar latitude; For no man's fit to read what you have writ, That holds not some proportion with your wit; As light can no way but by light appear, He must bring sense that understands it here. 40

[1] 'The British Princes': an heroic poem, by the Hon. Edward Howard,
was universally laughed at. See our edition of 'Butler.'

TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR, A PERSON OF HONOUR, WHO LATELY WRIT A RELIGIOUS BOOK, ENTITLED, 'HISTORICAL APPLICATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL MEDITATIONS, UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.'[1]

Bold is the man that dares engage For piety in such an age! Who can presume to find a guard From scorn, when Heaven's so little spared? Divines are pardon'd; they defend Altars on which their lives depend; But the profane impatient are, When nobler pens make this their care; For why should these let in a beam Of divine light to trouble them, 10 And call in doubt their pleasing thought, That none believes what we are taught? High birth and fortune warrant give That such men write what they believe; And, feeling first what they indite, New credit give to ancient light. Amongst these few, our author brings His well-known pedigree from kings.[2] This book, the image of his mind, Will make his name not hard to find; 20 I wish the throng of great and good Made it less eas'ly understood!

[1] 'Several subjects': supposed to be Lord Berkeley. It contained
testimonies of celebrated men to the value of religion.
[2] 'Pedigree from kings': the Earl of Berkeley was descended from the
royal house of Denmark.

TO THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS, WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.[1]

That sun of beauty did among us rise; England first saw the light of your fair eyes; In English, too, your early wit was shown; Favour that language, which was then your own, When, though a child, through guards you made your way; What fleet or army could an angel stay? Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain Whom she first bred within her ambient main. Our late burnt London, in apparel new, Shook off her ashes to have treated you; 10 But we must see our glory snatch'd away, And with warm tears increase the guilty sea; No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows, We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose! Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,-- Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!

[1] 'Court at Dover': the Duchess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of
Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political
mission.

TO CHLORIS.

Chloris! what's eminent, we know Must for some cause be valued so; Things without use, though they be good, Are not by us so understood. The early rose, made to display Her blushes to the youthful May, Doth yield her sweets, since he is fair, And courts her with a gentle air. Our stars do show their excellence Not by their light, but influence; When brighter comets, since still known Fatal to all, are liked by none. So your admirèd beauty still Is, by effects, made good or ill.

TO THE KING.

Great Sir! disdain not in this piece to stand, Supreme commander both of sea and land. Those which inhabit the celestial bower, Painters express with emblems of their power; His club Alcides, Phoebus has his bow, Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.

But your great providence no colours here Can represent, nor pencil draw that care, Which keeps you waking to secure our peace, The nation's glory, and our trade's increase; 10 You, for these ends, whole days in council sit, And the diversions of your youth forget.

Small were the worth of valour and of force, If your high wisdom governed not their course; You as the soul, as the first mover you, Vigour and life on every part bestow; How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast, Instruct the artists, and reward their haste.

So Jove himself, when Typhon heaven does brave, Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky cave, 20 Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame. Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode, Crete had not been the cradle of their god; On that small island they had looked with scorn, And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.

TO THE DUCHESS, WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

Madam! I here present you with the rage, And with the beauties of a former age; Wishing you may with as great pleasure view This, as we take in gazing upon you. Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher. While we your wit and early knowledge fear, To our productions we become severe; Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing, Your judgment makes us careful how we sing. 10 Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste, Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last, And make you through as many ages shine, As Tasso has the heroes of your line.

Though other names our wary writers use, You are the subject of the British Muse; Dilating mischief to yourself unknown, Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own. So the bright sun burns all our grass away, While it means nothing but to give us day. 20

TO MR CREECH, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'[1]

What all men wish'd, though few could hope to see, We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee. Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store, Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more. May they enjoy thy thoughts!--Let not the stage The idlest moment of thy hours engage; Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds, And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds. There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong; Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song. 10 'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days; For sure the ancients never wrote such plays. These scribbling insects have what they deserve, Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve. That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before; And death found surly Ben exceeding poor. Heaven turn the omen from their image here! May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear! Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find, And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind! 20

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head; Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread; Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care; But art above what other poets fear. What may we not expect from such a hand, That has, with books, himself at free command? Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain; And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain. So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet, Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit, 30 We read, and read again; and still admire Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee? Thy goodness may my several faults forgive, And by your help these wretched lines may live. But if, when view'd by your severer sight, They seem unworthy to behold the light, Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown! They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan; 40 But, dying silently, your justice own.

[1] 'Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition
of 1693.

SONGS.

STAY, PHOEBUS!

1 Stay, Phoebus! stay;
The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day
From us to them, can pay your haste
With no such object, nor salute your rise,
With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

2 Well does this prove
The error of those antique books,
Which made you move
About the world; her charming looks
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.

PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!

1 Peace, babbling Muse!
I dare not sing what you indite;
Her eyes refuse
To read the passion which they write.
She strikes my lute, but, if it sound,
Threatens to hurl it on the ground;
And I no less her anger dread,
Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead,
While some fierce lion does embrace
His breathless corpse, and lick his face;
Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies,
Torn all in pieces if he cries.

CHLORIS! FAREWELL.

1 Chloris! farewell. I now must go;
For if with thee I longer stay,
Thy eyes prevail upon me so,
I shall prove blind, and lose my way.

2 Fame of thy beauty, and thy youth,
Among the rest, me hither brought;
Finding this fame fall short of truth,
Made me stay longer than I thought.

3 For I'm engaged by word and oath,
A servant to another's will;
Yet, for thy love, I'd forfeit both,
Could I be sure to keep it still.

4 But what assurance can I take,
When thou, foreknowing this abuse,
For some more worthy lover's sake,
Mayst leave me with so just excuse?

5 For thou mayst say, 'twas not thy fault
That thou didst thus inconstant prove;
Being by my example taught
To break thy oath, to mend thy love.

6 No, Chloris! no: I will return,
And raise thy story to that height,
That strangers shall at distance burn,
And she distrust me reprobate.

7 Then shall my love this doubt displace,
And gain such trust, that I may come
And banquet sometimes on thy face,
But make my constant meals at home.

TO FLAVIA.

1 'Tis not your beauty can engage
My wary heart;
The sun, in all his pride and rage,
Has not that art;
And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

2 'Tis not the pretty things you say,
Nor those you write,
Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey:
For that delight,
The graces of a well-taught mind,
In some of our own sex we find.

3 No, Flavia! 'tis your love I fear;
Love's surest darts,
Those which so seldom fail him, are
Headed with hearts;
Their very shadows make us yield;
Dissemble well, and win the field.

BEHOLD THE BRAND OF BEAUTY TOSS'D!

1 Behold the brand of beauty toss'd!
See how the motion does dilate the flame!
Delighted Love his spoils does boast,
And triumph in this game.
Fire, to no place confined,
Is both our wonder and our fear;
Moving the mind,
As lightning hurlèd through the air.

2 High heaven the glory does increase
Of all her shining lamps, this artful way;
The sun in figures, such as these,
Joys with the moon to play;
To the sweet strains they advance,
Which do result from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance
Moves with the numbers which she hears.

WHILE I LISTEN TO THY VOICE.

1 While I listen to thy voice,
Chloris! I feel my life decay;
That powerful noise
Calls my fleeting soul away.
Oh! suppress that magic sound,
Which destroys without a wound.

2 Peace, Chloris! peace! or singing die,
That together you and I
To heaven may go;
For all we know
Of what the blessed do above,
Is, that they sing, and that they love.

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

1 Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

2 Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

3 Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

4 Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

SUNG BY MRS KNIGHT TO HER MAJESTY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

This happy day two lights are seen, A glorious saint, a matchless queen;[1] Both named alike, both crown'd appear, The saint above, th'Infanta here. May all those years which Catherine The martyr did for heaven resign, Be added to the line Of your bless'd life among us here! For all the pains that she did feel, And all the torments of her wheel, May you as many pleasures share! May heaven itself content With Catherine the Saint! Without appearing old, An hundred times may you, With eyes as bright as now, This welcome day behold!

[1] 'Matchless queen': Queen Catherine was born on the day set apart in
the calendar for the commemoration of the martyrdom of St.
Catherine.

SONG.

1 Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find
Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.

2 In heaven itself thou sure wert dress'd
With that angel-like disguise:
Thus deluded am I bless'd,
And see my joy with closèd eyes.

3 But, ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream;
Cruel Saccharissa's mind
Never put on that sweet extreme!

4 Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despised love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.

5 Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

6 Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so;
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words, express my woe.

7 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprisèd she may fall;
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS. SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.

Amaze us not with that majestic frown, But lay aside the greatness of your crown! And for that look which does your people awe, When in your throne and robes you give them law, Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile, Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while He listens to Apollo's charming lyre, Or judges of the songs he does inspire. Comedians on the stage show all their skill, And after do as Love and Fortune will. 10 We are less careful, hid in this disguise; In our own clothes more serious and more wise. Modest at home, upon the stage more bold, We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold; A fault committed here deserves no scorn, If we act well the parts to which we're born.