Chapter II

Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains,
The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains,
Obeys the mighty voice of _Jove_.
The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues,
Bus’ness Debauches all his hours of Love;
Bus’ness, whose hurry, noise and news
Even Natures self subdues;
Changes her best and first simplicity,
Her soft, her easie quietude
Into mean Arts of cunning Policy,
The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude.
Say, mighty _Celladon_, oh tell me why,
Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy
In bus’ness, which alone was made
To teach the restless States-man how to Trade
In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design,
But n’ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine.
Business the _Check_ to Mirth and Wit,
Business the Rival of the Fair,
The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit,
Onely to those that languish in Dispair;
Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate
To him to whom forgetful Heaven,
Has no one other vertue given,
But dropt down the unfortunate,
To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.

III.

But thou whose nobler Soul was fram’d,
For Glorious and Luxurious Ease,
By Wit adorn’d, by Love inflam’d;
For every Grace, and Beauty Fam’d,
Form’d for delight, design’d to please,
Give, Give a look to every Joy,
That youth and lavish Fortune can invent,
Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy
Both Heaven and Natures first intent.
But oh in vain is all I say,
And you alas must go,
The Mighty _Cæsar_ to obey,
And none so fit as you.
From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth,
He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth;
He’s try’d it oft, and put it to the Test,
It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest,
The great, the God-like _Celladon_,
Unlike the base Examples of the times,
Cou’d never be Corrupted, never won,
To stain his honest blood with Rebel _Crimes_.
Fearless unmov’d he stood amidst the tainted Crowd,
And justify’d and own’d his Loyalty aloud.

IV.

_Hybernia_ hail! Hail happy Isle,
Be glad, and let all Nature smile.
Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers;
Ye Groves and every Purling Spring,
Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing,
Be glad and gay, for _Celladon_ is yours;
He comes, he comes to grace your Plains.
To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains,
Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name
To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills;
Ye Feather’d Quire chant forth his Fame,
Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand’ring Rills,
That through the Meadows in Meanders run,
Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.

VI.

Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes,
And give his Life some softning Interludes:
That when his weari’d mind would be,
From Noise and Rigid Bus’ness free;
He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down,
Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade,
With some dear Shee, whom Nature made,
To be possest by him alone;
Where the soft tale of Love She breathes,
Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves,
The different Notes of Cheerful Birds,
And distant Bleating of the Herds:
Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet,
Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.

VII.

Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes,
And for the publick good, prolong your days:
Instruct the World, the great Example prove,
Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love.
And when your busier hours are done,
And you with _Damon_ sit alone;
_Damon_ the honest, brave and young;
Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung,
For you (by Sacred Friendship ty’d,)
Love nor Fate can nere divide;
When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run,
Surveying all the Conquests you have won,
The Swaines you’ave left, the sighing Maids undone;
Try if you can a fatal prospect take,
Think if you can a soft _Idea_ make:
Of what we are, now you are gone,
Of what we feel for _Celladon_.