Guess, and I'll frankly own her name
Whose eyes have kindled such a flame;
The Spartan or the Cyprian queen
Had ne'er been sung, had she been seen.
Who set the very gods at war,
Were but faint images of her.
Believe me, for by Heav'ns 'tis true!
The Sun in all his ample view
Sees nothing half so fair or bright,
Not even his own reflected light.
So sweet a face! such graceful mien!
Who can this be?-Tis HOWARD or BALLENDEN.
CLEORA has her wish, she weds a peer,
Her weighty train two pages scarce can bear;
Persia, and both the Indies must provide,
To grace her pomp, and gratify her pride;
Of rich brocade a shining robe she wears,
And gems surround her lovely neck, like stars;
Drawn by six greys, of the proud Belgian kind,
With a long train of livery beaux behind,
She charms the park, and sets all hearts on fire,
The lady's envy, and the men's desire.
Beholding thus, "O happy as a queen!"
We cry; but shift the gaudy flattering scene;
View her at home, in her domestic light;
For thither she must come, at least at night:
What has she there? A surly ill-bred lord,
Who chides, and snaps her up at every word;
A brutal sot, who while she holds his head,
With drunken filth bedaubs the nuptial bed;
Sick to the heart, she breathes the nauseous fume
Of odious steams, that poison all the room;
Weeping all night the trembling creature lies,
And counts the tedious hours when she may rise:
But most she fears, lest waking she should find,
To make amends, the monster would be kind;
Those matchless beauties, worthy of a god,
Must bear, tho' much averse, the loathsome load:
What then may be the chance that next ensues ?
Some vile disease, fresh reeking from the stews;
The secret venom circling in her veins,
Works thro' her skin, and bursts in bloating stains
Her cheeks their freshness lose, and wonted grace,
And an unusual paleness spreads her face;
Her eyes grow dim, and her corrupted breath
Tainting her gums, infects her iv'ry teeth!
Of sharp nocturnal anguish she complains,
And, guiltless of the cause, relates her pains.
The conscious husband, whom like symptoms scize,
Charges on her the guilt of their disease;
Affecting fury acts a madman's part,
He'll rip the fatal secret from her heart;
Bids her confess, calls her ten thousand names;
In vain she kneels, she weeps, protests, exclaims
Scarce with her life she 'scapes, expos'd to shame,
In body tortur'd, murder'd in her fame;
Rots with a vile adulteress's name.
Abandon'd by her friends, without defence,
And happy only in her mocence.
Such is the vengeance the just gods provide
For those who barter liberty for pride,
Who impiously invoke the powers above
To witness to false vows of mutual love.
Thousands of poor Cleoras may be found,
Such husbands, and such wretched wives abound.
Ye guardian powers! the arbiters of bliss,
Preserve Clarinda from a fate like this;
You form'd her fair, not any grace deny'd,
But gave, alas! a spark too much of pride.
Reform that failing, and protect her still;
O save her from the curse of choosing ill!
Deem it not envy, or a jealous care,
That moves these wishes, or provokes this prayer;
Though worse than death I dread to see those charms
Allotted to some happier mortal's arms,
Tormenting thought! yet could I bear that pain,
Or any ill, but hearing her complain;
Intent on her, my love forgets his own,
Nor frames one wish, but for her sake alone;
Whome'er the gods have destin'd to prefer,
They cannot make me wretched, blessing her.
IMPATIENT with desire, at last
I ventur'd to lay forms aside; 'Twas I was modest, not she chaste, Cloe, so gently press'd, comply'd.
With idle awe, an amorous fool,
I gaz'd upon her eyes with fear;
Say, Love, how came your slave so dull,
To read no better there?
Thus to ourselves the greatest foes,
Although the nymph be well inclin'd;
For want of courage to propose,
By our own folly she 's unkind.
WHEN We behold her angel face;
Or when she sings with heavenly grace,
In what we hear, or what we see,
So ravishing's the harmony,
The melting soul, in rapture lost,
Knows not which charm enchants it most.
Sounds that made hills and rocks rejoice,
Amphion's lute, the Syrens' voice,
Wonders with pain receiv'd for true,
At once find credit, and renew;
No charms like Clavering's voice surprize,
Except the magic of her eyes.
THE happiest mortals once were we, I lov'd Myra, Myra me;
Each desirous of the blessing, Nothing wanting but possessing; I lov'd Myra, Myra me,
The happiest mortals once were we.
But since cruel fates dissever,
Torn from love, and torn for ever,
1 Afterwards lady Cowper.
Tortures end me,
Death befriend me;
Of all pains, the greatest pain, Is to love, and love in vain.
THE WILD BOAR'S DEFENCE. A BOAR who had enjoy'd a happy reign Call'd to account, softening his savage eyes, For many a year, and fed on many a man, Thus suppliant, pleads his cause before he dies.
For what am I condemn'd? My crime's no more
To eat a man, than yours to eat a boar:
We seek not you, but take what chance provides,
Nature, and mere necessity our guides.
You murder us in sport, then dish us up
For drunken feasts, a relish for the cup:
We lengthen not our meals; but you must feast,
Gorge till your bellies burst-pray who's the beast?
With your humanity you keep a fuss,
But are in truth worse brutes than all of us :
We prey not on our kind, but you, dear brother,
Most beastly of all beasts, devour each other :
Kings worry kings, neighbour with neighbour strives,
Fathers and sons, friends, brothers, husbands, wives,
By fraud or force, by poison, sword, or gun,
Destroy each other, every mother's son.
FOR LIBERALITY.
THOUGH Safe thou think'st thy treasure lies,
Hidden in chests from human eyes,
A fire may come, and it may be
Bury'd, my friend, as far from thee.
Thy vessel that yon ocean stems,
Loaded with golden dust, and gems,
Purchas'd with so much pains and cost,
Yet in a tempest may be lost.
Pimps, whores, and bawds, a thankless crew,
Priests, pickpockets, and lawyers too,
All help by several ways to drain,
Thanking themselves for what they gain:
The liberal are secure alone,
For what we frankly give, for ever is our own,
CORINNA, in the bloom of youth
Was coy to every lover,
Regardless of the tenderest truth,
No soft complaint could move her.
Mankind was hers, all at her feet
Lay prostrate and adoring,
The witty, handsome, rich, and great,
In vain alike imploring.
But now grown old, she would repair
Her loss of time, and pleasure;
With willing eyes, and wanton air,
Inviting every gazer.
But love's a summer flower, that dies
With the first weather's changing,
The lover, like the swallow, flies
From sun to sun, still ranging.
Myra, let this example move
Your foolish heart to reason; Youth is the proper time for love, And age is virtue's season.
BRIGHT as the day, and, like the morning, fair, Such Cloe is-and common as the air.
CLOE's the wonder of her sex,
'Tis well her heart is tender, How might such killing eyes perplex, With Virtue to defend her? But Nature, graciously inclin'd With liberal hand to please us, Has to her boundless beauty join'd A boundless bent to ease us.
A RECEIPT FOR VAPOURS. "WHY pines my dear ?" To Fulvia his young bride, Who weeping sat, thus aged Cornus cry'd. "Alas!" said she, "such visions break my rest, The strangest thoughts! I think I am possest: My symptoms I have told to men of skill, And if I would-they say-I might be well." "Take their advice," said he, my poor dear I'll buy at any rate thy precious life." Blushing, she would excuse, but all in vain, A doctor must be fetch'd to ease her pain. Hard press'd, she yields: from White's, or Will's, or Tom's,
No matter which, he 's summon'd, and he comes.
The careful husband, with a kind embrace
Entreats his care: then bows, and quits the place:
For little ailments oft attend the fair,
Not decent for a husband's eye, or ear.
Something the dame would say: the ready knight
Prevents her speech-" Here's that shall set you
right,
Madam," said he-with that, the doors made close,
He gives deliciously the healing dose.
"Alas!" she cries: "ah me! O cruel cure!
Did ever woman yet like me endure ?"
The work perform'd, up rising gay and light,
Old Cornus is call'd in to see the sight;
A sprightly red vermillion 's all her face,
And her eyes languish with unusual grace:
With tears of joy fresh gushing from his eyes,
"O wond'rous power of art!" old Cornus cries;
"Amazing change! astonishing success!
Thrice happy I! What a brave Doctor 's this!
Maids, wives, and widows, with such whims opprest,
May thus find certain ease.-Probatum est."
ON AN ILL-FAVOURED LORD. THAT Macro's looks are good, let no man doubt, Which I, his friend and servant-thus make out. In every line of his perfidious face, The secret malice of his heart we trace; So fair the warning, and so plainly writ, Let none condemn the light that shows a pit. Cocles, whose face finds credit for his heart, Who can escape so smooth a villain's art? Adorn'd with every grace that can persuade, Seeing we trust, though sure to be betray'd; His looks are snares: but Macro's cry "Beware, Believe not, though ten thousand oaths he swear;" If thou'rt deceiv'd, observing well this rule, Not Macro is the knave, but thou the fool. In this one point, he and his looks agree, As they betray their master-so did he.
Or injur'd fame, and mighty wrongs receiv'd,
Cloe complains, and wond'rously 's aggriev'd :
That free, and lavish of a beauteous face,
The fairest, and the foulest of her race,
She's mine, or thine, and, strolling up and down,
Sucks in more filth, than any sink in town,
I not deny: This I have said, 'tis true;
What wrong! to give so bright a nymph her due.
So well Corinna likes the joy,
She vows she'll never more be coy,
She drinks eternal draughts of pleasure;
Eternal draughts do not suffice,
"O give me, give me more," she cries, "Tis all too little, little measure." Thus wisely she makes up for time Mispent, while youth was in its prime : So travellers, who waste the day, Careful and cautious of their way, Noting at length the setting Sun, They mend their pace as night comes on, Double their speed to reach their inn, And whip and spur through thick and thin.
CLOE PERFUMING HERSELF. BELIEVE me, Cloe, those perfumes that cost Such sums to sweeten thee, is treasure lost; Not all Arabia would sufficient be,
Thou smell'st not of thy sweets, they stink of thee.
BELINDA'S pride's an arrant cheat
A foolish artifice to blind;
Some honest glance, that scorns deceit,
Does still reveal her native mind.
With look demure, and forc'd disdain,
She idly acts the saint;
We see through this disguise as plain,
As we distinguish paint.
So have I seen grave fools design,
With formal looks to pass for wise;
But Nature is a light will shine,
And break through all disguise.
WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF THE COUNTESS OF
SANDWICH, DRAWN IN MAN'S HABIT.
WHEN Sandwich in her sex's garb we see,
The queen of beauty then she seems to be;
Now fair Adonis in this male disguise,
Or little Cupid with his mother's eyes.
No style of empire chang'd by this remove,
Who seem'd the goddess, seems the god of love.
TO MY FRIEND
MR. JOHN DRYDEN,
ON HIS SEVERAL EXCELLENT TRANSLATIONS OF THE
ANCIENT POETS.
As flowers, transplanted from a southern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raising die,
Missing their native sun, at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive with pain:
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a senseless draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
Must imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of style, and phrase the same,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame;
Whence we conclude from thy translated song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong;
Celestial poet! soul of harmony!
That every genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to Heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorify d, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich soil, abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton sails on every shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still of more,
To her own wool the silks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests, Indian mines:
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an iminortal name,
To lands remote, sends forth his learned Muse,
The noblest seeds of foreign wit to choose;
Feasting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That by comparing others, all might see,
Who most excell'd, are yet excell'd by thee.
TO THE DUTCHESS OF HAMILTON.
AWAKE, bright Hamilton, arise,
Goddess of love, and of the day;.
Awake, disclose thy radiant eyes,
And show the Sun a brighter ray.
Phoebus in vain calls forth the blushing morn,
He but creates the day which you adorn.
The lark, that wont with warbling throat
Early to salute the skies,
Or sleeps, or else suspends his note,
Disclaiming day till you rise.
VOL. XI.
DRINKING SONG TO SLEEP.
GREAT god of sleep, since it must be,
That we must give some hours to thee,
Invade me not while the free bowl
Glows in my cheeks, and warms my soul;
That be my only time to snore,
When I can laugh, and drink no more;
Short, very short be then thy reign,
For I'm in haste to laugh and drink again.
But O! if, melting in my arms,
In some soft dream, with all her charms,
The nymph belov'd should then surprise,
And grant what waking she denies;
Then, gentle Slumber, pr'ythee stay,
Slowly, ah! slowly bring the day,
Let no rude noise my bliss destroy,
Such sweet delusion 's real joy.
LADY MARY VILLIER'S NAME. Ir I not love you, Villiers, more Than ever mortal lov'd before, With such a passion fixt and sure, As even possession could not cure, Never to cease but with my breath; May then this bumper be my death.
The god of love, the god of wine deflès,
Behold him in full march, in Laura's eyes!
Bacchus to arms! and to resist the dart,
Each with a faithful brimmer guard his heart.
Fly, Bacchus, fly, there's treason in the cup,
For Love comes pouring in with every drop;
I feel him in my heart, my blood, my brain,
Fly, Bacchus, fly, resistance is in vain,
Or craving quarter, crown a friendly bowl
To Laura's health, and give up all thy soul.
CUPID DISARMED.
TO THE PRINCESS D'AUVERGNE.
Curip, delighting to be near her,
Charm'd to behold her, charm'd to hear her,
As he stood gazing on her face,
Enchanted with each matchless grace,
Lost in the trance, he drops the dart,
Which never fails to reach the heart:
She seizes it, and arms her hand,
""Tis thus I Love himself command;
Now tremble, cruel boy, she said,
For all the mischief you have made."
The god, recovering his surprise,
Trusts to his wings, away he flies,
Swift as an arrow cuts the wind,
And leaves his whole artillery behind.
Princess, restore the boy his useless darts,
With surer charms you captivate our hearts;
Love's captives oft their liberty regain,
Death only can release us from your chain.
EXPLICATION IN FRENCH,
CUPIDON DESARMÉ.
FABLE POUR MADAME LA PRINCESSE D'AUVERGNE.
CUPIDON, prenant plasir de se trouver toûjours aupres d'elle; charmé de la voir, charmé de P'entendre; comane il admiroit un jour ses graces inimitables, dans cette distraction de son ame & de ses sens, il laissa tomber ce dard fatal qui ne manque jamis de percer les cours. Elle le ramasse soudain, & s'armant la belle main,
"C'est ainsi," dit elle, "que je ne rend maitresse de l'Amour, tremblez, enfant malin, je veux vanger tous les inaux que tu as fait."
Le dien etonn2, revenant de sa surprize, se fiant a ses ailes, s'echappe, & s'envole vite comme une fcche qui fend Por, & lui laisse la possession de toute son artillerie.
Princesse, rendez lui ses armes qui vous sont inutiles:
La Nature vous a donner des charmies plus puissants: Les captives de Amour souvent couvrent la liberté; Il n'y a que la Mort scule qui puisse affranchir les
THYRSIS AND DELIA
SONG IN DIALOGUE
DELIA, how long must I despair, And tax you with disdain; Still to my tender love severe, Untouch'd when I complain?
When men of equal merit love us,
And do with equal ardour sue,
Thyrsis, you know but one must move us,
Can I be your's and Strephon's too?
My eyes view both with mighty pleasure,
Impartial to your high desert,
To both alike, esteem I measure,
To one alone can give my heart.
Mysterious guide of inclination, Tell me, tyrant, why am I With equal merit, equal passion, Thus the victim chosen to die? Why am I
The victim chosen to die?
On Fate alone depends success,
And Fancy, Reason over-rules, Or why should Virtue ever miss
Reward, so often given to fools? 'Tis not the valiant, nor the witty, But who alone is born to please; Love does predestinate our pity, We choose but whom he first decrces.
ON A MEDAL FOR LPWIS XIV. OF FRANCE.
PROXIMUS & similis regnas, Ludovice, tonanti,
Vim summam, summa cum pietate, geris,
Magnus es expansis alis, sed maximus armis,
Protegis hine Anglos, Teutones inde feris.
Quin cocant toto Titania foedera Rheno,
Illa aquilam tantum, Gallia fulmen habet.
TO MR3. LAURA DILLON, NOW LADY FALKLAND.
BACCHUS to arms the enemy 's at hand, Laura appears; stand to your glasses, stand,
ENGLISHED, AND APPLIED ΤΟ
NEXT to the Thunderer let Anna stand, In piety supreme, as in command;
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