There while I sing, if gentle love be by, 68 That tunes my lute, and winds the string so high, With the sweet sound of Saccharissa's name I'll make the list'ning savages grow tame.— But while I do these pleasing dreams indite, I am diverted from the promised fight.

[1] 'Summer Islands': the Bermudas, which received the name of the Summer Islands, or more properly, Somers' Islands, from Sir George Somers, who was cast away on the coast early in the seventeenth century, and established a colony there.

[2] 'Bacchus yield': from the palmetto, a species of palm in the West Indies, is extracted an intoxicating drink.



CANTO II.

Of their alarm, and how their foes Discover'd were, this Canto shows.

Though rocks so high about this island rise, That well they may the num'rous Turk despise, Yet is no human fate exempt from fear, Which shakes their hearts, while through the isle they hear A lasting noise, as horrid and as loud As thunder makes before it breaks the cloud. Three days they dread this murmur, ere they know 80 From what blind cause th'unwonted sound may grow. At length two monsters of unequal size, Hard by the shore, a fisherman espies; Two mighty whales! which swelling seas had toss'd, And left them pris'ners on the rocky coast. One as a mountain vast, and with her came A cub, not much inferior to his dam. Here in a pool, among the rocks engaged, They roar'd like lions caught in toils, and raged. The man knew what they were, who heretofore 90 Had seen the like lie murder'd on the shore; By the wild fury of some tempest cast, The fate of ships, and shipwreck'd men, to taste. As careless dames, whom wine and sleep betray To frantic dreams, their infants overlay: So there, sometimes, the raging ocean fails, And her own brood exposes; when the whales Against sharp rocks, like reeling vessels quash'd, Though huge as mountains, are in pieces dash'd; Along the shore their dreadful limbs lie scatter'd, 100 Like hills with earthquakes shaken, torn, and shatter'd. Hearts, sure, of brass they had, who tempted first Rude seas that spare not what themselves have nursed. The welcome news through all the nation spread, To sudden joy and hope converts their dread; What lately was their public terror, they Behold with glad eyes as a certain prey; Dispose already of th'untaken spoil, And as the purchase of their future toil, These share the bones, and they divide the oil. 110 So was the huntsman by the bear oppress'd, Whose hide he sold—before he caught the beast!

They man their boats, and all their young men arm With whatsoever may the monsters harm; Pikes, halberts, spits, and darts that wound so far, The tools of peace, and instruments of war. Now was the time for vig'rous lads to show What love, or honour, could incite them to; A goodly theatre! where rocks are round With rev'rend age, and lovely lasses, crown'd. 120 Such was the lake which held this dreadful pair, Within the bounds of noble Warwick's share:[1] Warwick's bold Earl! than which no title bears A greater sound among our British peers; And worthy he the memory to renew, The fate and honour to that title due, Whose brave adventures have transferr'd his name, 127 And through the new world spread his growing fame.—

But how they fought, and what their valour gain'd, Shall in another Canto be contain'd.

[1] 'Warwick's share': Robert Rich, Earl of Warwick, possessed a portion of the Bermudas, which bore his name. He was a jolly sailor in his habits, although a Puritan in his profession.



CANTO III.

The bloody fight, successless toil, And how the fishes sack'd the isle.

The boat which, on the first assault did go, Struck with a harping-iron the younger foe; Who, when he felt his side so rudely gored, Loud as the sea that nourished him he roar'd. As a broad bream, to please some curious taste, While yet alive, in boiling water cast, Vex'd with unwonted heat he flings about The scorching brass, and hurls the liquor out; So with the barbed jav'lin stung, he raves, And scourges with his tail the suffering waves. 140 Like Spenser's Talus with his iron flail, He threatens ruin with his pond'rous tail; Dissolving at one stroke the batter'd boat, And down the men fall drenched in the moat; With every fierce encounter they are forced To quit their boats, and fare like men unhorsed.

The bigger whale like some huge carrack lay, Which wanteth sea-room with her foes to play; Slowly she swims; and when, provoked, she would Advance her tail, her head salutes the mud; 150 The shallow water doth her force infringe, And renders vain her tail's impetuous swinge; The shining steel her tender sides receive, And there, like bees, they all their weapons leave.

This sees the cub, and does himself oppose Betwixt his cumber'd mother and her foes; With desp'rate courage he receives her wounds, And men and boats his active tail confounds. Their forces join'd, the seas with billows fill, And make a tempest, though the winds be still. 160 Now would the men with half their hoped prey Be well content, and wish this cub away; Their wish they have: he (to direct his dam Unto the gap through which they thither came) Before her swims, and quits the hostile lake, A pris'ner there but for his mother's sake. She, by the rocks compell'd to stay behind, Is by the vastness of her bulk confined. They shout for joy! and now on her alone Their fury falls, and all their darts are thrown. 170 Their lances spent, one, bolder than the rest, With his broad sword provoked the sluggish beast; Her oily side devours both blade and haft, And there his steel the bold Bermudan left. Courage the rest from his example take, And now they change the colour of the lake; Blood flows in rivers from her wounded side, As if they would prevent the tardy tide, And raise the flood to that propitious height, As might convey her from this fatal strait. 180 She swims in blood, and blood does spouting throw To heaven, that heaven men's cruelties might know. Their fixed jav'lins in her side she wears, And on her back a grove of pikes appears; You would have thought, had you the monster seen Thus dress'd, she had another island been: Roaring she tears the air with such a noise, As well resembled the conspiring voice Of routed armies, when the field is won, 189 To reach the ears of her escaped son. He, though a league removed from the foe, Hastes to her aid; the pious Trojan[1] so, Neglecting for Creusa's life his own, Repeats the danger of the burning town. The men, amazed, blush to see the seed Of monsters human piety exceed. Well proves this kindness, what the Grecian sung, That love's bright mother from the ocean sprung. Their courage droops, and hopeless now, they wish For composition with th'unconquered fish; 200 So she their weapons would restore again, Through rocks they'd hew her passage to the main. But how instructed in each other's mind? Or what commerce can men with monsters find? Not daring to approach their wounded foe, Whom her courageous son protected so, They charge their muskets, and, with hot desire Of fell revenge, renew the fight with fire; Standing aloof, with lead they bruise the scales, And tear the flesh of the incensed whales. 210 But no success their fierce endeavours found, Nor this way could they give one fatal wound. Now to their fort they are about to send For the loud engines which their isle defend; But what those pieces framed to batter walls, Would have effected on those mighty whales, Great Neptune will not have us know, who sends A tide so high that it relieves his friends. And thus they parted with exchange of harms; Much blood the monsters lost, and they their arms. 220

[1] 'Trojan': Aeneas.



OF THE QUEEN.

The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build Her humble nest, lies silent in the field; But if (the promise of a cloudless day) Aurora smiling bids her rise and play, Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice, Or power to climb, she made so low a choice; Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd T'wards heaven, as if from heaven her note she fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng, Use to restrain the ambition of our song; 10 But since the light which now informs our age Breaks from the Court, indulgent to her rage, Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies, To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes; Those sov'reign beams which heal the wounded soul, And all our cares, but once beheld, control! There the poor lover that has long endured Some proud nymph's scorn, of his fond passion cured, Fares like the man who first upon the ground A glow-worm spied, supposing he had found 20 A moving diamond, a breathing stone; For life it had, and like those jewels shone; He held it dear, till by the springing day Inform'd, he threw the worthless worm away.

She saves the lover as we gangrenes stay, By cutting hope, like a lopp'd limb, away; This makes her bleeding patients to accuse High Heaven, and these expostulations use: 'Could Nature then no private woman grace, Whom we might dare to love, with such a face, 30 Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes, Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies? Beyond our reach, and yet within our sight, What envious power has placed this glorious light?'

Thus, in a starry night, fond children cry For the rich spangles that adorn the sky, Which, though they shine for ever fixed there, With light and influence relieve us here. All her affections are to one inclined; Her bounty and compassion to mankind; 40 To whom, while she so far extends her grace, She makes but good the promise of her face; For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen, No sweeter look than this propitious queen. Such guard, and comfort, the distressed find From her large power, and from her larger mind, That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers, For all the miserable are made hers. So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds, Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds, shields; 50 The royal bird possesses all the boughs, But shade and shelter to the flock allows.

Joy of our age, and safety of the next! For which so oft thy fertile womb is vex'd; Nobly contented, for the public good, To waste thy spirits and diffuse thy blood, What vast hopes may these islands entertain, Where monarchs, thus descended, are to reign? Led by commanders of so fair a line, Our seas no longer shall our power confine. 60

A brave romance who would exactly frame, First brings his knight from some immortal dame, And then a weapon, and a flaming shield, Bright as his mother's eyes, he makes him wield. None might the mother of Achilles be, But the fair pearl and glory of the sea;[1] The man to whom great Maro gives such fame,[2] From the high bed of heavenly Venus came; And our next Charles, whom all the stars design Like wonders to accomplish, springs from thine. 70

[1] 'Sea': Thetis [2] 'Maro': Aeneas



THE APOLOGY OF SLEEP, FOR NOT APPROACHING THE LADY WHO CAN DO ANYTHING BUT SLEEP WHEN SHE PLEASES.

My charge it is those breaches to repair Which Nature takes from sorrow, toil, and care; Rest to the limbs, and quiet I confer On troubled minds; but nought can add to her Whom Heaven, and her transcendent thoughts have placed Above those ills which wretched mortals taste.

Bright as the deathless gods, and happy, she From all that may infringe delight is free; Love at her royal feet his quiver lays, And not his mother with more haste obeys. 10 Such real pleasures, such true joys' suspense, What dream can I present to recompense?

Should I with lightning fill her awful hand, And make the clouds seem all at her command; Or place her in Olympus' top, a guest Among the immortals, who with nectar feast; That power would seem, that entertainment, short Of the true splendour of her present Court,

Where all the joys, and all the glories, are 19 Of three great kingdoms, sever'd from the care. I, that of fumes and humid vapours made, Ascending, do the seat of sense invade, No cloud in so serene a mansion find, To overcast her ever-shining mind,

Which holds resemblance with those spotless skies, Where flowing Nilus want of rain supplies; That crystal heaven, where Phoebus never shrouds His golden beams, nor wraps his face in clouds. But what so hard which numbers cannot force? So stoops the moon, and rivers change their course. 30

The bold Maeonian[1] made me dare to steep Jove's dreadful temples in the dew of sleep; And since the Muses do invoke my power, I shall no more decline that sacred bower Where Gloriana their great mistress lies; But, gently taming those victorious eyes,

Charm all her senses, till the joyful sun Without a rival half his course has run; Who, while my hand that fairer light confines, May boast himself the brightest thing that shines. 40

[1] 'Maeonian': Homer.



PUERPERIUM.[1]

1 You gods that have the power To trouble and compose All that's beneath your bower, Calm silence on the seas, on earth impose.

2 Fair Venus! in thy soft arms The God of Rage confine; For thy whispers are the charms Which only can divert his fierce design.

3 What though he frown, and to tumult do incline? Thou the flame Kindled in his breast canst tame, With that snow which unmelted lies on thine.

4 Great goddess! give this thy sacred island rest; Make heaven smile, That no storm disturb us while Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.

5 Great Gloriana! fair Gloriana! Bright as high heaven is, and fertile as earth, Whose beauty relieves us, Whose royal bed gives us Both glory and peace, Our present joy, and all our hopes' increase.

[1] 'Puerperium ': Fenton conjectures that this poem was written in 1640, when the Queen was delivered of her fourth son, the Duke of Gloucester.



A LA MALADE.

Ah, lovely Amoret! the care Of all that know what's good or fair! Is heaven become our rival too? Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you So amply thence, the common end Of giving lovers—to pretend? Hence, to this pining sickness (meant To weary thee to a consent Of leaving us) no power is given 9 Thy beauties to impair; for heaven Solicits thee with such a care, As roses from their stalks we tear, When we would still preserve them new And fresh, as on the bush they grew.

With such a grace you entertain, And look with such contempt on pain, That languishing you conquer more, And wound us deeper than before. So lightnings which in storms appear, Scorch more than when the skies are clear. 20

And as pale sickness does invade Your frailer part, the breaches made In that fair lodging, still more clear Make the bright guest, your soul, appear. So nymphs o'er pathless mountains borne, Their light robes by the brambles torn From their fair limbs, exposing new And unknown beauties to the view Of following gods, increase their flame And haste to catch the flying game. 30



UPON THE DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.[1]

May those already cursed Essexian plains, Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns, Prove all a desert! and none there make stay, But savage beasts, or men as wild as they! There the fair light which all our island graced, Like Hero's taper in the window placed, Such fate from the malignant air did find, 7 As that exposed to the boist'rous wind.

Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away Her for whose life, had we had time to pray, With thousand vows and tears we should have sought That sad decree's suspension to have wrought. But we, alas! no whisper of her pain Heard, till 'twas sin to wish her here again. That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread, Struck all our ears—The Lady Rich is dead! Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few Who her resemble, and her steps pursue; That death should license have to rage among The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young! 20

The Paphian queen from that fierce battle borne, With gored hand, and veil so rudely torn, Like terror did among th'immortals breed, Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.

All stand amazed! but beyond the rest th'heroic dame whose happy womb she bless'd,[2] Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven, Urging the promise to th'obsequious given, Of longer life; for ne'er was pious soul More apt t'obey, more worthy to control. 30 A skilful eye at once might read the race Of Caledonian monarchs in her face, And sweet humility; her look and mind At once were lofty, and at once were kind. There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too, For those that did what she disdain'd to do; So gentle and severe, that what was bad, At once her hatred and her pardon had.

Gracious to all; but where her love was due, 39 So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true, That a bold hand as soon might hope to force The rolling lights of heaven, as change her course.

Some happy angel, that beholds her there, Instruct us to record what she was here! And when this cloud of sorrow's overblown, Through the wide world we'll make her graces known. So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast, That all our art and power of speech is waste. Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise Eternal monuments of louder praise. 50

There our delight, complying with her fame, Shall have occasion to recite thy name, Fair Saccharissa!—and now only fair! To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear (Such as the Romans did erect of old), Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told The lovely passion each to other bare, With the resemblance of that matchless pair. Narcissus to the thing for which he pined Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, 60 Save that she graced the several parts of life, A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife. Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you, As that she holds with her associates now.

How false is hope, and how regardless fate, That such a love should have so short a date! Lately I saw her, sighing, part from thee; (Alas that that the last farewell should be!) So looked Astraea, her remove design'd, On those distressed friends she left behind. 70 Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast, That still the knot, in spite of death, does last; For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul, Prove well that on your part this bond is whole, So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love. Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave, Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have; Well-chosen love is never taught to die, But with our nobler part invades the sky. 80 Then grieve no more that one so heavenly shaped The crooked hand of trembling age escaped; Rather, since we beheld her not decay, But that she vanish'd so entire away, Her wondrous beauty, and her goodness, merit We should suppose that some propitious spirit In that celestial form frequented here, And is not dead, but ceases to appear.

[1] 'Lady Rich': she was the daughter of the Earl of Devonshire, and married to the heir of the Earl of Warwick. [2] 'Womb she blessed': the Countess of Devonshire, a very old woman, the only daughter of Lord Bruce, descended from Robert the Bruce.



OF LOVE.

Anger, in hasty words or blows, Itself discharges on our foes; And sorrow, too, finds some relief In tears, which wait upon our grief; So every passion, but fond love, Unto its own redress does move; But that alone the wretch inclines To what prevents his own designs; Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep; 10 Postures which render him despised, Where he endeavours to be prized.

For women (born to be controll'd) Stoop to the forward and the bold; Affect the haughty and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the gen'rous steed oppress'd, Not kneeling did salute the beast; But with high courage, life, and force, Approaching, tamed th'unruly horse. 20

Unwisely we the wiser East Pity, supposing them oppress'd With tyrants' force, whose law is will, By which they govern, spoil and kill: Each nymph, but moderately fair, Commands with no less rigour here. Should some brave Turk, that walks among His twenty lasses, bright and young, And beckons to the willing dame, Preferr'd to quench his present flame, 30 Behold as many gallants here, With modest guise and silent fear, All to one female idol bend, While her high pride does scarce descend To mark their follies, he would swear That these her guard of eunuchs were, And that a more majestic queen, Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke, In vain I struggled with the yoke 40 Of mighty Love; that conqu'ring look, When next beheld, like lightning strook My blasted soul, and made me bow Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, 47 With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dogs, resolves to try The combat next; but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He straight resumes his wonted care, Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.



FOR DRINKING OF HEALTHS.

Let brutes and vegetals, that cannot think, So far as drought and nature urges, drink; A more indulgent mistress guides our sp'rits, Reason, that dares beyond our appetites; (She would our care, as well as thirst, redress), And with divinity rewards excess. Deserted Ariadne, thus supplied, Did perjured Theseus' cruelty deride; Bacchus embraced, from her exalted thought Banish'd the man, her passion, and his fault. 10 Bacchus and Phoebus are by Jove allied, And each by other's timely heat supplied; All that the grapes owe to his rip'ning fires Is paid in numbers which their juice inspires. Wine fills the veins, and healths are understood To give our friends a title to our blood; Who, naming me, doth warm his courage so, Shows for my sake what his bold hand would do.



OF MY LADY ISABELLA, PLAYING ON THE LUTE.

Such moving sounds from such a careless touch! So unconcern'd herself, and we so much! What art is this, that with so little pains Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns? The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, And tell their joy for every kiss aloud. Small force there needs to make them tremble so; Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too? Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear, Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer. 10 Music so softens and disarms the mind, That not an arrow does resistance find. Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, And acts herself the triumph of her eyes: So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd.



OF MRS ARDEN.[1]

Behold, and listen, while the fair Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air, And with her own breath fans the fire Which her bright eyes do first inspire. What reason can that love control, Which more than one way courts the soul?

So when a flash of lightning falls On our abodes, the danger calls For human aid, which hopes the flame 9 To conquer, though from heaven it came; But if the winds with that conspire, Men strive not, but deplore the fire.

[1] 'Mrs. Arden': some suggest that this lady was probably either a maid of honour, or a gentlewoman of the bed-chamber to King Charles the First's Queen.



OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.[1]

Design, or chance, makes others wive; But Nature did this match contrive; Eve might as well have Adam fled, As she denied her little bed To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame, And measure out, this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly Of sad distrust and jealousy; 10 Secured in as high extreme, As if the world held none but them.

To him the fairest nymphs do show Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow; And every man a Polypheme Does to his Galatea seem; None may presume her faith to prove; He proffers death that proffers love.

Ah, Chloris! that kind Nature thus From all the world had severed us; 20 Creating for ourselves us two, As love has me for only you!

[1] 'Dwarfs': Gibson and Shepherd, each three feet ten inches in height. They were pages at Court, and Charles I. gave away the female infinitesimal.



LOVE'S FAREWELL.

1 Treading the path to nobler ends, A long farewell to love I gave, Resolved my country, and my friends, All that remain'd of me should have.

2 And this resolve no mortal dame, None but those eyes could have o'erthrown; The nymph I dare not, need not name, So high, so like herself alone.

3 Thus the tall oak, which now aspires Above the fear of private fires, Grown and design'd for nobler use, Not to make warm, but build the house, Though from our meaner flames secure, Must that which falls from heaven endure.



FROM A CHILD.

Madam, as in some climes the warmer sun Makes it full summer ere the spring's begun, And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load, Before our violets dare look abroad; So measure not by any common use The early love your brighter eyes produce. When lately your fair hand in woman's weed Wrapp'd my glad head, I wish'd me so indeed, That hasty time might never make me grow Out of those favours you afford me now; 10 That I might ever such indulgence find, And you not blush, nor think yourself too kind; Who now, I fear, while I these joys express, Begin to think how you may make them less. The sound of love makes your soft heart afraid, And guard itself, though but a child invade, And innocently at your white breast throw A dart as white-a ball of new fallen snow.



ON A GIRDLE.

That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.



THE FALL.

See! how the willing earth gave way, To take th'impression where she lay. See! how the mould, as both to leave So sweet a burden, still doth cleave Close to the nymph's stain'd garment. Here The coming spring would first appear, And all this place with roses strow, If busy feet would let them grow. Here Venus smiled to see blind chance Itself before her son advance, 10 And a fair image to present, Of what the boy so long had meant. 'Twas such a chance as this, made all The world into this order fall; Thus the first lovers, on the clay, Of which they were composed, lay; So in their prime, with equal grace, Met the first patterns of our race. Then blush not, fair! or on him frown, Or wonder how you both came down; 20 But touch him, and he'll tremble straight, How could he then support your weight? How could the youth, alas! but bend, When his whole heaven upon him lean'd? If aught by him amiss were done, 'Twas that he let you rise so soon.



OF SYLVIA.

1 Our sighs are heard; just Heaven declares The sense it has of lovers' cares; She that so far the rest outshined, Sylvia the fair, while she was kind, As if her frowns impair'd her brow, Seems only not unhandsome now. So, when the sky makes us endure A storm, itself becomes obscure.

2 Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame, Hiding from Flavia's self her name, Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove How it rewards neglected love. Better a thousand such as I, Their grief untold, should pine and die; Than her bright morning, overcast With sullen clouds, should be defaced.



THE BUD.

1 Lately on yonder swelling bush, Big with many a coming rose, This early bud began to blush, And did but half itself disclose; I pluck'd it, though no better grown, And now you see how full 'tis blown.

2 Still as I did the leaves inspire, With such a purple light they shone, As if they had been made of fire, And spreading so, would flame anon. All that was meant by air or sun, To the young flower, my breath has done.

3 If our loose breath so much can do, What may the same in forms of love, Of purest love, and music too, When Flavia it aspires to move? When that, which lifeless buds persuades To wax more soft, her youth invades?



ON THE DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.

1 Pygmalion's fate reversed is mine;[1] His marble love took flesh and blood; All that I worshipp'd as divine, That beauty! now 'tis understood, Appears to have no more of life Than that whereof he framed his wife.

2 As women yet, who apprehend Some sudden cause of causeless fear, Although that seeming cause take end, And they behold no danger near, A shaking through their limbs they find, Like leaves saluted by the wind:

3 So though the beauty do appear No beauty, which amazed me so; Yet from my breast I cannot tear The passion which from thence did grow; Nor yet out of my fancy raze The print of that supposed face.

4 A real beauty, though too near, The fond Narcissus did admire: I dote on that which is nowhere; The sign of beauty feeds my fire. No mortal flame was e'er so cruel As this, which thus survives the fuel!

[1] 'Mine': Ovid, Met. x.



OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT.

1 Not caring to observe the wind, Or the new sea explore, Snatch'd from myself, how far behind Already I behold the shore!

2 May not a thousand dangers sleep In the smooth bosom of this deep? No; 'tis so reckless and so clear, That the rich bottom does appear Paved all with precious things; not torn From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born.

3 Sweetness, truth, and every grace Which time and use are wont to teach, The eye may in a moment reach, And read distinctly in her face.

4 Some other nymphs, with colours faint, And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, And a weak heart in time destroy; She has a stamp, and prints the boy: Can, with a single look, inflame The coldest breast, the rudest tame.



THE SELF-BANISHED.

1 It is not that I love you less, Than when before your feet I lay; But to prevent the sad increase Of hopeless love, I keep away.

2 In vain, alas! for everything Which I have known belong to you, Your form does to my fancy bring, And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

3 Who in the spring, from the new sun, Already has a fever got, Too late begins those shafts to shun, Which Phoebus through his veins has shot;

4 Too late he would the pain assuage, And to thick shadows does retire; About with him he bears the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire.

5 But vow'd I have, and never must Your banish'd servant trouble you; For if I break, you may mistrust The vow I made—to love you too.



A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR, OF THE PRESENT GREATNESS, AND JOINT INTEREST, OF HIS HIGHNESS, AND THIS NATION.[1]

1 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand, You bridle faction, and our hearts command, Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

2 Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injured that they cannot reign, And own no liberty but where they may Without control upon their fellows prey.

3 Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face, To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race, So has your Highness, raised above the rest, Storms of ambition, tossing us, repress'd.

4 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Restored by you, is made a glorious state; The seat of empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.

5 The sea's our own; and now all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet; Your power extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

6 Heaven (that hath placed this island to give law, To balance Europe, and her states to awe), In this conjunction doth on Britain smile; The greatest leader, and the greatest isle!

7 Whether this portion of the world were rent, By the rude ocean, from the continent, Or thus created, it was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind.

8 Hither th'oppressed shall henceforth resort, Justice to crave, and succour, at your court; And then your Highness, not for ours alone, But for the world's Protector shall be known.

9 Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies Through every land that near the ocean lies, Sounding your name, and telling dreadful news To all that piracy and rapine use.

10 With such a chief the meanest nation bless'd, Might hope to lift her head above the rest; What may be thought impossible to do By us, embraced by the sea and you?

11 Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we Whole forests send to reign upon the sea, And every coast may trouble, or relieve; But none can visit us without your leave.

12 Angels and we have this prerogative, That none can at our happy seats arrive; While we descend at pleasure, to invade The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.

13 Our little world, the image of the great, Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set, Of her own growth hath all that Nature craves, And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.

14 As Egypt does not on the clouds rely, But to the Nile owes more than to the sky; So what our earth, and what our heaven denies, Our ever constant friend, the sea, supplies.

15 The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know, Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow; Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine; And, without planting, drink of every vine.

16 To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs; Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims; Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow; We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

17 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds; Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds; Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown, Could never make this island all her own.

18 Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince, too, France-conqu'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you; For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state, Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

19 When for more worlds the Macedonian cried, He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide Another yet; a world reserved for you, To make more great than that he did subdue.

20 He safely might old troops to battle lead, Against th'unwarlike Persian and the Mede, Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field, More spoils than honour to the victor yield.

21 A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold, The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold, Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame, Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

22 Whom the old Roman wall so ill confined, With a new chain of garrisons you bind; Here foreign gold no more shall make them come; Our English iron holds them fast at home.

23 They, that henceforth must be content to know No warmer regions than their hills of snow, May blame the sun, but must extol your grace, Which in our senate hath allowed them place.

24 Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown, Falling they rise, to be with us made one; So kind Dictators made, when they came home, Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.

25 Like favour find the Irish, with like fate, Advanced to be a portion of our state; While by your valour and your bounteous mind, Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd.

26 Holland, to gain your friendship, is content To be our outguard on the Continent; She from her fellow-provinces would go, Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

27 In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse, Preventing posts, the terror and the news, Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar; But our conjunction makes them tremble more.

28 Your never-failing sword made war to cease; And now you heal us with the acts of peace; Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

29 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone; Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.

30 To pardon willing, and to punish loth, You strike with one hand, but you heal with both; Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve You cannot make the dead again to live.

31 When fate, or error, had our age misled, And o'er this nation such confusion spread, The only cure, which could from Heaven come down, Was so much power and piety in one!

32 One! whose extraction from an ancient line Gives hope again that well-born men may shine; The meanest in your nature, mild and good, The noblest rest secured in your blood.

33 Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in peace A mind proportion'd to such things as these; How such a ruling sp'rit you could restrain, And practise first over yourself to reign.

34 Your private life did a just pattern give, How fathers, husbands, pious sons should live; Born to command, your princely virtues slept, Like humble David's, while the flock he kept.

35 But when your troubled country called you forth, Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth, Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend, To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end.

36 Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you; Changed like the world's great scene! when, without noise, The rising sun night's vulgar light destroys.

37 Had you, some ages past, this race of glory Run, with amazement we should read your story; But living virtue, all achievements past, Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.

38 This Caesar found; and that ungrateful age, With losing him went back to blood and rage; Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke, But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

39 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars Gave a dim light to violence and wars, To such a tempest as now threatens all, Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

40 If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword, Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord; What hope had ours, while yet their power was new, To rule victorious armies, but by you?

41 You! that had taught them to subdue their foes, Could order teach, and their high sp'rits compose; To every duty could their minds engage, Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

42 So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, And angry grows, if he that first took pain To tame his youth approach the haughty beast, He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

43 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last Itself into Augustus' arms did cast; So England now does, with like toil oppress'd, Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

44 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these, Instruct us what belongs unto our peace; Your battles they hereafter shall indite, And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

45 Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overrun, And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won; How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choke Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

46 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a Muse. Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing; But there, my lord! we'll bays and olive bring,

47 To crown your head; while you in triumph ride O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside; While all your neighbour princes unto you, Like Joseph's sheaves,[2] pay reverence, and bow.

[1] Written about 1654. [2] 'Joseph's sheaves': Gen. xxxvii.



ON THE HEAD OF A STAG.

So we some antique hero's strength Learn by his lance's weight and length, As these vast beams express the beast Whose shady brows alive they dress'd. Such game, while yet the world was new, The mighty Nimrod did pursue. What huntsman of our feeble race, Or dogs, dare such a monster chase, Resembling, with each blow he strikes, 9 The charge of a whole troop of pikes? O fertile head! which every year Could such a crop of wonder bear! The teeming earth did never bring So soon, so hard, so huge a thing; Which might it never have been cast (Each year's growth added to the last), These lofty branches had supplied The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride; Heaven with these engines had been scaled, When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd. 20



THE MISER'S SPEECH. IN A MASQUE.

Balls of this metal slack'd At'lanta's pace, And on the am'rous youth[1] bestow'd the race; Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own), Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize. Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe; For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe, Who can blame Danae[2], or the brazen tower, That they withstood not that almighty shower 10 Never till then did love make Jove put on A form more bright, and nobler than his own; Nor were it just, would he resume that shape, That slack devotion should his thunder 'scape. 'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, 15 Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung, But fond repentance of his happy wish, Because his meat grew metal like his dish. Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

[1] 'Am'rous youth': Hippomenes. [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.



CHLORIS AND HYLAS. MADE TO A SARABAND.

CHLORIS.

Hylas, O Hylas! why sit we mute, Now that each bird saluteth the spring? Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute, Never canst thou want matter to sing; For love thy breast does fill with such a fire, That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYLAS.

Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things Of various flowers the bees do compose; Yet no particular taste it brings Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose; 10 So love the result is of all the graces Which flow from a thousand sev'ral faces.

CHLORIS.

Hylas! the birds which chant in this grove, Could we but know the language they use, They would instruct us better in love, And reprehend thy inconstant Muse; For love their breasts does fill with such a fire, 17 That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.

HYLAS.

Chloris! this change the birds do approve, Which the warm season hither does bring; 20 Time from yourself does further remove You, than the winter from the gay spring; She that like lightning shined while her face lasted, The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.



IN ANSWER OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.

CON.

Stay here, fond youth! and ask no more; be wise; Knowing too much long since lost Paradise.

PRO.

And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft Of all that Paradise which yet is left.

CON.

The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst should still Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill If rudely from sweet dreams, and for a toy, Thou waked; he wakes himself that does enjoy.

PRO.

How can the joy, or hope, which you allow Be styled virtuous, and the end not so? 10 Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire! 'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire; But—to sleep better; for whoe'er drinks deep Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.

CON.

Fruition adds no new wealth, but destroys, And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys. Who thinks he should be happier made for that, As reasonably might hope he might grow fat By eating to a surfeit; this once past, What relishes? even kisses lose their taste. 20

PRO.

Blessings may be repeated while they cloy; But shall we starve, 'cause surfeitings destroy? And if fruition did the taste impair Of kisses, why should yonder happy pair, Whose joys just Hymen warrants all the night, Consume the day, too, in this less delight?

CON.

Urge not 'tis necessary; alas! we know The homeliest thing that mankind does is so. The world is of a large extent we see, And must be peopled; children there must be: 30 So must bread too; but since there are enow Born to that drudgery, what need we plough?

PRO.

I need not plough, since what the stooping hine[1] Gets of my pregnant land must all be mine; But in this nobler tillage 'tis not so; For when Anchises did fair Venus know, What interest had poor Vulcan in the boy, Famous Aeneas, or the present joy?

CON.

Women enjoy'd, whate'er before they've been, 39 Are like romances read, or scenes once seen; Fruition dulls or spoils the play much more Than if one read, or knew the plot before.

PRO.

Plays and romances read and seen, do fall In our opinions; yet not seen at all, Whom would they please? To an heroic tale Would you not listen, lest it should grow stale?

CON.

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not heaven, if we knew what it were.

PRO.

If 'twere not heaven if we knew what it were, 'Twould not be heaven to those that now are there. 50

CON.

And as in prospects we are there pleased most, Where something keeps the eye from being lost, And leaves us room to guess; so here, restraint Holds up delight, that with excess would faint.

PRO.

Restraint preserves the pleasure we have got, But he ne'er has it that enjoys it not. In goodly prospects, who contracts the space, Or takes not all the bounty of the place? We wish remov'd what standeth in our light, And nature blame for limiting our sight; 60 Where you stand wisely winking, that the view Of the fair prospect may be always new.

CON.

They, who know all the wealth they have, are poor; He's only rich that cannot tell his store.

PRO.

Not he that knows the wealth he has is poor, But he that dares not touch, nor use, his store.

[1] 'Hine': hind.



AN APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

1 They that never had the use Of the grape's surprising juice, To the first delicious cup All their reason render up; Neither do, nor care to know, Whether it be best or no.

2 So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, not choice or art, To the first that's fair, or kind, Make a present of their heart; 'Tis not she that first we love, But whom dying we approve.

3 To man, that was in th'ev'ning made, Stars gave the first delight, Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light; Then at Aurora, whose fair hand Removed them from the skies, He gazing t'ward the east did stand, She entertain'd his eyes.

4 But when the bright sun did appear, All those he 'gan despise; His wonder was determined there, And could no higher rise; He neither might, nor wished to know A more refulgent light; For that (as mine your beauties now) Employ'd his utmost sight.



THE NIGHT-PIECE; OR, A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE DARK.

Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms, Defends us ill from Mira's charms; Mira can lay her beauty by, Take no advantage of the eye, Quit all that Lely's art can take, And yet a thousand captives make. Her speech is graced with sweeter sound Than in another's song is found! And all her well-placed words are darts, Which need no light to reach our hearts. 10 As the bright stars and Milky Way, Show'd by the night, are hid by day; So we, in that accomplish'd mind, Help'd by the night, new graces find, Which, by the splendour of her view, Dazzled before, we never knew. While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark; Her shining image is a light Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night. 20 Like jewels to advantage set, Her beauty by the shade does get; There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, All that our passion might restrain, Is hid, and our indulgent mind Presents the fair idea kind. Yet, friended by the night, we dare Only in whispers tell our care; He that on her his bold hand lays, With Cupid's pointed arrows plays; 30 They with a touch (they are so keen!) Wound us unshot, and she unseen. All near approaches threaten death; We may be shipwreck'd by her breath; Love, favour'd once with that sweet gale, Doubles his haste, and fills his sail, Till he arrive where she must prove The haven, or the rock, of love. So we th'Arabian coast do know At distance, when the spices blow; 40 By the rich odour taught to steer, Though neither day nor stars appear.



ON THE PICTURE OF A FAIR YOUTH, TAKEN AFTER HE WAS DEAD.

As gather'd flowers, while their wounds are new, Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew; Torn from the root that nourish'd them, awhile (Not taking notice of their fate) they smile, And, in the hand which rudely pluck'd them, show Fairer than those that to their autumn grow; So love and beauty still that visage grace; Death cannot fright them from their wonted place. Alive, the hand of crooked Age had marr'd, Those lovely features which cold Death has spared.

No wonder then he sped in love so well, When his high passion he had breath to tell; When that accomplish'd soul, in this fair frame, No business had but to persuade that dame, Whose mutual love advanced the youth so high, That, but to heaven, he could no higher fly.



ON A BREDE OF DIVERS COLOURS, WOVEN BY FOUR LADIES.

Twice twenty slender virgin-fingers twine This curious web, where all their fancies shine. As Nature them, so they this shade have wrought, Soft as their hands, and various as their thought; Not Juno's bird when, his fair train dispread, He woos the female to his painted bed, No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies, So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.



OF A WAR WITH SPAIN, AND FIGHT AT SEA.[1]

Now, for some ages, had the pride of Spain Made the sun shine on half the world in vain; While she bid war to all that durst supply The place of those her cruelty made die. Of Nature's bounty men forebore to taste, And the best portion of the earth lay waste. From the new world, her silver and her gold Came, like a tempest, to confound the old; Feeding with these the bribed electors' hopes, Alone she gives us emperors and popes; 10 With these accomplishing her vast designs, Europe was shaken with her Indian mines.

When Britain, looking with a just disdain Upon this gilded majesty of Spain, And knowing well that empire must decline, Whose chief support and sinews are of coin, Our nation's solid virtue did oppose To the rich troublers of the world's repose.

And now some months, encamping on the main, Our naval army had besieged Spain; 20 They that the whole world's monarchy design'd, Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined; From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see, Riding without a rival on the sea.

Others may use the ocean as their road, Only the English make it their abode, Whose ready sails with every wind can fly, And make a cov'nant with th'inconstant sky; Our oaks secure, as if they there took root, 29 We tread on billows with a steady foot.

Meanwhile the Spaniards in America, Near to the line the sun approaching saw, And hoped their European coasts to find Clear'd from our ships by the autumnal wind; Their huge capacious galleons stuff'd with plate, The lab'ring winds drive slowly t'wards their fate. Before St. Lucar they their guns discharge To tell their joy, or to invite a barge; This heard some ships of ours (though out of view), And, swift as eagles, to the quarry flew; 40 So heedless lambs, which for their mothers bleat, Wake hungry lions, and become their meat.

Arrived, they soon begin that tragic play, And with their smoky cannons banish day; Night, horror, slaughter, with confusion meets, And in their sable arms embrace the fleets. Through yielding planks the angry bullets fly, And, of one wound, hundreds together die; Born under diff'rent stars, one fate they have, The ship their coffin, and the sea their grave! 50 Bold were the men which on the ocean first Spread their new sails, when shipwreck was the worst; More danger now from man alone we find Than from the rocks, the billows, or the wind. They that had sail'd from near th'Antarctic Pole, Their treasure safe, and all their vessels whole, In sight of their dear country ruin'd be, Without the guilt of either rock or sea! What they would spare, our fiercer art destroys, Surpassing storms in terror and in noise. 60 Once Jove from Ida did both hosts survey, And, when he pleased to thunder, part the fray;

Here, heaven in vain that kind retreat should sound, The louder cannon had the thunder drown'd. Some we made prize; while others, burn'd and rent, With their rich lading to the bottom went; Down sinks at once (so Fortune with us sports:) The pay of armies, and the pride of courts. Vain man! whose rage buries as low that store, As avarice had digg'd for it before; 70 What earth, in her dark bowels, could not keep From greedy hands, lies safer in the deep, Where Thetis kindly does from mortals hide Those seeds of luxury, debate, and pride.

And now, into her lap the richest prize Fell, with the noblest of our enemies; The Marquis[2](glad to see the fire destroy Wealth that prevailing foes were to enjoy) Out from his flaming ship his children sent, To perish in a milder element; 80 Then laid him by his burning lady's side, And, since he could not save her, with her died. Spices and gums about them melting fry, And, phoenix-like, in that rich nest they die; Alive, in flames of equal love they burn'd, And now together are to ashes turn'd; Ashes! more worth than all their fun'ral cost, Than the huge treasure which was with them lost. These dying lovers, and their floating sons, Suspend the fight, and silence all our guns; 90 Beauty and youth about to perish, finds Such noble pity in brave English minds, That (the rich spoil forgot, their valour's prize,) All labour now to save their enemies.

How frail our passions! how soon changed are 95 Our wrath and fury to a friendly care! They that but now for honour, and for plate, Made the sea blush with blood, resign their hate; And, their young foes endeav'ring to retrieve, With greater hazard than they fought, they dive. 100

With these, returns victorious Montague, With laurels in his hand, and half Peru. Let the brave generals divide that bough, Our great Protector hath such wreaths enow; His conqu'ring head has no more room for bays; Then let it be as the glad nation prays; Let the rich ore forthwith be melted down, And the state fix'd by making him a crown; With ermine clad, and purple, let him hold A royal sceptre, made of Spanish gold. 110

[1] 'Fight at sea': see any good English History, under date 1656. [2] 'Marquis': of Badajos, viceroy of Mexico.



UPON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.

We must resign! Heaven his great soul does claim In storms, as loud as his immortal fame; His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle, And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile; About his palace their broad roots are toss'd Into the air.[1]—So Romulus was lost! New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king, And from obeying fell to worshipping. On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead, 9 With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread; The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear On his victorious head, lay prostrate there; Those his last fury from the mountain rent: Our dying hero from the Continent Ravish'd whole towns: and forts from Spaniards reft As his last legacy to Britain left. The ocean, which so long our hopes confined, Could give no limits to his vaster mind; Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil, Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle; 20 Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath received our yoke. From civil broils he did us disengage, Found nobler objects for our martial rage; And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd The ancient way of conquering abroad. Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow To him, that gave us peace and empire too. Princes, that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd to see No pitch of glory from the grave is free. 30 Nature herself took notice of his death, And, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath, That, to remotest shores her billows roll'd, The approaching fate of their great ruler told.

[1] 'The air': a tremendous tempest blew over England (not on the day), but a day or two before Cromwell's death. It was said that something of the same sort, along with an eclipse of the sun, took place on the removal of Romulus.



ON ST JAMES'S PARK, AS LATELY IMPROVED BY HIS MAJESTY.[1]

Of the first Paradise there's nothing found; Plants set by Heaven are vanish'd, and the ground; Yet the description lasts; who knows the fate Of lines that shall this paradise relate?

Instead of rivers rolling by the side Of Eden's garden, here flows in the tide; The sea, which always served his empire, now Pays tribute to our Prince's pleasure too. Of famous cities we the founders know; But rivers, old as seas, to which they go, 10 Are Nature's bounty; 'tis of more renown To make a river, than to build a town.

For future shade, young trees upon the banks Of the new stream appear in even ranks; The voice of Orpheus, or Amphion's hand, In better order could not make them stand; May they increase as fast, and spread their boughs, As the high fame of their great owner grows! May he live long enough to see them all Dark shadows cast, and as his palace tall! 20 Methinks I see the love that shall be made, The lovers walking in that am'rous shade; The gallants dancing by the river side; They bathe in summer, and in winter slide. Methinks I hear the music in the boats, And the loud echo which returns the notes; While overhead a flock of new-sprung fowl Hangs in the air, and does the sun control, Dark'ning the sky; they hover o'er, and shroud 29 The wanton sailors with a feather'd cloud. Beneath, a shoal of silver fishes glides, And plays about the gilded barges' sides; The ladies, angling in the crystal lake, Feast on the waters with the prey they take; At once victorious with their lines, and eyes, They make the fishes, and the men, their prize. A thousand Cupids on the billows ride, And sea-nymphs enter with the swelling tide, From Thetis sent as spies, to make report, And tell the wonders of her sovereign's court. 40 All that can, living, feed the greedy eye, Or dead, the palate, here you may descry; The choicest things that furnish'd Noah's ark, Or Peter's sheet, inhabiting this park; All with a border of rich fruit-trees crown'd, Whose loaded branches hide the lofty mound, Such various ways the spacious alleys lead, My doubtful Muse knows not what path to tread. Yonder, the harvest of cold months laid up, Gives a fresh coolness to the royal cup; 50 There ice, like crystal firm, and never lost, Tempers hot July with December's frost; Winter's dark prison, whence he cannot fly, Though the warm spring, his enemy, draws nigh. Strange! that extremes should thus preserve the snow, High on the Alps, or in deep caves below.

Here, a well-polished Mall gives us the joy To see our Prince his matchless force employ; His manly posture, and his graceful mien, Vigour and youth in all his motions seen; 60 His shape so lovely and his limbs so strong, Confirm our hopes we shall obey him long.

No sooner has he touch'd the flying ball, 63 But 'tis already more than half the Mall; And such a fury from his arm has got, As from a smoking culv'rin it were shot.[2]

Near this my Muse, what most delights her, sees A living gallery of aged trees; Bold sons of earth, that thrust their arms so high, As if once more they would invade the sky. 70 In such green palaces the first kings reign'd, Slept in their shades, and angels entertain'd; With such old counsellors they did advise, And, by frequenting sacred groves, grew wise. Free from th'impediments of light and noise, Man, thus retired, his nobler thoughts employs. Here Charles contrives th'ordering of his states, Here he resolves his neighb'ring princes' fates; What nation shall have peace, where war be made, Determined is in this oraculous shade; 80 The world, from India to the frozen north, Concern'd in what this solitude brings forth. His fancy objects from his view receives; The prospect thought and contemplation gives. That seat of empire here salutes his eye, To which three kingdoms do themselves apply; The structure by a prelate[3] raised, Whitehall, Built with the fortune of Rome's capitol; Both, disproportion'd to the present state Of their proud founders, were approved by Fate. 90 From hence he does that antique pile[4] behold, Where royal heads receive the sacred gold; It gives them crowns, and does their ashes keep; There made like gods, like mortals there they sleep; Making the circle of their reign complete, Those suns of empire! where they rise, they set. When others fell, this, standing, did presage The crown should triumph over popular rage; Hard by that House,[5] where all our ills were shaped, Th' auspicious temple stood, and yet escaped. 100 So snow on Aetna does unmelted lie, Whence rolling flames and scatter'd cinders fly; The distant country in the ruin shares; What falls from heaven the burning mountain spares. Next, that capacious Hall[6] he sees, the room Where the whole nation does for justice come; Under whose large roof flourishes the gown, And judges grave, on high tribunals, frown. Here, like the people's pastor he does go, His flock subjected to his view below; 110 On which reflecting in his mighty mind, No private passion does indulgence find; The pleasures of his youth suspended are, And made a sacrifice to public care. Here, free from court compliances, he walks, And with himself, his best adviser, talks; How peaceful olives may his temples shade, For mending laws, and for restoring trade; Or, how his brows may be with laurel charged, For nations conquer'd and our bounds enlarged. 120 Of ancient prudence here he ruminates, Of rising kingdoms, and of falling states; What ruling arts gave great Augustus fame, And how Alcides purchased such a name.

His eyes, upon his native palace[7] bent, Close by, suggest a greater argument. His thoughts rise higher, when he does reflect On what the world may from that star expect Which at his birth appear'd,[8] to let us see Day, for his sake, could with the night agree; 130 A prince, on whom such diff'rent lights did smile, Born the divided world to reconcile! Whatever Heaven, or high extracted blood Could promise, or foretell, he will make good; Reform these nations, and improve them more, Than this fair park, from what it was before.

[1] See 'Macaulay.' [2] Pall Mall derived its name from a particular game at bowls, in which Charles II. excelled. [3] 'Prelate': Cardinal Wolsey. [4] 'Antique pile': Westminster Abbey. [5] 'House': House of Commons. [6] 'Hall': Westminster Hall. [7] 'Palace': St. James's Palace, where Charles II. was born. [8] 'Birth appeared ': it seems a new star appeared in the heavens at the birth of the king.



OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, MOTHER TO THE PRINCE OF ORANGE;[1] AND OF HER PORTRAIT, WRITTEN BY THE LATE DUCHESS OF YORK, WHILE SHE LIVED WITH HER.

Heroic nymph! in tempests the support, In peace the glory of the British Court! Into whose arms the church, the state, and all That precious is, or sacred here, did fall. Ages to come, that shall your bounty hear, Will think you mistress of the Indies were; Though straiter bounds your fortunes did confine, In your large heart was found a wealthy mine; Like the bless'd oil, the widow's lasting feast, Your treasure, as you pour'd it out, increased. 10

While some your beauty, some your bounty sing, Your native isle does with your praises ring; But, above all, a nymph of your own train[2] Gives us your character in such a strain, As none but she, who in that Court did dwell, Could know such worth, or worth describe so well. So while we mortals here at heaven do guess, And more our weakness, than the place, express, Some angel, a domestic there, comes down, And tells the wonders he hath seen and known. 20

[1] 'Prince of Orange': Mary, Princess of Orange, and sister to Charles II. [2] 'Train': Lady Anne Hyde, daughter of the Earl of Clarendon, and afterwards Duchess of York, and mother of Queen Mary and Queen Anne.



UPON HER MAJESTY'S NEW BUILDINGS AT SOMERSET HOUSE.[1]

Great Queen! that does our island bless With princes and with palaces; Treated so ill, chased from your throne, Returning you adorn the Town; And, with a brave revenge, do show Their glory went and came with you.

While peace from hence and you were gone, Your houses in that storm o'erthrown, Those wounds which civil rage did give, At once you pardon, and relieve. 10

Constant to England in your love, As birds are to their wonted grove, Though by rude hands their nests are spoil'd, There the next spring again they build.

Accusing some malignant star, Not Britain, for that fatal war, Your kindness banishes your fear, Resolved to fix for ever here.[2] But what new mine this work supplies? Can such a pile from ruin rise? 20 This, like the first creation, shows As if at your command it rose.

Frugality and bounty too (Those diff'ring virtues), meet in you; From a confined, well-managed store, You both employ and feed the poor.

Let foreign princes vainly boast The rude effects of pride, and cost Of vaster fabrics, to which they Contribute nothing but the pay; 30 This, by the Queen herself design'd, Gives us a pattern of her mind; The state and order does proclaim The genius of that Royal Dame. Each part with just proportion graced, And all to such advantage placed, That the fair view her window yields, The town, the river, and the fields, Ent'ring, beneath us we descry, And wonder how we came so high. 40

She needs no weary steps ascend; All seems before her feet to bend; And here, as she was born, she lies; High, without taking pains to rise.

[1] 'Somerset House': Henrietta, Queen-mother, who returned to England in 1660, and lived in Somerset House, which she greatly improved. [2] 'Ever here': she left, however, in 1665.



OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER.

Fair hand! that can on virgin paper write, Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white; Whose travel o'er that silver field does show Like track of leverets in morning snow. Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil, Without the help of colours or of oil! For though a painter boughs and leaves can make, 'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake; Whose breath salutes your new-created grove, Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. Orpheus could make the forest dance; but you Can make the motion and the forest too.



VERSES TO DR GEORGE ROGERS, ON HIS TAKING THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHYSIC AT PADUA, IN THE YEAR 1664.

When as of old the earth's bold children strove, With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove, Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side, And their bright arms in his defence employ'd; While the wise Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest, Who joy in peace, and love the Muses best, Descending from their so distemper'd seat, Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat. There first Apollo tried the various use 9 Of herbs, and learn'd the virtues of their juice, And framed that art, to which who can pretend A juster title than our noble friend, Whom the like tempest drives from his abode, And like employment entertains abroad? This crowns him here, and in the bays so earn'd, His country's honour is no less concern'd, Since it appears not all the English rave, To ruin bent; some study how to save; And as Hippocrates did once extend His sacred art, whole cities to amend; 20 So we, great friend! suppose that thy great skill, Thy gentle mind, and fair example will, At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle, Their spirits calm, and peace again shall smile.



INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, FOR THE DRAWING OF THE POSTURE AND PROGRESS OF HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES AT SEA, UNDER THE COMMAND OF HIS HIGHNESS-ROYAL; TOGETHER WITH THE BATTLE AND VICTORY OBTAINED OVER THE DUTCH, JUNE 3, 1665.[1]

First draw the sea, that portion which between The greater world and this of ours is seen; Here place the British, there the Holland fleet, Vast floating armies! both prepared to meet. Draw the whole world, expecting who should reign, After this combat, o'er the conquer'd main.

Make Heaven concern'd, and an unusual star 7 Declare th'importance of th'approaching war. Make the sea shine with gallantry, and all The English youth flock to their Admiral, The valiant Duke! whose early deeds abroad, Such rage in fight, and art in conduct show'd. His bright sword now a dearer int'rest draws, His brother's glory, and his country's cause.

Let thy bold pencil hope and courage spread, Through the whole navy, by that hero led; Make all appear, where such a Prince is by, Resolved to conquer, or resolved to die. With his extraction, and his glorious mind, Make the proud sails swell more than with the wind; 20 Preventing cannon, make his louder fame Check the Batavians, and their fury tame. So hungry wolves, though greedy of their prey, Stop when they find a lion in their way. Make him bestride the ocean, and mankind Ask his consent to use the sea and wind; While his tall ships in the barr'd channel stand, He grasps the Indies in his armed hand.

Paint an east wind, and make it blow away Th' excuse of Holland for their navy's stay; 30 Make them look pale, and, the bold Prince to shun, Through the cold north and rocky regions run. To find the coast where morning first appears, By the dark pole the wary Belgian steers; Confessing now he dreads the English more Than all the dangers of a frozen shore; While from our arms security to find, They fly so far, they leave the day behind. Describe their fleet abandoning the sea, And all their merchants left a wealthy prey; 40

Our first success in war make Bacchus crown, And half the vintage of the year our own. The Dutch their wine, and all their brandy lose, Disarm'd of that from which their courage grows; While the glad English, to relieve their toil, In healths to their great leader drink the spoil.

His high command to Afric's coast extend, And make the Moors before the English bend; Those barb'rous pirates willingly receive Conditions, such as we are pleased to give. 50 Deserted by the Dutch, let nations know We can our own and their great business do; False friends chastise, and common foes restrain, Which, worse than tempests, did infest the main. Within those Straits, make Holland's Smyrna fleet With a small squadron of the English meet; Like falcons these, those like a numerous flock Of fowl, which scatter to avoid the shock. There paint confusion in a various shape; Some sink, some yield; and, flying, some escape. 60 Europe and Africa, from either shore, Spectators are, and hear our cannon roar; While the divided world in this agree, Men that fight so, deserve to rule the sea.

But, nearer home, thy pencil use once more, And place our navy by the Holland shore; The world they compass'd, while they fought with Spain, But here already they resign the main; Those greedy mariners, out of whose way Diffusive Nature could no region lay, 70 At home, preserved from rocks and tempests, lie, Compell'd, like others, in their beds to die. Their single towns th'Iberian armies press'd; We all their provinces at once invest; And, in a month, ruin their traffic more Than that long war could in an age before.

But who can always on the billows lie? The wat'ry wilderness yields no supply. Spreading our sails, to Harwich we resort, And meet the beauties of the British Court. 80 Th' illustrious Duchess, and her glorious train (Like Thetis with her nymphs), adorn the main. The gazing sea-gods, since the Paphian Queen Sprung from among them, no such sight had seen. Charm'd with the graces of a troop so fair, Those deathless powers for us themselves declare, Resolved the aid of Neptune's court to bring, And help the nation where such beauties spring; The soldier here his wasted store supplies, And takes new valour from the ladies' eyes. 90

Meanwhile, like bees, when stormy winter's gone, The Dutch (as if the sea were all their own) Desert their ports, and, falling in their way, Our Hamburg merchants are become their prey. Thus flourish they, before th'approaching fight; As dying tapers give a blazing light.

To check their pride, our fleet half-victuall'd goes, Enough to serve us till we reach our foes; Who now appear so numerous and bold, The action worthy of our arms we hold. 100 A greater force than that which here we find, Ne'er press'd the ocean, nor employ'd the wind. Restrain'd a while by the unwelcome night, Th' impatient English scarce attend the light. But now the morning (heaven severely clear!) To the fierce work indulgent does appear; And Phoebus lifts above the waves his light, That he might see, and thus record, the fight.

As when loud winds from diff'rent quarters rush, 109 Vast clouds encount'ring one another crush; With swelling sails so, from their sev'ral coasts, Join the Batavian and the British hosts. For a less prize, with less concern and rage, The Roman fleets at Actium did engage; They, for the empire of the world they knew, These, for the Old contend, and for the New. At the first shock, with blood and powder stain'd, Nor heaven, nor sea, their former face retain'd; Fury and art produce effects so strange, They trouble Nature, and her visage change. 120 Where burning ships the banish'd sun supply, And no light shines, but that by which men die, There York appears! so prodigal is he Of royal blood, as ancient as the sea, Which down to him, so many ages told, Has through the veins of mighty monarchs roll'd! The great Achilles march'd not to the field Till Vulcan that impenetrable shield, And arms, had wrought; yet there no bullets flew, But shafts and darts which the weak Phrygians threw, 130 Our bolder hero on the deck does stand Exposed, the bulwark of his native land; Defensive arms laid by as useless here, Where massy balls the neighb'ring rocks do tear. Some power unseen those princes does protect, Who for their country thus themselves neglect.

Against him first Opdam his squadron leads, Proud of his late success against the Swedes; Made by that action, and his high command, Worthy to perish by a prince's hand. 140 The tall Batavian in a vast ship rides, Bearing an army in her hollow sides;

Yet, not inclined the English ship to board, More on his guns relies than on his sword; From whence a fatal volley we received; It miss'd the Duke, but his great heart it grieved; Three worthy persons from his side it tore, And dyed his garment with their scatter'd gore. Happy! to whom this glorious death arrives, More to be valued than a thousand lives! 150 On such a theatre as this to die, For such a cause, and such a witness by! Who would not thus a sacrifice be made, To have his blood on such an altar laid? The rest about him struck with horror stood, To see their leader cover'd o'er with blood. So trembled Jacob, when he thought the stains Of his son's coat had issued from his veins. He feels no wound but in his troubled thought; Before, for honour, now, revenge he fought; 160 His friends in pieces torn (the bitter news Not brought by Fame), with his own eyes he views. His mind at once reflecting on their youth, Their worth, their love, their valour, and their truth, The joys of court, their mothers, and their wives, To follow him abandon'd—and their lives! He storms and shoots, but flying bullets now, To execute his rage, appear too slow; They miss, or sweep but common souls away; For such a loss Opdam his life must pay. 170 Encouraging his men, he gives the word, With fierce intent that hated ship to board, And make the guilty Dutch, with his own arm, Wait on his friends, while yet their blood is warm. His winged vessel like an eagle shows, When through the clouds to truss a swan she goes;

The Belgian ship unmoved, like some huge rock 177 Inhabiting the sea, expects the shock. From both the fleets men's eyes are bent this way, Neglecting all the business of the day; Bullets their flight, and guns their noise suspend; The silent ocean does th'event attend, Which leader shall the doubtful victory bless, And give an earnest of the war's success; When Heaven itself, for England to declare, Turns ship, and men, and tackle, into air.

Their new commander from his charge is toss'd, Which that young prince[2] had so unjustly lost, Whose great progenitors, with better fate, And better conduct, sway'd their infant state. 190 His flight t'wards heaven th'aspiring Belgian took, But fell, like Phaeton, with thunder strook; From vaster hopes than his he seemed to fall, That durst attempt the British Admiral; From her broad sides a ruder flame is thrown Than from the fiery chariot of the sun; That bears the radiant ensign of the day, And she the flag that governs in the sea.

The Duke (ill pleased that fire should thus prevent The work which for his brighter sword he meant), 200 Anger still burning in his valiant breast, Goes to complete revenge upon the rest. So on the guardless herd, their keeper slain, Rushes a tiger in the Libyan plain. The Dutch, accustom'd to the raging sea, And in black storms the frowns of heaven to see, Never met tempest which more urged' their fears. Than that which in the Prince's look appears.

Fierce, goodly, young! Mars he resembles, when 209 Jove sends him down to scourge perfidious men; Such as with foul ingratitude have paid Both those that led, and those that gave them aid. Where he gives on, disposing of their fates, Terror and death on his loud cannon waits, With which he pleads his brother's cause so well, He shakes the throne to which he does appeal. The sea with spoils his angry bullets strow, Widows and orphans making as they go; Before his ship fragments of vessels torn, Flags, arms, and Belgian carcasses are borne; 220 And his despairing foes, to flight inclined, Spread all their canvas to invite the wind. So the rude Boreas, where he lists to blow, Makes clouds above, and billows fly below, Beating the shore; and, with a boist'rous rage, Does heaven at once, and earth, and sea engage.

The Dutch, elsewhere, did through the wat'ry field Perform enough to have made others yield; But English courage, growing as they fight, In danger, noise, and slaughter, takes delight; 230 Their bloody task, unwearied still, they ply, Only restrain'd by death, or victory. Iron and lead, from earth's dark entrails torn, Like showers of hail from either side are borne; So high the rage of wretched mortals goes, Hurling their mother's bowels at their foes! Ingenious to their ruin, every age Improves the arts and instruments of rage. Death-hast'ning ills Nature enough has sent, And yet men still a thousand more invent! 240

But Bacchus now, which led the Belgians on, So fierce at first, to favour us begun; Brandy and wine (their wonted friends) at length Render them useless, and betray their strength. So corn in fields, and in the garden flowers, Revive and raise themselves with mod'rate showers; But overcharged with never-ceasing rain, Become too moist, and bend their heads again. Their reeling ships on one another fall, Without a foe, enough to ruin all. 250 Of this disorder, and the favouring wind, The watchful English such advantage find, Ships fraught with fire among the heap they throw, And up the so-entangled Belgians blow. The flame invades the powder-rooms, and then, Their guns shoot bullets, and their vessels men. The scorch'd Batavians on the billows float, Sent from their own, to pass in Charon's boat.

And now, our royal Admiral success (With all the marks of victory) does bless; 260 The burning ships, the taken, and the slain, Proclaim his triumph o'er the conquer'd main. Nearer to Holland, as their hasty flight Carries the noise and tumult of the fight, His cannons' roar, forerunner of his fame, Makes their Hague tremble, and their Amsterdam; The British thunder does their houses rock, And the Duke seems at every door to knock. His dreadful streamer (like a comet's hair, Threatening destruction) hastens their despair; 270 Makes them deplore their scatter'd fleet as lost, And fear our present landing on their coast. The trembling Dutch th'approaching Prince behold, As sheep a lion leaping tow'rds their fold; Those piles, which serve them to repel the main, They think too weak his fury to restrain.

'What wonders may not English valour work, 277 Led by th'example of victorious York? Or what defence against him can they make, Who, at such distance, does their country shake? His fatal hand their bulwarks will o'erthrow, And let in both the ocean, and the foe;' Thus cry the people;—and, their land to keep, Allow our title to command the deep; Blaming their States' ill conduct, to provoke Those arms, which freed them from the Spanish yoke.

Painter! excuse me, if I have a while Forgot thy art, and used another style; For, though you draw arm'd heroes as they sit, The task in battle does the Muses fit; 290 They, in the dark confusion of a fight, Discover all, instruct us how to write; And light and honour to brave actions yield, Hid in the smoke and tumult of the field, Ages to come shall know that leader's toil, And his great name, on whom the Muses smile; Their dictates here let thy famed pencil trace, And this relation with thy colours grace.

Then draw the Parliament, the nobles met, And our great Monarch high above them set; 300 Like young Augustus let his image be, Triumphing for that victory at sea, Where Egypt's Queen,[3] and Eastern kings o'erthrown, Made the possession of the world his own. Last draw the Commons at his royal feet, Pouring out treasure to supply his fleet; They vow with lives and fortunes to maintain Their King's eternal title to the main; And with a present to the Duke, approve 309 His valour, conduct, and his country's love.

[1] See History of England. [2] 'Young prince': Prince of Orange. [3] 'Egypt's Queen': Cleopatra.



OF ENGLISH VERSE.

1 Poets may boast, as safely vain, Their works shall with the world remain: Both, bound together, live or die, The verses and the prophecy.

2 But who can hope his line should long Last in a daily changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails; And as that dies, our language fails.

3 When architects have done their part, The matter may betray their art; Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, Soon brings a well-built palace down.

4 Poets that lasting marble seek, Must carve in Latin, or in Greek; We write in sand, our language grows, And like the tide, our work o'erflows.

5 Chaucer his sense can only boast; The glory of his numbers lost! Years have defaced his matchless strain; And yet he did not sing in vain.

6 The beauties which adorn'd that age, The shining subjects of his rage, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with success his love.

7 This was the gen'rous poet's scope; And all an English pen can hope, To make the fair approve his flame, That can so far extend their fame.

8 Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate, If it arrive but at the date Of fading beauty; if it prove But as long-lived as present love.



THESE VERSES WERE WRIT IN THE TASSO OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

Tasso knew how the fairer sex to grace, But in no one durst all perfection place. In her alone that owns this book is seen Clorinda's spirit, and her lofty mien, Sophronia's piety, Erminia's truth, Armida's charms, her beauty, and her youth.

Our Princess here, as in a glass, does dress Her well-taught mind, and every grace express. More to our wonder than Rinaldo fought, The hero's race excels the poet's thought.



THE TRIPLE COMBAT.[1]

When through the world fair Mazarin had run, Bright as her fellow-traveller, the sun, Hither at length the Roman eagle flies, As the last triumph of her conqu'ring eyes. As heir to Julius, she may pretend A second time to make this island bend; But Portsmouth, springing from the ancient race Of Britons, which the Saxon here did chase, As they great Caesar did oppose, makes head, And does against this new invader lead. 10 That goodly nymph, the taller of the two, Careless and fearless to the field does go. Becoming blushes on the other wait, And her young look excuses want of height. Beauty gives courage; for she knows the day Must not be won the Amazonian way. Legions of Cupids to the battle come, For Little Britain these, and those for Rome. Dress'd to advantage, this illustrious pair Arrived, for combat in the list appear. 20 What may the Fates design! for never yet From distant regions two such beauties met. Venus had been an equal friend to both, And vict'ry to declare herself seems loth; Over the camp, with doubtful wings, she flies, Till Chloris shining in the fields she spies. The lovely Chloris well-attended came, A thousand Graces waited on the dame; Her matchless form made all the English glad, 29 And foreign beauties less assurance had; Yet, like the Three on Ida's top, they all Pretend alike, contesting for the ball; Which to determine, Love himself declined, Lest the neglected should become less kind. Such killing looks! so thick the arrows fly! That 'tis unsafe to be a stander-by. Poets, approaching to describe the fight, Are by their wounds instructed how to write. They with less hazard might look on, and draw The ruder combats in Alsatia; 40 And, with that foil of violence and rage, Set off the splendour of our golden age; Where Love gives law, Beauty the sceptre sways, And, uncompell'd, the happy world obeys.

[1] 'Triple combat': the Duchess of Mazarin was a divorced demirep, who came to England with some designs on Charles II., in which she was counteracted by the Duchess of Portsmouth.



UPON OUR LATE LOSS OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.[1]

The failing blossoms which a young plant bears, Engage our hope for the succeeding years; And hope is all which art or nature brings, At the first trial, to accomplish things. Mankind was first created an essay; That ruder draught the Deluge wash'd away. How many ages pass'd, what blood and toil, Before we made one kingdom of this isle! How long in vain had nature striven to frame A perfect princess, ere her Highness came! For joys so great we must with patience wait; 'Tis the set price of happiness complete. As a first fruit, Heaven claim'd that lovely boy; The next shall live, and be the nation's joy.

[1] 'Duke of Cambridge': The Duke of York's second son by Mary d'Este. He died when he was only a month old, November 1677.



OF THE LADY MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE.[1]

1 As once the lion honey gave, Out of the strong such sweetness came; A royal hero, no less brave, Produced this sweet, this lovely dame.

2 To her the prince, that did oppose Such mighty armies in the field, And Holland from prevailing foes Could so well free, himself does yield.

3 Not Belgia's fleet (his high command) Which triumphs where the sun does rise, Nor all the force he leads by land, Could guard him from her conqu'ring eyes.

4 Orange, with youth, experience has; In action young, in council old; Orange is, what Augustus was, Brave, wary, provident, and bold.

5 On that fair tree which bears his name, Blossoms and fruit at once are found; In him we all admire the same, His flow'ry youth with wisdom crown'd!

6 Empire and freedom reconciled In Holland are by great Nassau; Like those he sprung from, just and mild, To willing people he gives law.

7 Thrice happy pair! so near allied In royal blood, and virtue too! Now love has you together tied, May none this triple knot undo!

8 The church shall be the happy place Where streams, which from the same source run, Though divers lands a while they grace, Unite again, and are made one.

9 A thousand thanks the nation owes To him that does protect us all; For while he thus his niece bestows, About our isle he builds a wall;

10 A wall! like that which Athens had, By th'oracle's advice, of wood; Had theirs been such as Charles has made, That mighty state till now had stood.

[1] 'Princess of Orange': The Princess Mary was married to the Prince of Orange at St. James's, in November 1677.



UPON BEN JONSON.

Mirror of poets! mirror of our age! Which her whole face beholding on thy stage, Pleased and displeased with her own faults, endures A remedy like those whom music cures. Thou hast alone those various inclinations Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations; So traced with thy all-resembling pen, That whate'er custom has imposed on men, Or ill-got habit (which deforms them so, That scarce a brother can his brother know) 10 Is represented to the wond'ring eyes Of all that see, or read, thy comedies. Whoever in those glasses looks, may find The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind; And by the help of so divine an art, At leisure view, and dress, his nobler part. Narcissus, cozen'd by that flatt'ring well, Which nothing could but of his beauty tell, Had here, discov'ring the deformed estate Of his fond mind, preserved himself with hate. 20 But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had Beheld, what his high fancy once embraced, Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced. The sundry postures of thy copious Muse Who would express, a thousand tongues must use; Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art; For as thou couldst all characters impart, So none could render thine, which still escapes, Like Proteus, in variety of shapes; 30 Who was nor this nor that; but all we find, And all we can imagine, in mankind.



ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS.

Fletcher! to thee we do not only owe All these good plays, but those of others too; Thy wit repeated does support the stage, Credits the last, and entertains this age. No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine, Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine.

What brave commander is not proud to see Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry? Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn; 10 Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done, Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.

I never yet the tragic strain essay'd, Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid;[1] And when I venture at the comic style, Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.

Thus has thy Muse at once improved and marr'd Our sport in plays, by rend'ring it too hard! So when a sort of lusty shepherds throw The bar by turns, and none the rest outgo 20 So far, but that the best are measuring casts, Their emulation and their pastime lasts; But if some brawny yeoman of the guard Step in, and toss the axletree a yard, Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the rest Despairing stand; their sport is at the best.

[1] 'Inimitable Maid': the Maid's Tragedy, the joint production of Beaumont and Fletcher.



UPON THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE, 'DE ARTE POETICA;' AND OF THE USE OF POETRY.

Rome was not better by her Horace taught, Than we are here to comprehend his thought; The poet writ to noble Piso there; A noble Piso does instruct us here, Gives us a pattern in his flowing style, And with rich precepts does oblige our isle: Britain! whose genius is in verse express'd, Bold and sublime, but negligently dress'd.

Horace will our superfluous branches prune, 10 Give us new rules, and set our harp in tune; Direct us how to back the winged horse, Favour his flight, and moderate his force.

Though poets may of inspiration boast, Their rage, ill-govern'd, in the clouds is lost. He that proportion'd wonders can disclose, At once his fancy and his judgment shows. Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence, Neglect of which no wit can recompense. The fountain which from Helicon proceeds, That sacred stream! should never water weeds, 20 Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow, Which envy or perverted nature sow.

Well-sounding verses are the charm we use, Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse; Things of deep sense we may in prose unfold, But they move more in lofty numbers told. By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids, We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.

The Muses' friend, unto himself severe, With silent pity looks on all that err; 30 But where a brave, a public action shines, That he rewards with his immortal lines. Whether it be in council or in fight, His country's honour is his chief delight; Praise of great acts he scatters as a seed, Which may the like in coming ages breed.

Here taught the fate of verses (always prized With admiration, or as much despised), Men will be less indulgent to their faults, And patience have to cultivate their thoughts. 40 Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot; Finding new words, that to the ravish'd ear May like the language of the gods appear, Such as, of old, wise bards employ'd, to make Unpolish'd men their wild retreats forsake; Law-giving heroes, famed for taming brutes, And raising cities with their charming lutes; For rudest minds with harmony were caught, And civil life was by the Muses taught. 50 So wand'ring bees would perish in the air, Did not a sound, proportion'd to their ear, Appease their rage, invite them to the hive, Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive, To rob the flowers, and to forbear the spoil, Preserved in winter by their summer's toil; They give us food, which may with nectar vie, And wax, that does the absent sun supply.



ON THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S EXPEDITION INTO SCOTLAND IN THE SUMMER SOLSTICE.

Swift as Jove's messenger (the winged god), With sword as potent as his charmed rod, He flew to execute the King's command, And in a moment reach'd that northern land, Where day contending with approaching night, Assists the hero with continued light.

On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd, He might have rush'd; but noble pity held His hand a while, and to their choice gave space, Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. 10 This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke, And then, like lightning, through that cloud he broke. His fame, his conduct, and that martial look, The guilty Scots with such a terror strook, That to his courage they resign the field, Who to his bounty had refused to yield. Glad that so little loyal blood it cost, He grieves so many Britons should be lost; Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield, To save the flyers, than to win the field; 20 And at the Court his int'rest does employ, That none, who 'scaped his fatal sword, should die.

And now, these rash bold men their error find, Not trusting one beyond his promise kind; One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave, Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save.

In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell; Such deeds as these his high extraction tell, And give a secret joy to him that reigns, To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins; 30 To see a leader whom he got and chose, Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.

But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat, With scorching rays, on all that's high and great, This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough The Muses send to shade thy conqu'ring brow. Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; But time and thunder pay respect to bays. Achilles' arms dazzle our present view, Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new 40 As from the forge of Vulcan first they came; Thousands of years are past, and they the same; Such care she takes to pay desert with fame! Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence, Knows how to give a nobler recompence.



OF AN ELEGY MADE BY MRS WHARTON[1] ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Thus mourn the Muses! on the hearse Not strewing tears, but lasting verse, Which so preserve the hero's name, They make him live again in fame.

Chloris, in lines so like his own, Gives him so just and high renown, That she th'afflicted world relieves, And shows that still in her he lives; Her wit as graceful, great, and good; Allied in genius, as in blood.[2]