And taught blind harpers for their bread sneak, Rhyme then had ne'er been scann'd on fingers, Had e'er been heard to twang out metre, Now, numb'd with bitterness of weather, In which estate we saw poor Dove lie, And doubtless there was great mortality By odds, than that from whence we take him. It was impossible by squeezing (Though Heaven such a friend ne'er sent me) As when we kiss'd four months agone, CLEPSYDRA. WHY, let it run! who bids it stay? Time not employ'd's an empty sound, But that the glass should quick go round, Then set thy foot, brave boy, to mine, The man that snores the hour-glass out But we, who troll this glass about, Yet though he flies so fast, some think, He'll not refuse to stay and drink, And yet perform his stages. Time waits us whilst we crown the hearth, And knows that this career of mirth He stays with him that loves good time, That knows not how to use it. From those in grief that waste it, That men enjoy their being; He wisely does oblige his fate, By temp'rance thinks to stay it. Sobriety's no charm, I doubt, ECLOGUE. CORYDON, CLOTTEN. CORYDON. RISE, Clotten, rise, take up thy pipe and play, The shepherds want thee, 'tis Pan's holiday; And thou, of all the swains, wert wont to be The first to grace that great solemnity. CLOTTEN. True, Corydon; but then I happy was, And in Pan's favour had a minion's place: Clotten had then fair flocks, the finest fleece These plains and mountains yielded then was his. In these auspicious times the fruitful dams Brought me the earliest and the kindli'st lambs; Nor nightly watch about them need I keep, For Pan himself was shepherd to my sheep: But now, alas! neglected and forgot Are all my off'rings, and he knows me not. The bloody wolf, that lurks away the day, When night's black palm beckons him out to prey Under the cover of those guilty shades, No folds but mine the rav'nous foe invades ; And there he has such bloody havock made, That, all my flock being devour'd or stray'd, I now have lost the fruits of all my pain, And am no more a shepherd, but a swain. CORYDON. So sad a tale thou tell'st me, that I must And thou should'st serve him at the same free rate, CLOTTEN. [wise; Thus do the healthful still the sick advise, And thus men preach when they would fain seem But if in my wretched estate thou wert, I fear me thy philosophy would start, And give thee o'er to an afflicted sense, As void of reason as of patience. Had I been always poor, I should not be, Perhaps, so discontent with poverty, Nor now so sensible of my disgrace, Had I ne'er known what reputation was; But from so great a height of happiness To sink into the bottom of distress, Is such a change as may become my care, And more than, I confess, I well can bear. CORYDON. But art thou not too sensible, my lad, Of those few losses thou hast lately had? Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat Bread of the finest flour of purest wheat; Who better cider drinks, what shepherd's board Does finer curds, butter, or cheese afford? Who wears a frock, to grace a holiday, Spun of a finer wool, or finer grey? Whose cabin is so neatly swept as thine, With flow'rs and rushes kept so sweet and fine? Whose name amongst our many shepherds' swains CLOTTEN. Some of these things are true: but, Corydon, Lest shame and gratitude should draw them in, CORYDON. In the relation that thy grief has made, I will be true to thee in worst estate, CLOTTEN. All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost, I of one friend in misery can boast, Which is enough, and peradventure more Than any one could ever do before; And I to thee as true a friend will prove, Not to abuse, but to deserve, thy love. TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, WHILST in this cold and blust'ring clime, Has been for many years before: Whilst from the most tempest'ous nooks Of this dead quarter of the year, TO CHLORIS. STANZES IRREGULIERS. In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this You, our dear friend, have more repose : And some delight to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day: We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly: A day without too bright a beam, A warm, but not a scorching Sun, A southern gale to curl the stream, And (master) half our work is done. The scaly people to betray, To make the preying trout our prey : Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This (my best friend) at my poor home Shall be our pastime and our theme ; But then, should you not deign to come, You make all this a fatt'ring dream. LORD! how you take upon you still ! How you crow and domineer! And carry the dominion clear, Correct your errour, and be wise; But yet have learn'd, though love I prize, Your froward humours to despise, And I had youth t' excuse it, I then myself your vassal swear, Nay, I could force my will To love, and at a good rate still, I am now master of the gate, And therefore, Chloris, 'tis too late Or to insult, or to capitulate. 'Tis beauty that to womankind Gives all the rule and sway, Which once declining, or declin'd, Men afterwards unwillingly obey : Your beauty 'twas at first did awe me, And into bondage, woeful bondage, draw me; It was your cheek, your eye, your lip, Which rais'd you first to the dictatorship : But your six months are now expir'd, 'Tis time I now should reign; You must not to submit disdain, That will an everlasting peace maintain, If I ha'n't reason on my side ; Come, come, they're alter'd, 'twill not be de. And yet although the glass be true, [ny'd ; And show you, you no more are you, I know you'll scarce believe it, For womankind are all born proud, and never, never leave it. Yet still you have enongh, and more than needs, To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds, And I must be a subject still, Nor is it much against my will, And I must still adore; Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate, before. TO THE COUNTESS OF CHESTERFIELD, ON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST SON. Of correction from your brow; Y'are in so good an humour now, To praise and bless your happy womb; To be thank'd at least by some. Nor a braver boy to boot; And now-a-days 'tis hard to do't. Madam, once more try your skill, And double 'em after when you will. OLD TITYRUS TO EUGENIA. EUGENIA, young and fair, and sweet, To conquer all the swains: Ere vapours do from fens arise, O! be still fair, thou charming maid, But still be in its prime : Be calm, and clear, and modest still, That's (my Eugenia) a mistake, That noblest ardours cools, And serves on th' other side to make Be courteous unto all, and free, Be not too shy, but have a care The swain you entertain alone, To whom you lend your hand or lip, It does at least respect create, Eugenia, you must pitch upon A Sylvia, not a Corydon, 'Twould grate my soul to see those charms A little coldness (girl) will do, Let baffled lovers call it pride, Pride's an excess o' th' better side; Keep but state now, and keep't hereafter too. EPISTLE TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ. SIR, you may please to call to mind, From me, which conceiv'd were very kind: [swer. So hearty kind, that by this hand, sir, Briefly, I do not understand, sir, Why you should not vouchsafe some kind of anWhat though in rhyme you're no proficient? Your love should not have been deficient, When downright prose to me had been sufficient. 'Tis true, I know that you dare fight, sir, But what of that? that will not fright, sir: I know full well your worship too can write, sir. Where the peace, therefore, broken once is, I doubt there will ensue some broken sconces Your sanct'ary, nor your club, can yet defend you : But fairly, sir, to work to go: What the fiend is the matter, trow, Should make you use an old companion so? I know the life you lead a-days, And, like poor swan, your foot can trace From home to pray'rs, thence to the forenam'd place 1. And can you not from your precation, To think of an old friend find some vacation? "Tis true you sent a little letter, But for th' epistle, to be plain, Then mine was rhyme, and yours but reason; 'Tis what y'are bound to by the tie For one that's banish'd the grand monde, Would sometimes by his friends be own'd: 'Tis comfort after whipping to be moan'd. But though I'm damn'd t' a people here, I hear from you some twice or thrice a year. Whilst you, sir captain, Heav'n remit ye, In faith it looks unkind! pray mend it, Write the least scrip you will, and send it, And I will bless and kiss the hand that penn'd it Viz. the sanctuary. EPISTLE TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ. Nor can my poesy strew with posies What man! all amblers are not couryats, Either for poetry or prose; Therefore, kind sir, in courteous fashion,` And therefore when the spring appears, . I give you, sir, to understand, In April, May, or then abouts, Dove's people are your humble trouts, To make the Peak Elisium; Where you shall find then, and for ever, 1 For rhimes take a new figure. ? A dissolute poet of Cromwell's time. C. THE RETIREMENT. STANZES IRREGULIERS. ΤΟ MR. ISAAC WALTON. FAREWEL thou busy world, and may We never meet again : Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, And do more good in one short day, Than he who his whole age out-wears Upon thy most conspicuous theatres, Where nought but vice and vanity do reign. Good God! how sweet are all things here! How beautiful the fields appear! How cleanly do we feed and lie! Lord! what good hours do we keep ! What peace! what unanimity! Is all our bus'ness, all our conversation! Oh how happy here's our leisure! By turn to come and visit ye! O solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend; With thee I here converse at will, And would be glad to do so still; For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. To read, and meditate, and write, By none offended, nor offending none; To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease, And pleasing a man's self, none other to di-please! Upon thy flow'ry banks to lie, And view thy silver stream, And with my angle upon them, I ever learn'd, to practise and to try! Such streams Rome's yellow Tyber cannot show, The Meuse, the Danube, and the Rhine, Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, Oh my beloved rocks! that rise Giddy with pleasure, to look down, And from the vales to view the noble heights above! |