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WHEN Kneller's works of various grace
Were to fair Venus shown ;
The goddess spied in every face
Some features of her own.
Just so (and pointing with her hand)
So shone, says she, my eyes'
When from two goddesses I gain'd
An apple for a prize.
When in the glass, and river too,
My face I lately view’d,
Such was I, if the glass be true,
If true the crystal flood.
In colours of this glorious kind *
Apelles painted me;
My hair thus flowing with the wind,
Sprung from my native sea.
Like this,” disorder'd, wild, forlorn,
Big with ten thousand fears,
Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn,
Ev’n beautiful in tears.
But, viewing Myra plac'd apart,
I fear, says she, I fear,
Apelles, that Sir Godfrey's art
Has far surpass'd thine here.
Or I, a goddess of the skies,
By Myra am outdone,
And must resign to her the prize,
The apple, which I won.
But, soon as she had Myra seen,
The sparkling eye, the look serene,
The gay and easy air;
With fiery emulation fill’d,
The wondering goddess cried,
Apelles must to Kneller yield,
Or Venus must to Hyde.
DAPHINE AND APOLLO : IMITATED, FROM THE FIRST Book of Ovid's METAMORPHOSES.
APOLLO. ABATE, fair fugitive, abate thy speed, Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head; With kind regard a panting lover view ; Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I’ll pursue:
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may
This care is for himself, as sure as death !
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t'other round ;
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.
You fly, alas! not knowing whom you fly;
Nor ill-bred swain, nor rusty clown, am I:
I Claros isle and Tenedos command
Thank you : I would not leave my native land.
What is to come, by certain arts I know.
Pish Partridge has as fair pretence as you.
Behold the beauties of my locks
A fig 1
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish wig.
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare? APOLLO.
1 An almanac maker and astrologer at the beginning of the present (eighteenth century. See Swift's Miscellanies.
DAPHNE. That never shall be Daphne's choice : Syphacio had an admirable voice. APOLLO. Of every herb I tell the mystic power; To certain health the patient I restore ; Sent for, caress'd
Ours is a wholesome air;
You'd better go to town, and practise there :
For me, I’ve no obstructions to remove:
I’m pretty well; I thank your father Jove :
And physic is a weak ally to love.
For learning fam'd, fine verses I compose.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux.
Memorials only, and reviews, write prose.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.
Then, leaving me, whom sure you would not kills
In yonder thicket exercise your skill:
Shoot there at beasts; but for the human heart,
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.
APOLLO. Yet turn, O beauteous maid! yet deign to hear A love-sick deity's impetuous prayer; O let me woo thee as thou wouldst be woo'd
First, therefore, be not so extremely rude.
Tear not the hedges down, nor tread the clover,
Like an hobgoblin, rather than a lover.
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come,
At ebbing-tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother rivers, Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes,
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell,
That you respect me; that, you know, looks well.
Then, if you are, as you pretend, the god
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa:
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast;
And now and then a jewel from the east;
A lacquer'd cabinet, some china ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin fair!
Next, nota bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life, [wife,
Make me your (Lord what startles you ?) your
I’m now (they say) sixteen, or something more;
We mortals seldom live above fourscore :
Fourscore ; you’re good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three:
Ay, in that span of time you’ll bury me.
WOL. II. 17