TO THE SAME,

READING THE ART OF LOVE.

WHILST Ovid here reveals the various arts, Both how to polish and direct their darts, Let meaner beauties by his rule improve, And read these lines to gain success in love: But Heaven alone, that multiplics our race, Has power t' increase the conquests of your face. The Spring, before he paints the rising flowers, Receives mild beams, and soft descending showers; But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms, Though neither pity weeps, nor kindness warms. The chiefs who doubt success, assert their claim By stratagems, and poorly steal a name: The generous Son of Jove', in open fight, Made bleeding Victory proclaim his might: Like him resistless, when you take the field, Love sounds the signal, and the world must yield.

WE sage Cartesians, who profess
Ourselves sworn foes to emptiness,
Assert that souls a tip-toe stand
On what we call the pineal gland;
As weather-cocks on spires are plac'd,
To turn the quicker with each blast.

This granted, can you think it strange,
We all should be so prone to change;
Ev'n from the go-cart till we wear
A sattin cap in th' elbow chair?
The follies that the child began,
Custom makes current in the man;
And, firm by livery and seisin,
Hoids the fee-simple of his reason.
But still the gusts of love we find
Blow strongest on a woman's mind;
Nor need I learnedly pursue
The latent cause, th' effect is true;
For proof of which, in manner ample,
I mean to give you one example.
Upon a time, (for so my nurse,
Heaven rest her bones! began discourse)
A lovely nymph, and just nineteen,
Began to languish with the spleen :
She, who had shone at balls and play
In gold brocade extremely gay,
All on a sudden grew precise,
Declaim'd against the growth of vice,
A very prude in half a year,
And most believ'd she was sincere:
Necklace of pearl no more she wears,
That's sanctify'd to count her prayers:
Venus, and all her naked Loves,
The reformado nymph removes;
And Magdalen, with saints and martyrs,
Was plac'd in their respective quarters.
Nor yet content, she could not bear
The rankness of the public air,

1 Alexander.

'Twas so infected with the vice
Of luscious songs, and lovers' sighs;
So most devoutly would be gone,
And straight profess herself a nun.

A youth of breeding and address,
And call him Thyrsis, if you please,
Who had some wealth to recompense
His slender dividend of sense;
Yet could, with little thought and care,
Write tender things to please the fair;
And then successively did grow
From a half-wit, a finish'd beau!
(For fops thus naturally rise,
As maggots turn to butterflies.)
This spark, as story tells, before
Had held with madam an amour,
Which he resolving to pursue,
Exactly took the proper cue,
And on the wings of love he flies
To lady abbess, in disguise,

And tells her, he had brought th' advowson
Of soul and body to dispose on.
Old Sanctity, who nothing fear'd
In petticoats, without a beard,
Fond of a proselyte, and fees,
Admits the fox among the geese.

Here duty, wealth, and honour prove,
Though three to one, too weak for love;
And to describe the war throughout,
Would make a glorious piece, no doubt,
Where moral virtues might be slain,
And rise, and fight, and fall again :
Love should a bloody myrtle wear,
And, like Camilla, fierce and fair,
The nun should charge.-But I forbear.

All human joys, though sweet in tasting,
Are seldom (more's the pity) lasting:
The nymph had qualms, her checks were pale,
Which others thought th' effects of zeal :
But she, poor she, began to doubt,
(Best knowing what she'd been about)
The marriage earnest-penny lay,
And burnt her pocket, as we say.
She now invokes, to ease her soul,
The dagger and the poison'd bowl;
And, self condemn'd for breach of vow,
To lose her life and honour too,
Talk'd in as tragical a strain, as
Your craz'd Monimias and Roxanas.

But as she in her cell lay sighing,
Distracted, weeping, drooping, dying,
The fiend (who never wants address
To succour damsels in distress)
Appearing, told her he perceiv'd
The fatal cause for which she griev'd;
But promis'd her en cavalier,
She should be freed from all her fear,
And with her Thyrsis lead a life
Devoid of all domestic strife,
If she would sign a certain scrawl-
Aye, that she would, if that was all
She sign'd, and he engag'd to do
Whate'er she pleas'd to set him to.

The critics must excuse me now,
They both were freed, no matter how :
For when we epic writers use
Machines to disengage the Muse,
We're clean acquit of all demands,
The matter's left in abler hands ;

And if they cannot loose the knot, Should we be censur'd? I think not.

?

The scene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For pomp and pleasures who but they,
Who might do every thing but pray
Madam in her gilt chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought every thing she wanted;
A slave devoted to her will:

But women will be wavering still.
Ev'n vice, without variety,

Their squeamish appetites will cloy:
And having stolen from lady abbess
One of our merry modern rabbies,

She found a trick she thought would pass,
And prove the devil but an ass.

His next attendance happen'd right
Amidst a moonless stormy night.
When madam and her spouse together
Guess'd at his coming by the weather.
He came :

66

To-night," says he, I drudge

To fetch a heriot for a judge.

A gouty nine-i' th' hundred knave;
But, madam, do you want your slave?
I need not presently be gone,

Because the doctors have not done.

A rosy vicar and a quack

Repuls'd me in my last attack:

But all in vain, for mine he is;

A fig for both the faculties.

The dame produc'd a single hair,

But whence it came I cannot swear;
Yet this I will affirm is true;

It curl'd like any bottle screw.

"Sir Nic," quoth she, “ We ladies are fantastical:

you know us all,

You see this hair"-" Yes, madam"-" In presence of my husband stay,

Pray

And makes it straight; or else you grant

Our solemn league and covenant

Is void in law."" It is, I own it: "

And so he sets to work upon it.

He tries, not dreaming of a cheat, If wetting would not do the feat: And 'twas, in truth, a proper notion, But still it kept th' elastic motion. Well! more ways may be found than one To kill a witch that will not drown.

"If 1," quoth he, "conceive its nature, This hair has flourish'd nigh the water: 'Tis crisp'd with cold, perhaps, and then The fire will make it straight again." In haste he to the fire applies it,

And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before!
The more it warms, it twirls the more.
He starop'd his cloven foot, and chaf'd;
The husband and the lady laugh'd.

Howe'er he fancy'd sure enough He should not find it hammer-proof. No Cyclops e'er at work was warmer, At forging thunder-bolts or armour, Than Satan was; but all in vain: Again he beats.-It curls again! At length he bellow'd in a rage, "This hair will take me up an age." "This take an age!" the husband swore, "Zds! Betty has five hundred more." "More! take your bond," quoth Pug; 'Tis loss of time to ply for you."

"adieu,

AN EPISTLE TO MR. SOUTHERNE,

FROM KENT, JANUARY 28, 1710-11.
BOLD is the Muse to leave her humble cell,
And sing to the, who know'st to sing so well:
Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the crown,
And mak'st her rival Athens in renown.
Could Sophocles behold, in mournful state,
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;
Or hear thy Isabella's moving moan,
Distress'd and lost for vices not her own;
If envy could permit, he'd sure agree,
To write by nature were to copy thee:
So full, so fair, thy images are shown,
He by thy pencil might improve his own.
There was an age (its memory will last!)
Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,

In which the sable Muse with hopes and fears
Fill'd every breast, and every eye with tears,
But where's that art which all our passions rais'd,
And mov'd the springs of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our poets only practise on the pit

With florid lines, and triiling turns of wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present times can boast
The race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.
Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall stand
Among the chosen classics of our land.

And whilst our sons are by tradition taught
How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,
And own thy works inimitably great.

Shakespeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind (The universal mirror of mankind)

Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage,

But sometimes stoop'd to please a barbarous age:
When his immortal bays began to grow,

Rude was the language, and the humour low:
He, like the god of day, was always bright,

But rolling in its course, his orb of light
Was sully'd, and obscur'd, though soaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is th' adventurous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her rashness, venerable shade!
May Spring with purple flowers perfume thy urn,
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn:
Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
Imputed to the times, and not to thee.

Some scions shot from this immortal root,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit:
Jonson the tribute of my verse night claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespeare's name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear;
The first a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,
Had been by superfluity destroy'd,
But that his friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;
On various sounding harps the Muses play'd,
And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.
Few moderns in the lists with these may stand,
For in those days were giants in the land:
Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,
And bow with filial awe to Shakespeare's fame;
The second honours are a glorious name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal lord
To wear his armour, and to wield his sword.
An age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,
Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood;

Whose fall when first the tragic virgin saw,
She fled, and left her province to the law.
Her merry sister still pursu'd the game,
Her garb was alter'd, but her gifts the same.
She first reform'd the muscles of her face,
And learnt the solemn screw for signs of grace;
Then circumcis'd her locks, and form'd her tone,
By humming to a tabor and a drone;
Her eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white:
Thus banish'd from the stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a cloke, and quibbled o'er a text.

But when, by miracles of mercy shown, Much-suffering Charles regain'd his father's throne;

When peace and plenty overflow'd the land,
She straight pull'd off her satin cap and band;
Bade Wycherly be bold in her defence,
With pointed wit, and energy of sense;
Etherege and Sedley join'd him in her cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd, applause.
Restor'd with less success, the Tragic Muse
Had quite forgot her style by long disuse;
She taught her Maximins to rant in rhyme,
Mistaking rattling nonsense for sublime;
Till witty Buckingham reform'd her taste,
And sneering sham'd her into sense at last.
But, now relaps'd, she dwindles to a song,
And weakly warbles on an eunuch's tongue;
And with her minstrelsy may still remain,
Till Southerne court her to be great again.
Perhaps the beauties of thy Spartan dame,
Who (long defrauded of the public fame)
Shall, with superior majesty avow'd,
Shine like a goddess breaking from a cloud;
Once more may reinstate her on the stage,
Her action graceful, and divine her rage.

Arts have their empires, and, like other states,
Their rise and fall are govern'd by the Fates⚫
They, when their period's measur'd out by Time,
Transplant their laurels to another clime.
The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud alarms
The court of Heaven, and clad the gods in arms;
The trumpet silent, humbly she essay'd
The Doric reed, and sung beneath the shade; .
Extoll'd a frugal life, and taught the swains
T'observe the seasons, and manure the plains;
Sometimes in warbled hymns she paid her vow,
Or wove Olympic wreaths for Theron's brow;
Sometimes on flowery beds she lay supine,
And gave her thoughts a loose to love and wine;
Or, in her sable stole and buskins dress'd,
Show'd Vice enthron'd, and virtuous kings op-
press'd.

The nymph still fair, however past her bloom, From Greece at length was led in chains to Rome: Whilst wars abroad, and civil discord, reign'd, Silent the beauteous captive long remain'd; That interval employ'd her timely care To study, and refine the language there. She views with anguish, on the Roman stage, The Grecian beauties weep, the warriors rage: But most those scenes delight th' immortal maid, Which Scipio had revis'd, and Roscius play'd. Thence to the pleadings of the gown she goes (For Themis then could speak in polish'd prose): Charm'd at the bar, amid th' attentive throng, She bless'd the Syren-power of Tully's tongue. But when, Octavius, thy successful sword Was sheath'd, and universal peace restor'd,

Fond of a monarch, to the court she came,
And chose a numerous choir to chant his fame.
First from the green retreats and lowly plains,
Her Virgil soar'd sublime in epic strains;
His theme so glorious, and his flight so true,
She with Mæonian garlands grac'd his brow;
Taught Horace then to touch the Lesbian lyre,
And Sappho's sweetness join'd with Pindar's fire.
By Cæsar's bounty all the tuneful train
Enjoy'd, and sung of Saturn's golden reign;
No genius then was left to live on praise,
Or curs'd the barren ornament of bays;
On all her sons he cast a kind regard,
Nor could they write so fast as he reward.
The Muse, industrious to record his name
In the bright annals of eternal Faine,
Profuse of favours, lavish'd all her store,
And for one reign made many ages poor.

Now from the rugged North unnumber'd swarms
Invade the Latian coasts with barbarous arms;
A race unpolish'd, but inur'd to toil,
Rough as their heaven, and barren as their soil.
These locusts every springing art destroy'd,
And soft Humanity before them dy'd.
Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful strife
With Nature's scenes, nor gave the canvas life;
Nor Sculpture exercis'd her skill, beneath
Her forming hand, to make the marble breathe:
Struck with despair, they stood devoid of thought,
Less lively than the works themselves had wrought
On those twin-sisters such disasters came,
Though colours and proportions are the same
In every age and clime; their beauties known
To every language, and confin'd by none.
But Fate less freedom to the Muse affords,
And checks her genius with the choice of words:
To paint her thoughts, the diction must be found
Of easy grandeur, and harmonious sound.
Thus when she rais'd her voice divinely great
To sing the founder of the Roman state;
The language was adapted to the song,
Sweet and sublime, with native beauty strong:
But when the Goths insulting troops appear'd,
Such dissonance the trembling virgin heard!
Chang'd to a swan, from Tyber's troubled streams
She wing'd her flight, and sought the silver Thames.
Long in the melancholy grove she staid,
And taught the pensive Druids in the shade;
In solemn and instructive notes they sung
From whence the beauteous frame of Nature
sprung,

Who polish'd all the radiant orbs above,
And in bright order made the planets move;
Whence thunders roar, and frightful meteors fly,
And comets roll unbounded through the sky;
Who wing'd the winds, and gave the streams to
flow,

And rais'd the rocks, and spread the lawns below;
Whence the gay Spring exults in flowery pride,
And Autumn with the bleeding grape is dy'd ;
Whence Summer suns embrown the labouring

swains,

And shivering Winter pines in icy chains:
And prais'd the Power Supreme, nor dar'd advance
So vain a theory as that of Chance.

But in this isle she found the nymphs so fair,
She chang'd her hand, and chose a softer air,
And Love and Beauty next became her care.
Greece, her lov'd country, only could afford
A Venus and a Helen to rccord;

A thousand radiant nymphs she here beheld,
Who match'd the goddess, and the queen excell'd.
T'immortalize their loves she long essay'd,
But still the tongue her generous toil betray'd.
Chaucer had all that beauty could inspire,
And Surrey's numbers glow'd with warm desire:
Both now are priz'd by few, unknown to most,
Because the thoughts are in the language lost.
Even Spenser's pearls in muddy waters lie,
Yet soon their beams attract the diver's eye:
Rich was their imagery, till Time defac'd
The curious works; but Waller came at last.
Waller, the Muse with heavenly verse supplies,
Smooth as the fair, and sparkling as their eyes;
"All but the nymph that should redress his

wrong,

Attend his passion, and approve his song." But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary age Suppress'd the lover's and the poet's rage, To Granville his melodious lute she gave, Granville, whose faithful verse is beauty's slave; <6 Accept this gift, my favourite youth!" she cry'd,

"To sound a brighter theme, and sing of Hyde ; Hyde's and thy lovely Myra's praise proclaim,. And match Carlisle's and Sacharissa's fame."

O! would he now forsake the myrtle grove, And sing of arms, as late he sung of love! His colours and his hand alone should paint, In Britain's queen, the warrior and the saint; In whom conspire, to form her truly great, Wisdom with power, and piety with state. Whilst from her throne the streams of justice flow, Strong and serene, to bless the land below; O'er distant realms her dreaded thunders roll, And the wild rage of tyranny control. Her power to quell, and pity to redress, The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, confess; Whence bleeding Iber hopes around his head To see fresh olive spring, and plenty spread : And whilst they sound their great deliverer's fame, The Seine retires, and sickens at her name. O Granville! all these glorious scenes display, Instruct succeeding monarchs how to sway; And make her memory rever'd by all,

When triumphs are forgot, and mouldering arches fall.

Pardon me, friend! I own my Muse too free,
To write so long on such a theme to thee:
To play the critic here with equal right
Bid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight;
Instruct th' unerring Sun to guide the year,
And Harley by what schemes he ought to steer;
Give Harcourt eloquence t' adorn the seal,
Maxims of state to Leeds, to Beaufort zeal;
Try to correct what Orrery shall write,
And make harmonious St. John more polite;
Teach law to Isla for the crown's support,
And Jersey how to serve and grace a court;
Dictate soft warbling airs to Sheffield's hand,
When Venus and her Loves around him stand;
In sage debates to Rochester impart

A searching head, and ever faithful heart;
Make Talbot's finish'd virtue more complete,
High without pride, and amiably great,
Where Nature all her powers with Fortune join'd,
At once to please and benefit mankind.

When cares were to my blooming youth un-
known,

My fancy free, and all my hours my own;

VOL X

I lov'd along the laureat grove to stray,
The paths were pleasant, and the prospect gay:
But now my genius sinks, and hardly knows
To make a couplet tinkle in the close.
Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,
And quit the town to breathe a purer air;
Retiring from the crowd to steal the sweets
Of easy life in Twysden's calmn retreats
(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,
And in Campania scorn'd the pomp of Rome ;)
Where Lambard, form'd for business, and to
please,

By sharing, will improve your happiness;
In both their souls imperial Reason sways,
In both the patriot and the friend displays;
Belov'd, and prais'd by all, who merit love and
praise.

With bright ideas there inspir'd anew,
By them excited, and inform'd by you,
I may with happier skill essay to sing
Sublimer notes, and strike a bolder string.

Languid and dull, when absent from her cave, No oracles of old the Sibyl gave;

But when beneath her sacred shrine she stood,
Her fury soon confess'd the coming god;
Her breast began to heave, her eyes to roll,
And wondrous visions fill'd her labouring soul.

A LETTER TO THE

KNIGHT OF THE SABLE SHIELD. -Habet Bibliopola Tryphon.

Mart. Lib. iv.

SIR Knight, who know with equal skill
To make a poem and a pill,
To be tormented with a spright.
'Twas my misfortune, t'other night,

On either side his head the hair
Seem'd bushing out, the top was bare;
His garb antique, but on his face
There reign'd a sweet majestic grace;
Of comely port, and in his hand
He decent wav'd a laurel-wand.
On the left foot (by which I found
His name was on the stage renown'd)
A sock of curious shape he wore,
With myrtle foliage flourish'd o'er ;
A purple buskin grac'd the right,
And strong he stepp'd, yet lovely light.

Thy friendly care," he cry'd, "I crave
To give me quiet in my grave:
Tryphon constrains me from the dead,
A wizard whom I hate and dread;
By him to dangle on a post,

I'm conjur'd up- Alas, poor ghost!'
A pendulum I there am made,
To move the leaden wheels of trade.
And while each little author struts
In calves-skin gilt, adorn'd with cuts;
I, vouching, pass 'em off as dear
As any staple-classic ware.
Peers, parsons, cits, a motley tribe,
Flock there to purchase, and subscribe;
While Tryphon, as the gudgeons bite,
Chuckles to see them grow polite.

Dd

"For ends thus infamously low,

It sure would seem as a-propos,
For Dennis at his door to stand,
With a good broomstick in his hand.

Then, should the chaps find ought amiss,
Or blame the price, the tragic Swiss
Might have his better parts employ'd,
To criticise them back and side.

"Or is there none of all his race,
Whose features would a sign board grace?
Oft in the wizard's cell I've seen
A sorrel man, of awkward mien,
Prying with busy leer about,
As if he were the devil's scout.
I ne'er was vers'd in modish vice,
But sure those whoreson gloating eyes
Have travell'd much on love affairs,
Between the key-hole and the stairs.
O cheat the gibbet of a sign,
And with his head commute for mine.

"When first I heard his damn'd intent, To Tryphon's bed by night I went, Where he lay blest with dreams of gain, Furs, scarlet, and a golden chain.

I rous'd the wretch, and weeping said,

O! take my wit, and spare my head,

Urge not the wags to sneer, and jape us,

Just as of old they us'd Priapus.'

But as a whelp starts up with fear,
When a bee's humming at his ear:
With upper lip elate, he grins,
Whilst round the little teazer spins;
But when aloof in air it soars,

He straight forgets th' alarm, and snores:
So did his fellow-creature slight
The fleeting vision of the night.

My prayers were lost, though, while I stay'd,
I smelt they strong impressions made.

"There is a knight, who takes the field
With Saxon pen, and sable shield;
Who doubtless can relieve my ghost,
And disenchant me from the post.
Then I could rest as still as those
Whom he has drugg'd to sure repose;
As if he traded in the whole,
And with the body kill'd the soul.
To him for aid with speed repair-
But soft! I scent the morning air :'
Be mindful of my piteous plight,
And to my cause engage the knight."

Now, gentle sir, give ear to me,
For I prescribe without a fee;
From Curll's remove the seat of war,
Encamp on t'other side the Bar:
Level your eye at Tryphon's shop,
Another epic at him pop;

What though without report it move.
Like the sure darts of Death or Love?
I know your powder is so strong,
No mortal sign can stand you long.

But if by magic this oppose
The volley of your verse and prose;
I'll be your 'squire, and firm ally,
Write, crimp, and coax him up to buy ;
Not all the necromancer's art
Will save it then, beshrew his heart!
What can support a shop, or sign,
When two such perilous wits combine?

WHEN speeding sea-ward, to the fleet we came
That anchor'd nigh the coast, we launch'd our ship
Into the sacred deep: the mast up-rear'd
Bore every sail expanded; whilst aboard
We stow'd devoted victims, and ascend
The vessel, nly griev'd, and silent showers
Fell from our drooping eyes. A friendly wind
Circe the fair, of human race divine,
Propitious sent; to ply the struggling oar
Small need remain'd, the freshening gale suffic'd
Each bellying canvas. On with speed we fare
Prosperous; and when the Sun, careering prone,
Sunk to the western isles, and dewy shade
Sabled the pole, we, tilting o'er the waves

On Ocean's utmost bound, approach'd the realms
Unbless'd, where the Cimmerians darkling dwell;
(A lamentable race!) of heavenly light
Unvisited, and the Sun's gladsome ray.
Mooring the vessel on that dreary beach,
We take the destin'd sheep, and slow sojourn
Along the marish, till the fated place

We found, which Circe will'd we should explore.
Eurylochus and Perimedes guard

The holy offerings; I meantime unsheath
My falchion, and prepare t' entrench the ground
A cubit square, and there oblations pour
To reconcile the shades; infusing milk
With honey temper'd sweet, and bowls of must
Pure from the mellowest grape, with added store
Of water; and with flower of wheat bestrow
The mix'd ingredients: to the feeble ghosts
Then vow'd, if Heaven to my dear native land
Should favour my return, a barren cow
Of stateliest growth; and to the oraculous seer'
A ram of sable fleece, the leading pride
Of all my flocks. These solemn rites perform'd,
And vows prefer'd, the destin'd sheep I slew:
Forth gush'd the vital purple, and surcharg'd
The hollow'd trench, when, lo! from the dun
verge

Of Erebus, the ghosts promiscuous troop
Unnumber'd, youths and maidens immature
Cropt in their spring, who, wandering pensive,
wail'd

The shortness of their date: trembling, and hoar
With age, some slowly pace; others, more fierce,
Array'd in arms, ensanguin'd o'er with wounds
Receiv'd in battle, clamorous approach

To drink the reeking gore. Shuddering and pale
I stood astounded, but with quick dispatch
Bade burn the sacrifice, a grateful steam
To Proserpine, who there with Dis divides
The regency of night: sudden I wáv’d
My glittering falchion, from the sanguine pool

1 Tiresias.