תמונות בעמוד


Say what can more our tortured souls annoy, 17
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun;
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

DAMON. None, shepherd, none:


Then cease to chide my cares! And rather pity than restrain my tears; Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed, To think how great my joys, how soon they fled; I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name, From whose dear care the kind occasion came.) That I, even I, might happily receive 30 The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give: That I might see the lovely awful swain, Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain; Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep Our souls with equal care as we our sheep; Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue; Whilst only he who caused, dislikes the song. To this great, humble, parting man I gained Access, and happy for an hour I reigned; Happy as new-formed man in paradise, 40 Ere sin debauched his inoffensive bliss; Happy as heroes after battles won, Prophets entranced, or monarchs on the throne; But (oh, my friend') those joys with Daphnis flew; To them these tributary tears are due.


Was he so humble then, those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly passed.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;
But (oh, the sad vicissitude!) how soon 50
Unwelcome night succeeds the cheerful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you since all mankind
A certain change of joy and sorrow find.
Suppress your sigh, your downcast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.


WHEN crowding folks with strange ill faces
Were making legs and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tired out by good Lord Dorset's spirit;
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vexed, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry: 10
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now if you miss of this epistle,
I'm balked again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place:

* Fleetwood Shepherd, a reputed wit of Charles the Second's court, and the author of several rhymes published in the miscellanies of the times.

And fair pretensions I have for’t,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begged, you always granted. 20
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Asked for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Rind as I’d been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you’ve given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen."
No family that takes a whelp
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate 30
When he's grown up to dog's estate:
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
No, thank them for their love, that’s worse
Than if they'd throttled them at nurse.
My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
Might have contrived me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish 40
My vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish.
So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear’t had the flavour, and was right wine.
Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni-
val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.

* Mr Mun Stephen had been under secretary to Lord Sunderland when he held the post of secretary of state in the time of James II. A few years after the revolution, falling into a desponding state, he put an end to his life by cutting his throat.

All this you made me quit, to follow The sneaking whey-faced god Apollo; Sent me among a fiddling crew 5C, Of folks, I’d never seen nor knew, Calliope, and God knows who. To add no more invectives to it, You spoiled the youth to make a poet. In common justice, Sir, there's no man That makes the whore, but keeps the woman. Among all honest christian people, Whoe'er breaks limbs maintains the cripple.

The sum of all I have to say, Is, that you’d put me in some way; 60 And your petitioner shall pray—

There's one thing more I had almost slipped, But that may do as well in postscript: My friend Charles Montague's preferred; Nor would I have it long observed, That one mouse eats, while t'other's starved.


THE town which Louis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames;
Now, Louis, take thy titles from above,
Boileau shall sing, and we’ll believe thee Jove;
Jove gained his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove, like thee, was impotent and old!
Active and young did he like William stand,
He had stunned the dame, his thunder in his hand.


How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose,
By which thy close, thy constant enemy,
Has softly lulled thee to thy woes?
Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own
What thy own kings in Gallic camps have done;
The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns they won.
William, so fate requires, again is armed;
Thy father to the field is gone:
Again Maria weeps her absent lord, 10
For thy repose content to rule alone.
Are thy enervate sons not yet alarmed?
When William fights dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their ancient fame restored,
As nor to melt at Beauty's tears, nor follow Valour's

See the repenting isle awakes, Her vicious chains the generous goddess breaks; The fogs around her temples are dispelled; Abroad she looks, and sees armed Belgia stand Prepared to meet their common lord's command; 20 Her lions roaring by her side, her arrows in her hand. And, blushing to have been so long withheld, Weeps off her crime, and hastens to the field. Henceforth her youth shall be inured to bear Hazardous toil and active war; To march beneath the dog-star's raging heat, Patient of summer's drought, and martial sweat; And only grieve in winter's camps to find

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