That I in fact a real interest have,
Which to my own advantage I would save,
And, with the usual courtier's trick, intend
To serve myself, forgetful of my friend.
To shun this censure, I all shame lay by,
And make my reason with his will comply;
Hoping, for my excuse, 'twill be confest,
That of two evils I have chose the least.
So, Sir, with this epistolary scroll
Receive the partner of my inmost soul;
Him you will find in letters and in laws
Not unexpert; firm to his country's cause;
Warm in the glorious interest you pursue,
And, in one word, a good man and a true.
By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,
I dispose of all honours, myself having none;
I'm oblig'd by just maxims to govern my life,
Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.
When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak,
And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.
Fair maidens and ladies I by the hand get,
And pick off their diamonds tho' ne'er so well set.
For when I have comrades, we rob in whole bands,
Then presently take off your lands from your hands;
But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts,
That you love me much more than you do your own
FORM'D, half beneath and half above the earth,
We sisters owe to art our second birth;
The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters, Made on the land, to travel on the waters: Swifter they move as they are straiter bound, Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground; They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim, Sink when it rains, and, when it freezes, swim.
CANTATA.
SET BY MONS. GALLIARD.
BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard! supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song;
Ten thousand little Loves around,
List'ning, dwelt on ev'ry sound.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms:
Youth on silent wings is flown;
Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms;
Safe and humble me rest,
From all am'rous care releas'd.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms.
Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Chloe's hair?
Why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?
And why all night pursue her in my dreams
Thro' flow'ry meads and crystal streams?
Thus sung the bard, and thus the Goddess spoke : Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke;
Ev'ry state and ev'ry age
Shall own my rule and fear my rage:
Compell'd by me, thy Muse shall prove
That all the world was born to love.
Bid thy destin'd lyre discover
Soft desire and gentle pain:
Often praise, and always love her;
Thro' her ear her heart obtain.
Verse shall please and sighs shall move her;
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.
MISS Danaë, when fair and young,
(As Horace has divinely sung)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of steel and walls of brass:
The reason of the thing is clear,
Would Jove the naked truth aver;
Cupid was with him of the party,
And shew'd himself sincere and hearty;
For, give that whipster but his errand,
He takes my Lord Chief Justice' warrant;
Dauntless as death away he walks,
Breaks the doors open, snaps the locks,
Searches the parlour, chamber, study,
Norstops till he has Culprit's body.
Since this has been authentic truth,
By age deliver'd down to youth,
Tell us, mistaken Husband, tell us
Why so mysterious, why so jealous?
Does the restraint, the bolt, the bar,
Make us less curious, her less fair?
The spy which does this treasure keep,
Does she ne'er say her pray'rs nor sleep?
Does she to no excess incline?
Does she fly music, mirth, and wine?
Or have not gold and flatt'ry pow'r
To purchase one unguarded hour?
You are does farther ret extend;
That spy is guarded by your friend
But has this friend nor ere not heart?
May be not feel the cruel dart
Which soon or late all mortals feel?
May be not, with too tender zeal,
Give the fair pris'ter cause to see
How much be wishes she were free?
May he not craftily infer
The rules of friendship too severe,
Which chain him to a hated trust,
Which make him wretched, to be just?
And may not she, this darling she,
Youthful and healthy, flesh and blood,
Easy with him, ill us'd by thee,
Allow this logic to be good?
Sir, will your questions never end?
I trust to neither spy nor friend.
In short, I keep her from the sight
Of ev'ry human face.---She'll write.
From pen and paper she's debarr'd.---
Has she a bodkin and a card?
She'll prick her mind.---She will, you say;
But how shall she that mind convey?
I keep her in one room; I lock it;
The key (look here) is in this pocket.
The key-hole, is that left? Most certain.
She'll thrust her letter thro'---Sir Martin.
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