Death with a husband ne'er had shown such charms,
Had she once died within a lover's arms.
Her errour was from ignorance proceeding:
Poor soul! she wanted some of our town-breeding!
Forgive this Indian's fondness of her spouse;
Their law no Christian liberty allows :
Alas! they make a conscience of their vows!
If virtue in a Heathen be a fault,

Then damn the heathen school where she was taught.

She might have learn'd to cuckold, jilt, and sham, Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.

PROLOGGUE

TO THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD, A COMEDY,

WRITTEN BY MR. J. DRYDEN, JUN.

THIS year has been remarkable two ways,
For blooming poets, and for blasted plays:
We've been by much appearing plenty mock'd,
At once both tantaliz'd and over-stock'd.
Our authors, too, by their success of late,
Begin to think third-days are out of date.
What can the cause be, that our plays won't keep,
Unless they have a rot some years, like sheep?
For our parts, we confess, we're quite asham'd,
To read such weekly bills of poets damn'd.
Each parish knows 'tis but a mournful case
When christenings fall, and funerals increase.
Thus is, and thus 'twill be, when we are dead,
There will be writers which will ne'er be read.
Why will you be such wits, and write such things
You're willing to be wasps, but want the stings.
Let not your spleen provoke you to that height;
'Odslife! you don't know what you do, sirs, when
you write.

You'll find that Pegasus has tricks, when try'd,
Though you make nothing on't, but up and ride:
Ladies and all, i'faith, now get astride.
Contriving characters, and scenes, and plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting knots:
With the same ease, and negligence of thought,
The charming play is writ, and fringe is wrought..
Though this be frightful, yet we're more afraid,
When ladies leave, that beaux will take the trade:
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twould stop,
But should they write, we must e'en shut up shop.
How shall we make this mode of writing sink?
A mode, said I? 'tis a disease, I think,
A stubborn tetter, that's not cur'd with ink.
For still it spreads, till each th' infection takes,
And seizes ten, for one that it forsakes.

Our play to day is sprung from none of these;
Nor should you damn it, though it does not please,
Since born without the bounds of your four seas.
For if you grant no favour as 'tis new,
Yet, as a stranger, there is something due :
From Rome (to try its fate) this play was sent;
Start not at Rome! for there's no popery meant:
Though there the poet may his dwelling choose,
Yet still be knows his country claims his Muse.
Hither an offering his first-born he sends,
Whose good or ill success on you depends.
Yet he has hope some kinduess may be shown,
As due to greater merit than his own,
And begs the sire may for the son atone.

There's his last refuge, if the play don't take, Yet spare young Dryden for his father's sake.

PROLOGUE

TO A VERY GOOD WIFE,

A COMEDY, BY POWELL

SPOKEN BY MR. HAINES.

HERE'S a young fellow here-an actor-Powell-
One whose person, perhaps, you all may know well;
And he has writ a play-this very play
Which you are all come here to see, to day;
And so, being an usual thing to speak
Something or other for the author's sake,
Before the play, (in hopes to make it take)
I'm come, being his friend and fellow-player,
To say what (if you please) you're like to hear.
First know, that favour which I'd fain have shown,
I ask not for, in his name, but my own;
For, without vanity, I'm better known.
Mean time, then, let me beg you would forbear
Your cat-calls, and the instruments of war.

For mercy, mercy, at your feet we fall,
Before your roaring gods destroy us all!
I'll speak with words sweet as distilling honey,
With words-as if I meant to borrow money;
Fair, gentle sirs, most soft alluring beaux,
Think 'tis a lady, that for pity sues.
Bright ladies-but to gain the ladies grace,
I think I need no more than show my face.
Next then, you authors, be not you severe;
Why, what a swarm of scribblers have we here!
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
All in one row, and brothers of the pen.
All would be poets; well, your favour's due
To this day's author, for he's one of you.
Among the few which are of noted fame,"
I'm safe; for I myself am one of them.
You've seen me smoke at Will's among the wits;
I'm witty too, as they are-that's by fits.
Now, you, our city friends, who hither come
By three o'clock, to make sure elbow-room:
While spouse, tuckt-up, does in her pattens trudge
it,

[ten,

With handkerchief of prog, like troll with budget, And here, by turns, you eat plumb-cake and judge it:

Pray, be you kind, let me your grace importune,
Or else-egad, I'll tell you all your fortune.
Well, now, I have but one thing more to say,
And that's in reference to our third day;
An odd request-may be you'll think it so;
Pray come, whether you like the play or no:
And if you'll stay, we shall be glad to see you,
If not-leave your half-crowns, and peace be wi'
you!

PROLOGUE TO THE COURT,

ON THE QUEEN'S BIRTH-DAY,
1701.

THe happy Muse, to this high scene preferr'd,
Hereafter shall in loftier strains be heard;

Soon as I reach'd to crop the tender shoot,
A shrieking mandrake kill'd it at the root.
Witness to this, ye fawns of every wood,
Who at the prodigy astonish'd stood.
Well I remember what sad signs ye made,
What showers of unavailing tears ye shed;
How each ran fearful to his mossy cave,
When the last gasp the dear Amyntas gave.
For then the air was fill'd with dreadful cries,
And sudden night olerspread the darken'd skies;
Phantoms, and fiends, and wandering fires ap-
pear'd,

And screams of ill-presaging birds were heard.
The forest shook, and flinty rocks were cleft,
And frighted streams their wonted channels left;
With frantic grief o'erflowing fruitful ground,
Where many a herd and harmless swain was
drown'd;

While I forlorn and desolate was left,
Of every help, of every hope bereft ;
To every element expos'd I lay,

And to my griefs a more defenceless prey.
For thee, Amyntas, all these pains were borne,
For thee these hands were wrung, these hairs were
torn;

For thee my soul to sigh shall never leave,
These eyes to weep, this throbbing heart to heave.
To mourn thy fall, I'll fly the hated light,
And hide my head in shades of endless night:
For thou wert light, and life, and health, to me;
The Sun but thankless shines that shows not thee.
Wert thou not lovely, graceful, good, and young?
The joy of sight, the talk of every tongue?
Did ever branch so sweet a blossom bear?
Or ever early fruit appear so fair?

Did ever youth so far his years transcend?
Did ever life so immaturely end?
For thee the tuneful swains provided lays,
And every Muse prepar'd thy future praise.
For thee the busy nymph stripp'd every grove,
And myrtle wreaths and flowery chaplets wove.
But now, ah dismal change! the tuneful throng
To loud lamentings turn the cheerful song.
Their pleasing task the weeping virgins leave,
And with unfinish'd garlands strew thy grave.
There let me fall, there, there lamenting lie,
There grieving grow to earth, despair, and die."
This said, her loud complaint of force she ceas'd,
Excess of grief her faultering speech suppress'd.
Along the ground her colder limbs she laid,
Where late the grave was for Amyntas made;
Then from her swimming eyes began to pour
Of softly-falling rain a silver shower;
Her loosely-flowing hair, all radiant bright,
O'erspread the dewy grass like streams of light:
As if the Sun had of his beams been shorn,
And cast to Earth the glories he had worn.
A sight so lovely sad, such deep distress
No tongue can tell, no pencil can express.

And now the winds, which had so long been still,
-Began the swelling air with sighs to fill:
The water-nymphs, who motionless remain'd,
Like images of ice, while she complain'd,
Now loos'd their streams; as when descending
rains

Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains.
The prone creation, who so long had gaz'd,
Charm'd with her cries, and at her griefs amaz'd,
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell;

Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,
And Echo multiplied each mournful sound.
When all at once an universal pause

Of grief was made, as from some secret cause.
The balmy air with fragrant scents was fill'd,.
As if each weeping tree had gums distill'd.
Such, if not sweeter, was the rich perfume
Which swift ascended from Amyntas' tomb:
As if th' Arabian bird her nest had fir'd,
And on the spicy pile were now expir'd.

And now the turf, which late was naked seen,
Was sudden spread with lively-springing green;
And Amaryllis saw, with wondering eyes,
A flowery bed, where she had wept, arise;
Thick as the pearly drops the fair had shed,
The blowing buds advanc'd their purple head;
From every tear that fell a violet grew,
And thence their sweetness came, and thence their
mournful hue.

Remember this, ye nymphs and gentle maids, When solitude ye seek in gloomy shades; Or walk on banks where silent waters flow, For there this lovely flower will love to grow. Think on Amyntas oft as ye shall stoop To crop the stalks, and take them softly up. When in your snowy necks their sweets you wear, Give a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear: To lov'd Amyntas pay the tribute due, And bless his peaceful grave, where first they grew

TO CYNTHIA,

WEEPING AND NOT SPEAKING.

ELEGY.

WHY are those hours, which Heaven in pity lent
To longing love, in fruitless sorrow spent?
Why sighs my fair? why does that bosom move
With any passion stirr'd, but rising love?
Can Discontent find place within that breast,
On whose soft pillows ev'n Despair might rest?
Divide thy woes, and give me my sad part;
I am no stranger to an aching heart;
Too well I know the force of inward grief,
And well can bear it to give you relief:
All love's severest pangs I can endure:
I can bear pain, though hopeless of a cure.
I know what 'tis to weep, and sigh, and pray,
To wake all night, yet dread the breaking day;
I know what 'tis to wish, and hope, and all in vain,
And meet, for humble love, unkind disdain:
Anger and hate I have been forc'd to bear,
Nay, jealousy--and I have felt despair.
These pains for you I have been forc'd to prove,
For cruel you, when I began to love.
Till warm compassion took at length my part,
And melted to my wish your yielding heart.
O the dear hour in which you did resign!
When round my neck your willing arms did twine,
And, in a kiss, you said your heart was mine.
Through each returning year may that hour be
Distinguish'd in the rounds of all eternity;
Gay be the Sun that hour in all his light,
Let him collect the day to be more bright,
Shine all that hour, and let the rest be night,
And shall I all this Heaven of bliss receive
From you, yet not lament to see you grieve!

Shall I, who nourish'd in my breast desire,
When your cold scorn and frowns forbid the fire;
Now when a mutual flame you have reveal'd,
And the dear union of our souls is seal'd,
When all my joys complete in you I find,
Shall I not share the sorrows of your mind?
O tell me, tell me all-whence does arise

This flood of tears? whence are these frequent sighs?

Why does that lovely head, like a fair flower
Oppress'd with drops of a hard-falling shower,
Bend with its weight of grief, and seem to grow
Downward to earth, and kiss the root of woe?
Lean on my breast, and let me fold thee fast,
Lock'd in these arms, think all thy sorrows past;
Or what remain think lighter made by me;
So I should think, were I so held by thee.
Murmur thy plaints, and gently wound my ears;
Sigh on my lip, and let me drink thy tears;
Join to my cheek thy cold and dewy face,
And let pale grief to glowing love give place.
O speak-for woe in silence most appears;
Speak, ere my fancy magnify my fears.
Is there a cause which words can not express?
Can I not bear a part, nor make it less?
I know not what to think-am I in fault?
I have not, to my knowledge, err'd in thought,
Nor wander'd from my love; nor would I be
Lord of the world, to live depriv'd of thee.
You weep afresh, and at that word you start!
Am I to be depriv'd then?—must we part
t?
Curse on that word so ready to be spoke,
For through my lips, unmeant by me, it broke.
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part,
And my tongue talks, unprompted by my heart.
Yet speak, for my destruction grows apace,
And racking fears and restless doubts increase,
And fears and doubts to jealousy will turn,
The hottest Hell, in which a heart can burn.

AMORET.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray;

Pursue and seek her, every lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both study'd, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.

LESBIA.

WHEN Lesbia first I saw so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, bold as his who snatch'd celestial fire..

But soon as e'er the beauteous ideot spoke,
Forth from her coral lips such folly broke,
Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,
And what her eyes enthrall'd her tongue unbound

DORIS.

DORIS, a nymph of riper age,
Has every grace and art,
A wise observer to engage,

Or wound a heedless heart.

Of native blush, and rosy dye,

Time has her cheek bereft ;
Which makes the prudent nymph supply
With paint th' injurious theft.

Her sparkling eyes she still retains,
And teeth in good repair;
And her well-furnish'd front disdains
To grace with borrow'd hair.

Of size, she is nor short, nor tall,

And does to fat incline

No more than what the French would call Aimable Embonpoint.

Farther her person to disclose

I leave let it suffice,

She has few faults but what she knows,
And can with skill disguise.

She many lovers has refus'd,

With many more comply'd; Which, like her clothes, when little us'd, She always lays aside.

She's one who looks with great contempt
On each affected creature,

Whose nicety would seem exempt
From appetites of Nature.

She thinks they want or health or sense,
Who want an inclination;

And therefore never takes offence

At him who pleads his passion.

Whom she refuses she treats still

With so much sweet behaviour, That her refusal, through her skill, Looks almost like a favour.

Since she this softness can express
To those whom she rejects,
She must be very fond, you'll guess,
Of such whom she affects:

But here our Doris far outgoes
All that her sex have done;
She no regard for custom knows,
Which reason bids her shun.

By reason her own reason's meant,
Or, if you please, her will:
For, when this last is discontent,
The first is serv'd but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her way;
Whether by Nature taught,
Í shall not undertake to say,
Or by experience bought.

But who o'er night obtain'd her grace,

She cau next day disown,

And stare upon the strange man's face,
As one she ne'er had known.

So well she can the truth disguise,
Such artful wonder frame,
The lover or distrusts his eyes,

Or thinks 'twas all a dream.

Some censure this as lewd and low,
Who are to bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow
Bespeaks a noble inind.

Doris our thanks nor asks, nor needs:
For all her favours done

From her love flow, as light proceeds Spontaneous from the Sun.

On one or other still her fires

Display their genial force; And she, like Sol, alone retires, To shine elsewhere of course.

TO SLEEP.

ELEGY.

O SLEEP! thou flatterer of happy minds,
How soon a troubled breast thy falsehood finds?
Thou common friend, officious in thy aid,
Where no distress is shown, nor want betray'd:
But oh! how swift, how sure thou art to shun
The wretch by fortune or by love undone !
Where are thy gentle dews, thy softer powers,
Which us'd to wait upon my midnight hours?
Why dost thou cease thy hovering wings to spread,
With friendly shade, around my restless bed?
Cau no complainings thy compassion move?
Is thy antipathy so strong to love?

O no! thou art the prosperous lover's friend,
And dost, uncall'd, his pleasing toils attend.
With equal kindness, and with rival charms,
Thy slumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bosom he to thine retires,
Where, sooth'd with case, the panting youth re-
spires,

Till soft repose restore his drooping sense,
And rapture is reliev'd by indolence.

But oh! what torture does the lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by despair!
From racking thoughts by no kind slumber freed,
But painful nights his joyless days succeed.
But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou ease, my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has said;
I own, unjustly I thy sloth upbraid.
For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repell'd,
And my reluctant eyes from rest withheld;
Implor'd the Muse to break thy gentle chains,
And sung with Philomel my nightly strains.
With her I sing, but cease not with her song,
For more enduring woes my days prolong.
The morning lark to mine accords his note,
And tunes to my distress his warbling throat:
Each setting and each rising Sun I mourn,
Wailing alike his absence and return.
And all for thee-what had I well nigh said?
Let me not name thee, thou too charming maid !

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

OCCASIONED BY LY'S PICTURE

VIELD, O Kneller! to superior skill, Thy pencil triumphs o'er the poet's quill: If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her lays, It is no more to rival thee, but praise.

Oft have I try'd, with unavailing care, To trace some image of the much-lov'd fair; But still my numbers ineffectual prov'd, And rather show'd how much, than whom, I lov'd But thy unerring hands, with matchless art, Have shown my eyes th' impression in my heart; The bright idea both exists and lives, Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives: Whose daring point, not to the face confin'd, Cau penetrate the heart, and paint the mind.

Others some faint resemblance may express,
Which, as 'tis drawn by chance, we find by guess,
Thy pictures raise no doubts; when brought to
view,

At once they're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent artist! how complete thy skill!
Thy power to act is equal to thy will.
Nature and Art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befriend ;
For what thy fancy has with fire design'd,
Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin'd.
As in thy pictures light consents with shade,
And each to other is subservient made,
Judgment and genius so concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect harmony.

But after-days, my friend, must do thee right,
And set thy virtues in unenvy'd light.
Fame due to vast desert is kept in store,
Unpaid, till the deserver is no more.
Yet thou, in present, the best part hast gain'd,
And from the chosen few applause obtain❜d:
Ev'n he who best could judge, and best could