That product only which our paffions bear
Eludes the planter's miserable care.
While blooming Love affures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poifon taints the fecret root;
Soon fall the flowers of Joy, foon feeds of Hatred
Say, fhepherd, fay, are these reflections true?
Or was it but the woman's fear that drew
This cruel scene, unjust to love and you?
Will you be only and for ever mine?
Shall neither time nor age our fouls disjoin?
From this dear bofom fhall I ne'er be torn
Or you grow cold, refpectful, and forfworn?
And can you not for her you love do more
Than any youth for any nymph before?
PROLOGUE Spoken by LORD BUCKHURST,
in WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,
at a representation of Mr. DRYDEN'S CLEOMENES, at Christmas, 1695.
PISH, lord, I with this prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle fpectators, pray excufe the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condefcend to terms like thefe,
I'd go to school fix hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Perfius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they fee a critic frown.
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends:
fcenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you 're treated.
The candles and the cloaths ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Moft of
you fnor'd whilft Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confeffion we would fue
Praise undeferv'd; we know ourselves and you :
Refolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither cenfure fear, nor beg applause,
For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we fee fome judgement well inclin'd,
To young defert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks fhould know,
That greatest fouls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorfet's fpirit.
An ODE, prefented to the KING,
On his MAJESTY'S Arrival in HOLLAND, after the QUEEN's Death, 1695.
"Quis defiderio fit pudor aut modus "Tam cari capitis? præcipe lugubres "Cantus, Melpomene."
T Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)
The Virtues fhall their vigils keep :
And every Mufe, and every Grace,
In folemn state shall ever weep.
II.
The future pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,
Shall vifit her diftinguish'd urn.
III.
For her the wife and great shall mourn,
When late records her deeds repeat:
Ages to come, and men unborn,
Shall bless her name, and figh her fate.
IV.
Fair Albion fhall, with faithful truft,
Her holy queen's fad reliques guard,
Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
And gives the Saint her full reward.
But let the king dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.
If preft by grief our monarch stoops,
In vain the British lions roar :
If he, whofe hand fuftain'd them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.
VII.
Embattled princes wait the chief,
Whofe voice fhould rule, whose arm should lead;
And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
Which hinders Europe being freed.
The great example they demand
Who ftill to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.
IX.
They feek that joy, which us'd to glow,
Expanded on the Hero's face;
When the thick squadrons preft the foe,
And William led the glorious chace.
X.
To give the mourning nations joy,
Reftore them thy aufpicious light,
Great fun with radiant beams destroy
Thofe clouds, which keep thee from our fight.
Let thy fublime meridian course
For Mary's fetting rays atone:
Our luftre, with redoubled force,
Must now proceed from thee alone.
XII.
See, pious king, with different ftrife
Thy struggling Albion's bofom torn:
So much the fears for William's life,
That Mary's fate fhe dares not mourn.
XIII.
Her beauty, in thy fofter half
Bury'd and loft, fhe ought to grieve;
But let her ftrength in thee be fafe;
And let her weep; but let her live.
XIV.
Thou, guardian angel, fave the land
From thy own grief, her fierceft foe;
Left Britain, refcued by thy hand,
Should bend and fink beneath thy woe,
XV.
Her former triumphs all are vain,
Unless new trophies still be fought,
And hoary majesty sustain
The battles which thy youth has fought.
Where now is all that fearful love,
Which made her hate the war's alarms? That foft excefs, with which fhe ftrove To keep her hero in her arms ?
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