But one may baulk this good intent, And take things otherwile than meant. Thus, if you dine my Lord May'r, Roast beef and ven'fon is your fare, Thence you proceed to fwan and buftard, And perfevere in tart and cuftard; But tulip-leaves and lemon-peel Help only to adorn the meal; And painted flags, fuperb and neat, Proclaim you welcome to the treat. The man of fense his meat devours, But only smells the peel and flow'rs; And he must be an idle dreamer, Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the streamer.
That Cupid goes with bow and arrows, And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows, Is all but emblem, to acquaint one The fon is harp, the mother wanton. Such images have fometimes fhown A myftick fenfe, but oft'ner none; For who conceives what bards devife, That heav'n is plac'd in Celia's eyes? Or where's the fenfe, direct and moral, That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral?
Your Horace owns, he various writ, As wild or fober maggots bit; And where too much the poet ranted, The fage philofopher recanted. His grave Epiftles may difprove, The wanton Odes he made to love.
Lucretius keeps a mighty pother With Cupid and his fancy'd mother, Calls her great Queen of earth and air, Declares that winds and feás obey her, And while her honour he rehearses, Implores her to infpire his verses.
Yet, free from this poetick madness, Next page he fays in fober sadness, That the and all her fellow-gods Sit idling in their high abodes, Regardless of this world below, Our health or hanging, weal or wo, Nor once disturb their heav'nly spirits, With Scapin's cheats, or Caefar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin poets prove, Where lies the real feat of love. Jecur they burn, and cor they pierce, As either beft fupplies their verfe; And if folks ask the reason for't, Say, one was long, and th' other short. Thus I prefume the British Muse May take the freedom, ftrangers use, In profe our property is greater; Why fhould it then be less in metre? If Cupid throws a single dart,
We make him wound the lover's heart; But if he takes his bow and quiver, 'Tis fure he must transfix the liver:" For rhyme with reafon may dispense, And found has right to govern fenfe.
But let your friends in verfe fuppofe What ne'er fhall be allow'd in profe, Anatomists can make it clear,
The liver minds his own affair, Kindly fupplies our publick uses,
And parts and ftrains the vital juices, Still lays fome useful bile afide
To tinge the chyle's infipid tide;
Elfe we should want both gibe and fatire, And all be burst with pure good-nature: Now gall is bitter with a witness, And love is all delight and sweetness: My logick then has loft its aim If fweet and bitter are the fame;
And he, methinks, is no good scholar, Who can mistake defire for choler,
The like may of the heart be faid; Courage and terror there are bred. All thofe, whofe hearts are loofe and low, Start, if they hear but the tattoo: And mighty phyfical their fear is; For foon as noife of combat near is, Their heart, defcending to their breeches, Muft give their ftomach cruel twitches : But heroes, who a'ercome or die, Have their hearts hung extremely high, The ftrings of which, in battle's heat, Against their very corflets beat,
Keep time with their own trumpet's measure, And yield'em moft exceffive pleasure,
Now if 'tis chiefly in the heart,
That courage does itfelf exert,
'Twill be prodigious hard to prove, That this is eke the throne of Love.
Would Nature make one place the feat Of fond defire and fell debate?
Muft people only take delight in
Thofe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting? And has no man, but who has kill'd
A father, right to get a child? Thefe notions, then, I think but idle, And love fhall ftill poffefs the middle.
This truth more plainly to difcover, Suppofe, your hero were a lover; Tho' he before had gall and rage, Which death or conqueft muft affuage, He grows difpirited and low, He hates the fight, and fhuns the foe.
In fcornful floth Achilles flept, And for his wench, like Tallboy, wept
Prior. Nor would return to war and flaughter, Till they brought back the parfon's daughter.
Antonius fled from Actium's coast, Auguftus preffing Afia loft:
His fails by Cupid's hand unfurl'd, To keep the fair, he gave the world. Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd, Vig'rous in youth, in arms renown'd, While England's voice and Warwick's care Defign'd him Gallia's beauteous heir, Chang'd peace and pow'r for rage and wars, Only to dry one widow's tears.
France's fourth Henry we may fee A fervant to the fair d'Eftrée ; When quitting Coutras' profp'rous field, And Fortune taught at length to yield, He from his guards and midnight tent Disguis'd o'er hills and vallies went, To wanton with the fprightly dame, And in his pleasure loft his fame.
Bold is the critick who does prove, Thefe heroes were no friends to love; And bolder he who dares aver
That they were ennemies to war:
Yet when their thought fhould, now or never.
Have rais'd their heart, or fir'd their liver,
Fond Alma to those parts was gone,
Which Love may juftly call his own.
Examples I could cite you more;
But be contented with these four; For when one's proofs are aptly chofen,
Four are as valid as four dozen.
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
The other two grew nearer home;
For fome in ancient books delight,
Others prefer what Moderns write: Now I fhould be extremely loath, Not to be thought expert in both.
(Seine Klagen, oder Nachtgedanken über Leben, Tod und Unsterblichkeit, find durch die meisterhafte Ebertische Uebersehung, mit einem so reichhaltigen und lehrreichen Kommentar begleitet, auch in Deutschland zu bekannt, als daß ich hier ihren Werth zu zergliedern, oder eine långere Probe, als die folgende ist, daraus herzufeßen brauchte. Es wäre zu wünschen, daß der klassische Uebersezer noch, mit dem ihn belebenden Geißte Warton's, eine besondre Schrift über das Genie und die Werke seines Dichters ausarbeiten möchte, worin der Charakter desselben unstreitig noch treffens der und lehrreicher würde dargestellt werden, als nur zum Theil in Dusch's Briefen, Th. II. Br. XVI. f. und in Dr. Johnson's Lebensbeschreibung des Dr. Young, geschehen ist.)
Life makes the foul dependent on the duft; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres: Thro' Chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim Life peeps at Light; Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day; All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power. Death has feign'd evils, Nature fhall not feel; Life, Ills fubftantial, Wisdom cannot fhun: Is not the mighty Mind, that fon of heaven!
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