Here shall the pencil bid its colours flow,
And make a miniature creation grow.
Let the machine in equal foldings close,
And now its plaited surface wide dispose.
So shall the fair her idle hand employ,
And grace each motion with the restless toy;
With various play bid grateful zephyrs rise,
While Love in every grateful zephyr flies."

The master Cupid traces out the lines,
And with judicious hand the draught designs:
Th' expecting Loves with joy the model view,
And the joint labour eagerly pursue.
Some slit their arrows with the nicest art,
And into sticks convert the shiver'd dart;
The breathing bellows wake the sleeping fire,
Blow off the cinders, and the sparks aspire;
Their arrow's point they soften in the flame,
And sounding hammers break its barbed frame:
Of this the little pin they neatly mold,

From whence their arms the spreading sticks unfold;

In equal plaits they now the paper bend,
And at just distance the wide ribs extend ;
Then on the frame they mount the limber skreen,
And finish instantly the new machine.

The goddess, pleas'd, the curious work receives,
Remounts her chariot, and the grotto leaves;
With the light Fan she moves the yielding air,
And gales, till then unknown, play round the fair.
Unhappy lovers, how will ye withstand,
When these new arms shall grace your charmer's
hand?

In ancient times, when maids in thought were pure,
When eyes were artless, and the look demure;
When the wide ruff the well-turn'd neck enclos'd,
And heaving breasts within the stays repos'd;
When the close hood conceal'd the modest ear,
Fre black-lead combs disown'd the virgin's hair:
Then in the muff unactive fingers lay,
Nor taught the Fan in fickle forms to play.

How are the sex improv'd in amorous arts!
What new-found sr.ares they bait for human hearts!
When kindling war the ravag'd globe ran o'er,
And fatten'd thirsty plains with human gore,
At first, the brandish'd arm the javelin threw,
Or sent wing'd arrows from the twanging yew;
In the bright air the dreadful falchion shone,
Or whistling slings dismiss'd th' uncertain stone.
Now men those less destructive arms despise ;
Wide-wasteful death from thundering cannon flies:
One hour with more battalions strows the plain,
Than were of yore in weekly battles slain.
So Love with fatal airs the nymph supplies,
Her dress disposes, and directs her eyes.
The bosom now its panting beauties shows;
Th' experienc'd eye resistless glances throws;
Now vary'd patches wander o'er the face,
And strike each gazer with a borrow'd grace;
The fickle head-dress sinks, and now aspires
A towery front of lace on branching wires ;
The curling hair in tortur'd ringlets flows,
Or round the face in labour'd order grows.

How shall I soar, and on unweary wing Trace varying babits upward to their spring! What force of thought, what numbers, can express Th' inconstant equipage of female dress! How the strait stays the slender waist constrain, How to adjust the manteau's sweeping train! What fancy can the petticoat surround, With the capacious hoop of whale-bone bound!

But stay, presumptuous Muse! nor boldly dare The toilette's sacred mysteries declare.

Let a just distance be to beauty paid;
None here must enter but the trusty maid.
Should you the wardrobe's magazine rehearse,
And glossy manteau's rustle in thy verse;
Should you the rich brocaded suit unfold,
Where rising flowers grow stiff with frosted gold;
The dazzled Muse would from her subject stray,
And in a maze of fashions lose her way.

THE FAN.

BOOK II.

OLYMPUS' gates unfold; in Heaven's high towers Appear in council all th' immortal powers. Great Jove above the rest exalted sate, And in his mind revolv'd succeeding fate; His awful eye with ray superior shone; The thunder-grasping eagle guards his throne; On silver clouds the great assembly laid, The whole creation at one view survey'd.

But see! fair Venus comes in all her state; The wanton Loves and Graces round her wait; With her loose robe officious Zephyrs play, And strew with odoriferous flowers the way; In her bright hand she waves the fluttering Fan; And thus, in melting sounds, her speech began :

"Assembled powers! who fickle mortals guide,
Who o'er the sea, the skies, and earth, preside;
Ye fountains! whence all human blessings flow,
Who pour your bounties on the world below;
Bacchus first rais'd and prun'd the climbing vine,
And taught the grape to stream with generous wine;
Industrious Ceres tam'd the savage ground,
And pregnant fields with golden harvests crown'd;
Flora with bloomy sweets enrich'd the year;
And fruitful Autumn is Pomona's care.

I first taught woman to subdue mankind,
And all her native charms with dress refin'd;
Celestial synod! this machine survey,
That shades the face, or bids cool Zephyrs play,
If conscious blushes on her cheek arise,
With this she veils them from her lover's eyes;
No levell'd glance betrays her amorous heart,
From the Fan's ambush she directs the dart.
The royal sceptre shines in Juno's hand,
And twisted thunder speaks great Jove's command;
On Pallas' arm the Gorgon shield appears,
And Neptune's mighty grasp the trident bears;
Ceres is with the bending sickle seen,
And the strong bow points out the Cynthian queen;
Henceforth the waving Fan my hands shall grace,
The waving Fan supply the sceptre's place.
Who shall, ye powers! the forming pencil hold?
What story shall the wide machine unfold ?
Let Loves and Graces lead the dance around,
With myrtle-wreaths and flowery chaplets crown'd;
Let Cupid's arrow strow the smiling plains
With unresisting nymphs and amorous swains:
May glowing pictures o'er the surface shine,
To melt slow virgins with a warm design!"

Diana rose, with silver crescent crown'd,
And fix'd her modest eyes upon the ground;
Then with becoming mien she rais'd her head,
And thus, with graceful voice, the virgin said:
"Has woman then forgot all former wiles,
The watchful ogle, and delusive smiles?

Let these amours adorn the new machine,
And female Nature on the piece be seen;
So shall the fair, as long as Fans shall last,
Learn from your bright examples to be chaste."

THE FAN.

BOOK III.

THUS Momus spoke. When sage Minerva rose;
From her sweet lips smooth elocution flows;
Her skilful hand an ivory pallet grac'd,
Where shining colours were in order plac'd.
As gods are bless'd with a superior skill,

And, swift as mortal thought, perform their will;
Straight she proposes, by her art divine,
To bid the paint express her great design.
Th' assembled powers consent. She now began,
And her creating pencil stain'd the Fan.

O'er the fair field trees spread, and rivers flow, Towers rear their heads, and distant mountains grow;

Life seems to move within the glowing veins,
And in each face some lively passion reigns.
Thus have I seen woods, hills, and dales appear,
Flocks graze the plains, birds wing the silent air,
In darken'd rooms, where light can only pass
Through the small circle of a convex glass;
On the white sheet the moving figures rise,
The forest waves, clouds float along the skies.
She various fables on the piece design'd,
That spoke the follies of the female kind.
The fate of pride in Niobe she drew
(Be wise, ye nymphs, that scornful vice subdue).
In a wide plain th' imperious mother stood,
Whose distant bounds rose in a winding wood;
Upon her shoulder flows her mantling hair,
Pride marks her brow, and elevates her air;
A purple robe behind her sweeps the ground,
Whose spacious border golden flowers surround;
She made Latona's altars cease to flame,
And of due honours robb'd her sacred name;
To her own charms she bade fresh incense rise,
And adoration own her brighter eyes.
Seven daughters from her fruitful loins were born,
Seven graceful sons her nuptial bed adorn,
Who, for a mother's arrogant disdain,
Were by Latona's double offspring slain.
Here Phoebus his unerring arrow drew,
And from his rising steed her first-born threw;
His opening fingers drop the slacken'd rein,
And the pale corse falls headlong to the plain.
Beneath her pencil here two wrestlers bend,
See, to the grasp their swelling nerves distend;
Diana's arrow joins them face to face,
And death unites them in a strict embrace.
Another here flies trembling o'er the plain
(When Heaven pursues, we shun the stroke in
This lifts his supplicating hands and eyes, [vain):
And 'midst his humble adoration dies.
As from his thigh this tears the barbed dart,
A surer weapon strikes his throbbing heart:
While that to raise his wounded brother tries,
Death blasts his bloom, and locks his frozen eyes.
The tender sisters, bath'd in grief, appear
With sable garments and dishevell'd hair,
And o'er their gasping brothers weeping stood;
Some with their treases stopt the gushing blood;

They strive to stay the fleeting life too late,
And in the pious action share their fate.
Now the proud dame, o'ercome by trembling fear,
With her wide robe protects her only care;
To save her only care in vain she tries,
Close at her feet the latest victim dies.
Down her fair cheek the trickling sorrow flows,
Like dewy spangles on the blushing rose;
Fixt in astonishment she weeping stood,
The plain all purple with her children's blood;
She stiffens with her woes; no more her hair
In easy ringlets wantons in the air;
Motion forsakes her eyes; her veins are dry'd,
And beat no longer with the sanguine tide:
All life is filed; firm marble now she grows,
Which still in tears the mother's anguish shows,

Ye haughty fair, your painted Fans display,
And the just fate of lofty pride survey.
Though lovers oft extol your beauty's power,
And in celestial similies adore;

Though from your features Cupid borrows arms,
And goddesses confess inferior charms;

Do not, vain maid, the flattering tale believe,
Alike thy lovers and thy glass deceive.

Here lively colours Procris' passion tell,
Who to her jealous fears a victim fell.
Here kneels the trembling hunter o'er his wife,
Who rolls her sickening eyes, and gasps for life;
Her drooping head upon her shoulder lies,
And purple gore her snowy bosom dyes.
What guilt, what horrour, on his face appears!
See, his red eye-lid seems to swell with tears;
With agony his wringing hands he strains,
And strong convulsions stretch his branching veins.
Learn hence, ye wives! bid vain suspicion cease,
Lose not, in sullen discontent, your peace:
For, when fierce love to jealousy ferments,
A thousand doubts and fears the soul invents;
No more the days in pleasing converse flow,
And nights no more their soft endearments know.
There on the piece the Volscian queen expir'd,
The love of spoils her female bosom fir'd.
Gay Chloreus' arms attract her longing eyes,
And for the painted plume and helm she sighs;
Fearless she follows, bent on gaudy prey,
Till an ill-fated dart obstructs her way;
Down drops the martial maid; the bloody ground
Floats with a torrent from the purple wound ;
The mournful nymphs her drooping head sustain,
And try to stop the gushing life in vain.

Thus the raw maid some tawdry coat surveys, Where the fop's fancy in embroidery plays; His snowy feather, edg'd with crimson dyes, And his bright sword-knot, lure her wandering eyes; Fring'd gloves and gold brocade conspire to move, Till the nymph falls a sacrifice to love.

Here young Narcissus o'er the fountain stood, And view'd his image in the crystal flood; The crystal flood reflects his lovely charms, And the pleas'd image strives to meet his arms. No nymph his unexperienc'd breast subdued, Echo in vain the flying boy pursued, Himself alone the foolish youth admires, And with fond look the smiling shade desires: O'er the smooth lake with fruitless tears he grieves, His spreading fingers shoot in verdant leaves, Through his pale veins green sap now gently flows, And in a short-liv'd flower his beauty blows.

Let vain Narcissus warn each female breast, That beauty's but a transient good at best.

Like flowers it withers with th' advancing year;
And age, like Winter, robs the blooming fair.
Oh, Araminta! cease thy wonted pride,
Nor longer in thy faithless charms confide!
Ev'n while the glass reflects thy sparkling eyes,
Their lustre and thy rosy colour flies!

Thus on the Fan the breathing figures shine,
And all the powers applaud the wise design.

The Cyprian queen the painted gift receives, And with a grateful bow the synod leaves. To the low world she bends her steepy way, Where Strephon pass'd the solitary day. She found him in a melancholy grove, His down-cast eyes betray'd desponding love; The wounded bark confess'd his slighted flame, And every tree bore false Corinna's name : In a cool shade he lay with folded arms, Curses his fortune, and upbraids her charms; When Venus to his wondering eyes appears, And with these words relieves his amorous cares: "Rise! happy youth; this bright machine surWhose rattling sticks my busy fingers sway; [vey, This present shall thy cruel charmer move, And in her fickle bosom kindle love.

"The Fan shall flutter in all female hands, And various fashions learn from various lands. For this shall elephants their ivory shed; And polish'd sticks the waving engine spread : His.clouded mail the tortoise shall resign, And round the rivet pearly circles shine. On this shall Indians all their art employ, And with bright colours stain the gaudy toy; Their paint shall here in wildest fancies flow, Their dress, their customs, their religion, show: So shall the British fair their minds improve, And on the Fan to distant climates rove. Here China's ladies shall their pride display, And silver figures gild their loose array; This boasts her little feet and winking eyes; That tunes the fife, or tinkling cymbal plies: Here cross-legg'd nobles in rich state shall dine; There in bright mail distorted heroes shine. The peeping Fan in modern times shall rise, Through which unseen the female ogle flies; This shall in temples the sly maid conceal, And shelter Love beneath Devotion's veil. Gay France shall make the Fan her artist's care, And with the costly trinket arm the fair. As learned orators, that touch the heart, With various action raise their soothing art, Both head and hand affect the listening throng, And humour each expression of the tongue; So shall each passion by the Fan be seen, From noisy anger to the sullen spleen." While Venus spoke, joy shone in Strephon's eyes; Proud of the gift, he to Corinna flies: But Cupid (who delights in amorous ill, Wounds hearts, and leaves them to a woman's will) With certain aim a golden arrow drew, Which to Leander's panting bosom flew. Leander lov'd, and to the sprightly dame In gentle sighs reveal'd his growing flame: Sweet smiles Corinna to his sighs returns, And for the fop in equal passion burns.

Lo, Strephon comes! and, with a suppliant bow, Offers the present, and renews his vow.

When she the fate of Niobe beheld, "Why has my pride against my heart rebell'd?" She sighing cry'd. Disdain forsook her breast, And Strephon now was thought a worthy guest.

GREAT marvel hath it been (and that not unworthily) to diverse worthy wits, that in this our island of Britain, in all rare sciences so greatly abounding, more especially in all kinds of poesy highly flourishing, no poet (though otherwise of notable cunning in roundelays) hath hit on the right simple eclogue after the true ancient guise of Theocritus, before this mine attempt.

Other poet travailing in this plain highway of pastoral know I none. Yet, certes, such it behoved a pastoral to be, as Nature in the country affordeth; and the manners also meetly copied from the rustical folk therein. In this also my love to my native country Britain much pricketh. me forward, to describe aright the manners of our own honest and laborious ploughmen, in no wise sure more unworthy a British poet's imitation, than those of Sicily or Arcadie; albeit, not ignorant I am, what a rout and rabblement of critical gallimawfry hath been made of late days by certain young men of insipid delicacy, concerning, I wist not what, golden age, and other outrageous conceits, to which they would confine pastoral. Whereof, I avow, I account nought at all, knowing no age so justly to be instiled golden, as this of our sovereign lady queen Anne.

This idle trumpery (only fit for schools and school-boys) unto that ancient Doric shepherd Theocritus, or his mates, was never known; he rightly, throughout his fifth Idyll, maketh his louts give foul language, and behold their goats at rut in all simplicity:

'Ω πόλος καὶ ἐσορῇ τὰς μηκάδας, οἷα βατοῦνται, Τάκεται ὀφθαλμῶς, ὅτι οὐ τράγος αὐτὸς ἐγέντο Theoc. Id. i. 87.

Verily, as little pleasance receiveth a true homebred taste, from all the fine finical newfangled fooleries of this gay Gothic garniture,

wherewith they so nicely bedeck their court clowns, or clown courtiers, (for, which to call them rightly, I wot not) as would a prudent citizen journeying to his country farms, should he find them occupied by people of this motley make, instead of plain downright hearty cleanly folk, such as be now tenants to the burgesses of this realm.

Furthermore, it is my purpose, gentle reader, to set before thee, as it were a picture, or rather lively landschape of thy own country, just as thou mightest see it, didest thou take a walk into the fields at the proper season: even as maister Milton hath elegantly set forth the same:

As one who long in populous city pent,
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,
Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe
Among the pleasant villages and farms
Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight;
The smell of grain or tedded grass or kine
Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound.

Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves, or, if the hogs are astray, driving them to the styes. My shepherd gathereth none other nosegays but what are the growth of our own fields; he sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge; nor doth he vigilantly defend his flocks from wolves, because there are none, as maister Spenser well observeth:

Well is known that since the Saxon king
Never was wolf seen, many or some
Nor in all Kent nor in Christendom.

For as much as I have mentioned maister Spenser, soothly I must acknowledge him a bard of sweetest memorial. Yet hath his shepherd's boy at some times raised his rustic reed to rhymes more rumbling than rural. Diverse grave points also hath he handled of churchly matter, and doubts in religion dally arising, to great clerks only appertaining. What liketh me best are his names, indeed right simple and meet for the country, such as Lobbin, Cuddy, Hobbinol, Diggon, and others, some of which I have made bold to borrow. Moreover, as he called his eclogues, the Shepherd's Calendar, and divided the same into twelve months, I have chosen (peradventure not over-rashly) to name mine by the days of the week, omitting Sunday or the Sabbath, ours being supposed to be Christian shepherds, and to be then at church-worship. Yet further of many of maister Spenser's eclogues it may be observed; though months they be called, of the said months therein nothing is specified; wherein I have also esteemed him worthy mine imitation.

That principally, courteous reader, whereof I would have thee to be advertised, (seeing I depart from the vulgar usage) is touching the language of my shepherds; which is, soothly to say, such as is neither spoken by the country maiden or the courtly dame; nay, not only such as in the present times is not uttered, but was never uttered in times past; and, if 1 judge aright, will never be uttered in times future: it having too much of the country to be fit for the court, too much of the court to be fit for the country; too much of the language of old times to be fit for the present,

THE LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE

Lo, I who erst beneath a tree
Sung Bumkinet and Bowzybee,
And Blouzelind and Marian bright,
In apron blue or apron white,
Now write my sonnets in a book,
For my good lord of Bolingbroke.

As lads and lasses stood around
To hear my boxen hautboy sound,
Our clerk came posting o'er the green
With doleful tidings of the queen;
"That queen," he said, "to whom we owe
Sweet peace, that maketh riches flow;
That queen, who eas'd our tax of late,
Was dead, alas !—and lay in state."

At this, in tears was Cicely seen,
Buxoma tore her pinners clean,
In doleful dumps stood every clown,
The parson rent his band and gown.

For me, when as I heard that Death
Had snatch'd queen Anne to Elizabeth,
I broke my reed, and, sighing, swore,
I'd weep for Blouzelind no more.

While thus we stood as in a stound,
And wet with tears, like dew, the ground,
Full soon by bonfire and by bell
We learnt our liege was passing well.
A skilful leach (so God him speed)
They said, had wrought this blessed deed.
This leach Arbuthnot was y clept,
Who many a night not once had slept;
But watch'd our gracious sovereign still;
For who could rest when she was ill?
Oh, may'st thou henceforth sweetly sleep!
Sheer, swains, oh! sheer your softest sheep,
To swell his couch; for, well I ween,
He sav'd the realm, who sav'd the queen.
Quoth I, "Please God, I'll hye with glee
To court, this Arbuthnot to see."

I sold my sheep, and lambkins too,
For silver loops and garment blue;