« PreviousContinue »
Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turn'd,
Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'de
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the sun and he had lost their way.
But now th' illustrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond’ring Nereids, tho' they rais'd no storm,
Foreflow'd her pasage, to behold her form:
Some cry'd, A Venus ; fome, A Thetis past;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chafte.
Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And Envy did but look on her, and dy'd.
Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate,
Her fight is purchas'd at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were fet ;
But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:
Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine past, the plenty still to come.
For her the weeping heavens become serene;
For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:
For her the nightingales are taught to fing,
And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays,
And Love restor’d his ancient realm surveys,
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays;
His waste dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign..
But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Dispensing what she never will admit:
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's filver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Dittemper'd Zeal, Sedition, cankerd Hate,
No more shall vex the church, and tear the state:
No more shall Faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best should love the duke, and serve the king.
LETTER to Sir GEORGE ETHEREDGE.
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From tropic e’en to pole artique;
have such a constitution
As no where suffers diminution,
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty missioner you come
- Ad Parces Infidelium.”
A work of wond'rous merit fure,
So far to go, so much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came.
• Vol. II.
Less had you done, had you been sent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity;
Where love-fick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's so dull,
That is not of
Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sow'd on Almain acres:
No, that was left by fate's decree,
To be perform'd and fung by thee.
Thou break'st thro' forms with as much ease
As the French king thro' articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With such as monarchs represent.
They, whom such vaft fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To thew the world that now and then
Great ministers are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers ev'ry king is crown'd;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his
These Dutch delights, I mention's last,
Suit not, I know, your English taste:
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your excellence,
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but sleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the four sauce to the sweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That setting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas’d in humble way
To write a trifle call’d a Play.
This truly is a degradation,
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wise negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will say,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarcē,
of Bucks has made a farce,
whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But scribble fafter if you can:
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning:
COMEDY call’d, The Wives Excuse.
URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while these malignant planets reign.
foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:
And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed,
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
Farce, in itself, is of a nafty fcent;
But the gain smells not of the excrement.
The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a single show:
But let a monster Muscovite appear,
He draws a crowded audience round the year.
May be thou haft not pleas'd the box and pit;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
So Terence plotted, but fo Terence writ.
Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean;
E’en lewdneis is made moral in thy scene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But reft secure, the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hissid,
But with a kind civility dismiss’d;