And taught blind harpers for their bread sneak,
From feast to feast to make cats dead squeak.
Nor Martial giv'n so great offences,
With epigrams of double senses.

Rhyme then had ne'er been scann'd on fingers,
No ballad-makers then, or singers,

Had e'er been heard to twang out metre,
Music than which back-drones make sweeter:
Of poetry, that writing mystic,
There had not extant been one distich;
And, which is worst, the noblest sort on't,
And to the world the most important
Of th' whole poetical creation,
Burlesque, had never been in fashion.
But how have 1 this while forgot so
My mistress dove, who went to pot toe,
My white dove, that was smoking ever,
In spite of winter's worst en leavour,
And still could so evade or fly him,
As never to be pinion'd by him:

Now, numb'd with bitterness of weather,
Had not the pow'r to stir a feather;
Wherein the nymph was to be pity'd,
But flagg'd her wings, and so submitted.
The ruffian bound though, knowing's betters,
Her silver feet in crystal fetters;

In which estate we saw poor Dove lie,
Even in captivity more lovely:
But in the fate of this bright princess
Reason itself, you know, convinces,
That her pinniferous fry must die all,
Imprison'd in the crystal vial;

And doubtless there was great mortality
Of trout and grailing of great quality,
Whom love and honour did importune
To stick to her in her misfortune,
Though we shall find, no doubt, good dishes
Next summer of plebeian fishes;
Or, if with greater art and trouble,
An old patrician tront we bubble,
In better liquor swim we'll make him,

By odds, than that from whence we take him.
Now, though I have in stuff confounded,
Of smail truths and great lies compounded,
Giv'n an account, that we in England
May, for cold weather, vie with Greenland,
I ha'n't yet the main reason given,
Why I so very long have driven
My answer to the last you sent me,
Which did so highly compliment me:
Know, therefore, that both ink and cotton
So desperately hard were gotten,

It was impossible by squeezing
To get out either truth or leasing:
My fingers, too, no more being jointed,
My love and manners disappointed;
Nay, was numb'd on that strange fashion,
I could not sign an obligation,

(Though Heaven such a friend ne'er sent me)
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me
On my own bond; and who is 't buckles
To writing, pray, that has no knuckles?
But now I'm thaw'd beyond all conscience
Into a torrent of damn'd nonsense:
Yet still in this our climate frigid
I'm one day limber, next day rigid;
Nay, all things yet remain so crusty,
That were I now but half so lusty

As when we kiss'd four months agone,
And had but Dutch galloshoes on,
At one run I would slide to Lon-
But surely this transforming weather
Will soon take leave for altogether;
Then what now Lapland seems, in May
You'll swear is sweet Arcadia.

CLEPSYDRA.

WHY, let it run! who bids it stay?
Let us the while be merry ;
Time there in water creeps away,
With us it posts in sherry.

Time not employ'd's an empty sound,
Nor did kind Heaven lend it,

But that the glass should quick go round,
And men in pleasure spend it.

Then set thy foot, brave boy, to mine,
Ply quick to cure our thinking;
An hour-glass in an hour of wine
Would be but lazy drinking.

The man that snores the hour-glass out
Is truly a time-waster;

But we, who troll this glass about,
Make him to post it faster.

Yet though he flies so fast, some think,
'Tis well known to the sages,

He'll not refuse to stay and drink,

And yet perform his stages.

Time waits us whilst we crown the hearth,
And doats on ruby faces,

And knows that this career of mirth
Will help to mend our paces.

He stays with him that loves good time,
And never does refuse it,
And only runs away from him

That knows not how to use it.
He only steals by without noise

From those in grief that waste it,
But lives with the mad roaring boys
That husband it, and taste it.
The moralist, perhaps, may prate
Of virtue from his reading;
'Tis all but stale and foisted chat
To men of better breeding.
Time, to define it, is the space

That men enjoy their being;
'Tis not the hour, but drinking glass,
Makes time and life agreeing.

He wisely does oblige his fate,
Does cheerfully obey it,
And is of fops the greatest, that

By temp'rance thinks to stay it.
Come, ply the glass then quick about
To titillate the gullet;

Sobriety's no charm, I doubt,
Against a cannon bullet.

ECLOGUE.

CORYDON, CLOTTEN.

CORYDON.

RISE, Clotten, rise, take up thy pipe and play, The shepherds want thee, 'tis Pan's holiday; And thou, of all the swains, wert wont to be The first to grace that great solemnity.

CLOTTEN.

True, Corydon; but then I happy was, And in Pan's favour had a minion's place: Clotten had then fair flocks, the finest fleece These plains and mountains yielded then was his. In these auspicious times the fruitful dams Brought me the earliest and the kindli'st lambs; Nor nightly watch about them need I keep, For Pan himself was shepherd to my sheep: But now, alas! neglected and forgot Are all my off'rings, and he knows me not. The bloody wolf, that lurks away the day, When night's black palm beckons him out to prey Under the cover of those guilty shades, No folds but mine the rav'nous foe invades ; And there he has such bloody havock made, That, all my flock being devour'd or stray'd, I now have lost the fruits of all my pain, And am no more a shepherd, but a swain.

CORYDON.

So sad a tale thou tell'st me, that I must
Allow thy grief (my Clotten) to be just;
But mighty Pan has thousand flocks in store;
He, when it pleases him, can give thee more,
And has perhaps afflicted thee, to try
Thy virtue only, and thy constancy.
Repine not then at him, that thou art poor,
'Twas by his bounty thou wert rich before;

And thou should'st serve him at the same free rate,
When most distress'd, as when most fortunate.

CLOTTEN.

[wise;

Thus do the healthful still the sick advise, And thus men preach when they would fain seem But if in my wretched estate thou wert, I fear me thy philosophy would start, And give thee o'er to an afflicted sense, As void of reason as of patience. Had I been always poor, I should not be, Perhaps, so discontent with poverty, Nor now so sensible of my disgrace, Had I ne'er known what reputation was; But from so great a height of happiness To sink into the bottom of distress, Is such a change as may become my care, And more than, I confess, I well can bear.

CORYDON.

But art thou not too sensible, my lad, Of those few losses thou hast lately had? Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat Bread of the finest flour of purest wheat; Who better cider drinks, what shepherd's board Does finer curds, butter, or cheese afford? Who wears a frock, to grace a holiday, Spun of a finer wool, or finer grey? Whose cabin is so neatly swept as thine, With flow'rs and rushes kept so sweet and fine?

Whose name amongst our many shepherds' swains
So great as thine is throughout all these plains?
Who has so many friends, so pretty loves?
Who by our bubbling fountains and green groves
Passes away the summer heats so well?
And who but thee in singing does excel?
So that the swains, when Clotten sings or plays,
Lay down their pipes, and listen to his lays.
Wherein then can consist, I fain would know,
The misery that thou complain'st of so?

CLOTTEN.

Some of these things are true: but, Corydon,
That which maintain'd all these, alas! is gone.
The want of wealth I reckon not distress,
But of enough to do good offices;
Which growing less, those friends will fall away;
Poverty is the ground of all decay.
With our prosperities our friendships end,
And to misfortune no one is a friend,
Which I already find to that degree,
That my old friends are now afraid of me,
And all avoid me, as good men would fly
The common hangman's shameful company.
Those who by fortune were advanc'd above,
Being oblig'd by my most ready love,
Shun me, for fear lest my necessity
Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,
And are resolv'd they will not grant; and those
Have shar'd my meat, my money, and my clothes,
Grown rich with others' spoils as well as mine,
The coming near me now do all decline,

Lest shame and gratitude should draw them in,
To be to me what I to them have been;
By which means I am stripp'd of all supplies,
And left alone to my own miseries.

CORYDON.

In the relation that thy grief has made,
The world's false friendships are too true display'd;
But courage, man, thou hast one friend in store,
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor:

I will be true to thee in worst estate,
And love thee more now, than when fortunate.

CLOTTEN.

All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost, I of one friend in misery can boast, Which is enough, and peradventure more Than any one could ever do before; And I to thee as true a friend will prove, Not to abuse, but to deserve, thy love.

TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND,
MR. ISAAC WALTON.

WHILST in this cold and blust'ring clime,
Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar,
We pass away the roughest time

Has been for many years before:

Whilst from the most tempest'ous nooks
The chillest blasts our peace invade,
And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made:
Whilst all the ills are so improv'd

Of this dead quarter of the year,
That even you, so much belov'd,
We would not now wish with us here:

TO CHLORIS.

STANZES IRREGULIERS.

In this estate, I say, it is

Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this

You, our dear friend, have more repose : And some delight to me the while,

Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile,

And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please

We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these

Foul days in one fine fishing day: We then shall have a day or two,

Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do

With the most deadly killing fly: A day without too bright a beam,

A warm, but not a scorching Sun, A southern gale to curl the stream,

And (master) half our work is done.
There, whilst behind some bush we wait

The scaly people to betray,
We'll prove it just with treach'rous bait

To make the preying trout our prey :
And think ourselves in such an hour

Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour

Of meaner men the smaller fry. This (my best friend) at my poor home

Shall be our pastime and our theme ; But then, should you not deign to come,

You make all this a fatt'ring dream.

LORD! how you take upon you still !

How you crow and domineer!
How! still expect to have your will,

And carry the dominion clear,
As you were still the same that once you were !
Fie, Chloris ! 'tis a gross mistake,

Correct your errour, and be wise;
I kindly still your kindness take,

But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,

Your froward humours to despise,
And now disdain to call them cruelties.
I was a fool whilst you were fair,

And I had youth t' excuse it,
And all the rest are so that lovers are ;

I then myself your vassal swear,
And could be still so, (which is rare)

Nay, I could force my will

To love, and at a good rate still,
But on condition that you not abuse it;

I am now master of the gate,

And therefore, Chloris, 'tis too late Or to insult, or to capitulate. 'Tis beauty that to womankind

Gives all the rule and sway, Which once declining, or declin'd,

Men afterwards unwillingly obey : Your beauty 'twas at first did awe me, And into bondage, woeful bondage, draw me;

It was your cheek, your eye, your lip, Which rais'd you first to the dictatorship : But your six months are now expir'd,

'Tis time I now should reign;
And if froin you obedience be requir'd,

You must not to submit disdain,
But practise what y'ave seen me do,
And love and honour me, as I did you ;

That will an everlasting peace maintain,
And make me crown you sovereign once again.
And, faith, consult your glass, and see

If I ha'n't reason on my side ;
Are those eyes still the same they use to be?

Come, come, they're alter'd, 'twill not be de. And yet although the glass be true, [ny'd ; And show you, you no more are you,

I know you'll scarce believe it, For womankind are all born proud, and never,

never leave it. Yet still you have enongh, and more than needs,

To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,

And I must be a subject still,

Nor is it much against my will,
Though I pretend to wrestle and repine :
Your beauties sweet are in their height,

And I must still adore;
New years, new graces still create,

Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate,
You in your very ruins shall have more
Than all the beanties that have grac's the world

TO

THE COUNTESS OF CHESTERFIELD,

ON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST SON.
MADAM, let an humble stranger
Give you joy, without the danger

Of correction from your brow;
And I fancy 'tis not easy
For the rudest to displease ye,

Y'are in so good an humour now,
Such a treasure you have brought us,
As in gratitude has taught us

To praise and bless your happy womb;
And since you have oblig'd so many,
You cannot but expect sure (can ye?)

To be thank'd at least by some.
A more wish'd-for heir by Heaven
Ne'er to family was given,

Nor a braver boy to boot;
Finer ne'er was born before him,
One may know who got and bore him,

And now-a-days 'tis hard to do't.
You copy well, for which the rather,
Since you so well have hit the father,

Madam, once more try your skill,
To bring of th’other sex another
As fair, and good, and like the mother,

And double 'em after when you will.

OLD TITYRUS TO EUGENIA.

EUGENIA, young and fair, and sweet,
The glories of the plains,
In thee alone the Graces meet

To conquer all the swains:
Tall as the poplar of the grove,
Straight as the winged shaft of Love,
As the spring's early blossoms white,
Soft as the kisses of the light,
Serene and modest as the morn,

Ere vapours do from fens arise,
To dim the glory of the skies,
Untainted or with pride or scorn,
[born.
T'oblige the world, bright nymph, thou sure wast

O! be still fair, thou charming maid,
For beauty is no crime;
May thy youth's flower never fade,

But still be in its prime :

Be calm, and clear, and modest still,
Oblige as many as you will,
Still, still be humble, still be sweet,
By those ways conquer all you meet;
But let them see 'tis undesign'd,
Nat'ral virtues, not put on
To make a prize of any one,
The native goodness of your mind,
And have a care of being over-kind.

That's (my Eugenia) a mistake,

That noblest ardours cools,

And serves on th' other side to make
Damn'd overweening fools.

Be courteous unto all, and free,
As far as virgin modesty ;

Be not too shy, but have a care
Of being too familiar;

The swain you entertain alone,

To whom you lend your hand or lip,
Will think he has you on the hip,
And straight conclude you are bis own,
Women so easy, men so vain, are grown.
Reserv'dness is a mighty friend
To form and virtue too,
A shining merit should pretend
To such a star as you:
'Tis not a roundelay well play'd,
A song well sung, a thing well said,
A fall well giv'n, a bar well thrown,
Should carry such a lovely one.
Should these knacks win you, you will be
(Of all the nymphs that with their beams.
Gild sweet Columba's crystal streams)
Lost to the world, yourself, and me,
And more despis'd than freckled Lalage.
Maintain a modest kind of state,
'Tis graceful in a maid;

It does at least respect create,
And makes the fools afraid.

Eugenia, you must pitch upon

A Sylvia, not a Corydon,

'Twould grate my soul to see those charms
In an unworthy shepherd's arms.

A little coldness (girl) will do,

Let baffled lovers call it pride,

Pride's an excess o' th' better side;
Contempt to arrogance is due,

Keep but state now, and keep't hereafter too.

EPISTLE

TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ.

SIR, you may please to call to mind,
That letters you did lately find

From me, which conceiv'd were very kind:

[swer.

So hearty kind, that by this hand, sir, Briefly, I do not understand, sir, Why you should not vouchsafe some kind of anWhat though in rhyme you're no proficient? Your love should not have been deficient, When downright prose to me had been sufficient. 'Tis true, I know that you dare fight, sir, But what of that? that will not fright, sir:

I know full well your worship too can write, sir.

Where the peace, therefore, broken once is,
Unless you send some fair responses,

I doubt there will ensue some broken sconces
Then dream not valour can befriend you,
For if I justly once suspend you,

Your sanct'ary, nor your club, can yet defend you :

But fairly, sir, to work to go:

What the fiend is the matter, trow,

Should make you use an old companion so?

I know the life you lead a-days,

And, like poor swan, your foot can trace From home to pray'rs, thence to the forenam'd place 1.

And can you not from your precation,
And your as daily club-potation,

To think of an old friend find some vacation?

"Tis true you sent a little letter,
With a great present, which was better,
For which I must remain your humble debtor.

But for th' epistle, to be plain,
That's paid with int'rest back again,
For I sent one as long at least as twain.

Then mine was rhyme, and yours but reason;
If, therefore, you intend t' appease one,
Let me hear from you in some mod'rate season.

'Tis what y'are bound to by the tie
Of friendship first, then equity,
To which I'll add a third, call'd charity.

For one that's banish'd the grand monde, Would sometimes by his friends be own'd: 'Tis comfort after whipping to be moan'd.

But though I'm damn'd t' a people here,
Than whom my dog's much civiler,

I hear from you some twice or thrice a year.
Saints that above are plac'd in glory,
Unless the papists tell a story,
Commiserate poor souls in purgatory.

Whilst you, sir captain, Heav'n remit ye,
Who live in Heav'n on Earth, the city,
On me, who live in Hell, can have no pity.

In faith it looks unkind! pray mend it, Write the least scrip you will, and send it, And I will bless and kiss the hand that penn'd it Viz. the sanctuary.

THE RETIREMENT.

STANZES IRREGULIERS.

ΤΟ MR. ISAAC WALTON.

FAREWEL thou busy world, and may We never meet again : Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, And do more good in one short day, Than he who his whole age out-wears Upon thy most conspicuous theatres, Where nought but vice and vanity do reign.

Good God! how sweet are all things here! How beautiful the fields appear!

How cleanly do we feed and lie!

Lord! what good hours do we keep !
How quietly we sleep!

What peace! what unanimity!
How innocent from the lewd fashion,

Is all our bus'ness, all our conversation!

Oh how happy here's our leisure!
Oh how innocent our pleasure!
Oh ye valles, oh ye mountains,
Oh ye groves and chrystal fountains,
How I love at liberty,

By turn to come and visit ye!

O solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend;

With thee I here converse at will,

And would be glad to do so still;

For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.
How calm and quiet a delight
It is alone

To read, and meditate, and write,

By none offended, nor offending none;

To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease,

And pleasing a man's self, none other to di-please!
Oh my beloved nymph! fair Dove,
Princess of rivers, how I love

Upon thy flow'ry banks to lie,

And view thy silver stream,
When gilded by a summer's beam,
And in it all thy wanton fry
Playing at liberty,

And with my angle upon them,
The all of treachery

I ever learn'd, to practise and to try!

Such streams Rome's yellow Tyber cannot show,
Th' Iberian Tagus, nor Ligurian Po:

The Meuse, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Are puddle-water all compar'd with thine;
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine much purer to compare :
The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,
Beloved Dove, with thee
To vie priority:

Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

Oh my beloved rocks! that rise
To awe the earth and brave the skies,
From some aspiring mountain's crown
How dearly do I love,

Giddy with pleasure, to look down, And from the vales to view the noble heights above!