me. Night of the mind, wherein our reasons grope Yet once, I must confess, I was For future joys, but never can find hope. Such an overweening ass, As in fortune's worst distress To believe thy promises ; Which so brave a change foretold, Such a stream of happiness, Such mountain bopes of glittring gold, And let my whiter soul alone, Such honours, friendships, offices, For why should I thy sable weed put on, In love and arms so great success ; Who never meditated ill, nor ill have never done! That I even hugu'd myself with the conceit, Was myself party in the cheat, And in my very bosom laid That fatal hope by which I was betray'd, And in that foolish thought despis'd Repeuiance can our own foul souls make pure, Th’advice of those who out of love advis'd; And expiate the foulest deell, As I'd foreseen what they did not foresee, Whereas the thought others offences breed. A torrent of felicity, Nothing but true amendment one can cure. And rudely laugh'd at those, who pitying wept for Thus man, who of this world a member is, Is by good natur subject made To smart for what his fellows do amiss, But of this expectation, when 't came to't, What was the fruit ? In sordid robes poor Disappointment came, Suffers unijusily for another's crime. Attended by her handmaids, Grief and Shame; No wealth, no titles, no friend could I see, Go, foolish soul, and wash thee white, For they still court prosperity, Nay, what was worst of what mischance could do, And true contrition turns delight. My dearest lore forsook me too; Let princes thy past services forget. My pretty love, with whom, had she been true, Let dear-bought friends thy foes become, Even in banishment, Though round with misery thon art busel, I could have liv'd most happy and content; With scorn abroad, and poverty at home, Her sight whichi nourish'à me withdrew. Keep yet thy hands but clear, and conscience puie, I then, although too late, perceiv'd I was by flattering Hope deceiv’d, And call'd for it t'expostulate The treachery and foul deceit: But it was then quite fled away, And gone some other to betray, Leaving me in a state By much more desolate, And that they have disgrac'd themselves to honour Than if when first attack'd by fate, I bad submitted there For llope, like cordials, to our wrong Does but our miseries prolong, Whilst yet our vitals daily waste, And not supporting life, but pain Call their false friendships back again Hove, thou darling, and delight And unto Death, grim Death, abandon us at Qiunforeseeing reckless minds, last. Thou deceiving parasite, Which no where entertainment finds In me, false Hope, in me alone, But with the wretched, or the vain ; Thon thine own treachi'ry hast out-done: 'Tis they alone fond hope maintain. Fur chance, perhaps may have befriended Thow easy fool's chief la rourite; Some one thou'st labour'd to deceive Thou fawning slave to slases, tiat still remains With what by thee was ne'er intended, In galleys, dungeons, and in chains, Nor in thy pow'r to give : But me thou hast deceivid in all, as well Possible, as impossible, And the most sad example made Of all that ever were betray'd. But thou hast taught me wisdom yet, Henceforth to hope no more Than I see reason for, A precept I shall ne'er forget : Nor is there any thing below Worth a man's wishing, or his care, By whom the wretched are at last more wretched When what we wish begets our woe, made. And hope deceiv'd becomes despair. PINDARIC ODE. Then, thou seducing Hope, farewel, I now can countercharm thy spell, And for what's past, so far I will be even, Never again to hope for any thing but Heaven. EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF But Peakrill bold would venture on: Know then, my lord, that on my word, Or where you are, or what you do ; But let that pass, you now must know Some three months hence, I make account Being then on foot, away I go, And bang the hoof, incognito, Though in condition so forlorn, Little disguise will serve the turn, Since best of friends, the world's so base, But that's too serious. Then suppose, But what advantage will it be That winds and tides are kind to me, Are ragouts to an appetite? What ease can France or Flanders give Some two years hence, when you come o'er, He must not taste when he has done. I told your lordship how 't would be." This matters now are coming to, 1 Coriat. BEAUTY. PINDARIC ODE. IN ANSWER TO AN ODE OF MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S UPON THE SAME SUBJECT. BEAUTY! thou master-piece of Heaven's best skill, Who, though thou variest here and there, Beauty, Love's friend, who help'st him to a throne, By wisdom deify'd, to whom alone Thy excellence is known, And ne'er neglected but by those have none; True to the touch, and ever best For there we only see the outer skin, When the perfection lies within; Beauty more ravishes the touch than sight, And seen by day, is still enjoy'd by night, For beauty's chiefest parts are never seen. Beauty, thou active, passive good! That ever Heaven made Yet still new beauties will descry., Beauty, thy conquests still are made Over the vigorous more than the decay'd; And chiefly o'er those of the martial trade; And whom thou conquer'st still thou keep'st in Until you both together fall: Whereas of all the conquerors, how few [thrall, Know how to keep what they subdue? The young and old does both enslave, Thou greatest gift that Heaven can give! VOL. VI. FORBEAR (fair Phillis) oh forbear Forbear; WOMAN. PINDARICK ode. WHAT a bold theme have I in hand, What fury has possess'd my Muse, That could no other subject choose, But that which none can understand! Woman, what tongue, or pen is able To determine what thou art, A thing so moving and unstable, That no land map, nor seaman's chart, Sable thickets, golden groves, And over seas with canvas wings make way; Like to the floating isles, Our compass evermore beguiles, And still, still, still remains Terra Incognita. Woman! the fairest sweetest flow'r That in happy Eden grew, Whose sweets and graces had the pow'r The world's sole monarch to subdue, What pity 'tis thou wert not true, But there, even there, thy frailty brought in sin, Sin that has cost so many sighs and tears, Enough to ruin all succeeding heirs, To beauty's temple let the Devil in. And though (because there was no more) It in one single story did begia; Bbb Yet from the seeds shed from that fruitful core, Who was the mother of them all; O mother Eve, sure't was a fault Ere there were any to be taught, 'Twas ill to ruin all thy offspring so, For all thy sons (which usually are For ever lost, and ruin'd were, By thy instructing thy fair daughters ill. Or be secure his spouse is chaste; Oh cruel Nature, that does force our wills Oh negligent, and treacherous eyes, How oft do you betray your trust, And, join'd confederate with our lust, Tell us that beauty is, which is but flesh, that flesh but dust. Heaven, if it be thy undisputed will That still This charming sex we must adore, Or if their hearts from the first gangrene be As will no surgery admit ; And if thou wilt give beauty, limit it: For moderate beauty, though it bear no price, Is yet a mighty enemy to vice, And who has virtue once, can never see Any thing of deformity, Let her complexion swart, or tawny be, A twilight olive, or a midnight ebony. She that is chaste, is always fair, And though for form she wear a star, Or if it be, she's so deriv'd, For virtue in a woman's breast But all this while I've soundly slept, And rav'd as dreamers use: Fy! what a coil my brains bave kept 'Tis nothing but an ill digestion Has thus brought women's fame in question, Troubled with fumes of wine; For now, that I am broad awake, Else what a case were his, and thine, and mine? THE WORLD. ODE. FIE what a wretched world is this? Nothing but anguish, griefs, and fears, Frailty the ruling power bears Will do the wisest man no good. The most that helpless man can do Towards the bett'ring his estate But why do I of fate complain; Map might live happy, if not free, And that rib woínan, though she be Is yet a greater fate than he, And has the power, or the art To break his peace; nay break his heart. Ah, glorious flower, lovely piece Of superfine refined clay, Thou poison'st only with a kiss, And dartest an auspicious ray These are the world, and these are they But the wild desert straight to take, Fly to the empty deserts tren, For so you leave the world behind ; And brutes more civil are, and kind, For should you take an hermitage, Tho' you might scape from other wrongs, Of venomous, and slanderous tongues, Grant me then, Heav'n, a wilderness, And there an endless solitude, Where, though wolves howl, and serpents hiss, Though dang'rous, 'tis not half so rude As the ungovern'd multitude. And solitude in a dark cave, Where all things hush'd, and silent be, Resembleth so the quiet grave, That there I would prepare to flee, DE VITA BEATA. COME, y' are deceiv'd, and what you do Q. CICERO DE MULIERUM LEVITATE. TRANSL. COMMIT a ship unto the wind DESPAIR. ode. Ir is decreed, that I must die, And could lost men a reason show For losing so themselves, 'tis I, Woman and fate will have it so. Woman, more cruel than my fate, From thee this sentence was severe, 'Tis thou condemn'st me, fair ingrate, Fate's but the executioner. And mine must be fate's hands to strike And court cold death to be my wife. In whose embraces though I must Fail of those joys, that warm'd my heart, And only be espous'd to dust, Yet death and I shall never part. More than 1, sweet, could have with thee, And yet if thou could'st be so kind, As but to grant me a reprieve, I'm not to death so much inclin'd, But I could be content to live. But so, that that same life should be With thee, and with thy kindness blest; For without thee, and all of thee, 'Twere dying only with the rest. But that, you'll say's too arrogant, T' enslave your beauties, and your will, And cruelty in you to grant, Who saving one, must thousands kill, And yet you women take a pride To see men die by your disdain; But thou wilt weep the homicide, When thou consider'st whom thou'st slain, Yet don't; for being as I am, Thy creature, thou in this estate, To life and death hast equal claim, And may'st kill him thou didst create. Nor once for him o'ercast thine eyes, POVERTY. PINDARIC ODE. THOU greatest plague that mortals know! That Heav'n has sent Thou worst of all diseases and all pains, By how much thou art hard to cure, A chronical disease doth still remain ! What epithet can fit thee, or what words thy ills explain! This puzzles quite the Esculapian tribe Who, where there are no fees, can have no wit, As if poor remedies for the poor were fit, Is not so epidemical As many in the world would make it, Who all that want their wishes poor do call; |