« EdellinenJatka »
Do burn quite out, or wear away
And, wing’d with passion, through his known purlieu, Their snuffs upon the edge of day?
Swift as an arrow from a bow, he flew, Whether the sea increase, or waste,
Nor stopp'd until his fire had him convey'd And, if it do, how long 'twill last ?
Where many an assignation he 'ad enjoy'd; Or, if the Sun approaches near
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual flame, The Earth, how soon it will be there?
That long had stay'd and call'd before he came, These were their learned speculations,
Impatient of delay, without one word, And all their constant occupations,
To lose no further time, he fell aboard, To measure wind, and weigh the air,
But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd, And turn a circle to a square;
While she, in anger, thus his heat reprov'd. To make a powder of the Sun,
C. Forbear, foul ravisher, this rude address; By which all doctors should b' undone ;
Canst thou, at once, both injure and caress? To find the north-west passage out,
P. Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy powerful Although the furthest way about;
charms, If chymists from a rose's ashes
And I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms. Can raise the rose itself in glasses ?
(. He that does love would set bis heart a-tilt, Whether the line of incidence
Ere one drop of his lady's should be spilt. Rise from the object or the sense ;
P. Your wounds are but without, and mine To stew th' elixir in a bath
within; Of hope, credulity, and faith;
You wound my heart, and I but prick your skin; To explicate, by subtle hints,
And, while your eyes pierce deeper than my claws, The grain of diamonds and flints,
You blame th' effect, of which you are the cause. And in the braving of an ass
C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade, Find out the treble and the bass;
Had it not first been by your own betray'd ? If mares neigh alto, and a cow
Hence 'tis my greatest crime has only been A rouble diapason lowe
(Not in mine eyes, but your's) in being seen.
P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That sets it off to a more noble height.
C. He buys his pleasure at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.
P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis past. IN THE MODERN HEROIC WAY.
C. But grows intolerable if it last.
P. Love is too full of honour to regard
That had not been half murder'd by his flame,
C. When love does meet with injury and pain, And sporting on delightful faggot-piles;
Disdain 's the only med'cine for disdain. Of bolting out of bushes in the dark,
P. At once I'm happy and unhappy too, As larlies use at midnight in the Park;
In being pleas'd, and in displeasing you. Or seeking in tall garrets an alcove,
(. Preposterous way of pleasure and of love, For assignations in th' affairs of love.
That contrary to its own end would more!
As flames destroy that which they feed upon. To which he always brought an equal flame,
C. He never lov'd at any generous rate, To fight a rival, or to court a dame;
That in th' enjoyment found his fiame abate, And, as in dreams love's raptures are more taking As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make Than' all their actual enjoyments waking,
The thirst more violent it pretends to slake, His amorous passion grew to that extreme,
So should fruition do the lover's fire, His dream itself awak d him from his dream. Instead of lessening, inflame desire. Thought he, “What place is this? or whither art P. What greater proof that passion does transport, Thou vanish'd from me, mistress of my heart? When what I would die for I'm forc'd to hurt? But now I had her in this very place,
1. Death among lovers is a thing despis d, llere, fast imprison'd in my glad embrace,
And far below a sullen humour priz'd, And, while my joys beyond themselves were rapt, That is more scom'd and rail'd at than the gods, I know not how, nor whither, thou ’rt escap'd : When they are cross'd in love, or fall at oids: Stay, and I 'll follow thee"—With that he leapt But since you understand not what you do, Up from the lazy conch on which he slept, I am the judge of what I feel, not you,
' This poem is a satirical banter upon those ject, are carried on exactly in this strain, as any heroic plays which were so much in vogue at the one may perceive that will consult the dramatic time our author lived; the dialogues of which, pieces of Dryden, Settle, and others, 1.aving what they called heroic love for their sub
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM OF THE
TO THE HONOURABLE EDWARD HOWARD, ESQ.
197 P. Passion begins indifferent to prove,
But is all instant, your eternal Muse When love considers any thing but love.
All ages can to any one reduce.
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
As use to take the vulgar latitude.
C. He that will wrong his love, will not be nice, As light can no way but by light appear,
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
HONOURABLE EDWARD HOWARD, ES2. That can be cruel where you own a flame
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty, Which you at once outdo and blame in me; For, while yon stifle and inflame desire,
It is your pardon, sir, for which my Muse You burn, and starve me, in the self-same fire. Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, sues;
C. It is not I, but you, that do the hurt, For, having felt the dead weight of your wit,
But such is her belief in your just candour,
Of silly emulation or offence.
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and senseless a presumption "own,
To yoke your vast parts in comparison :
And yet you might have thought upon a way You have oblig'd the British nation more
Tinstruct us how you 'd have us to obey, Than all their bards could ever do before,
And not command our praises, and then blame
To take your elevation to a nick?
So, bad you sent a scantling of your wit,
You might have blam'd us if it did not fit; More than the ages knew in which they liv'd; But 'tis not just t’impose, and then cry down Describ'd their customs and their rites anew, All that 's unequal to your huge renown; Better than all their Druids ever knew;
For he that writes below your vast desert, Unriddled their dark oracles as well
Betrays his own, and not your want of art. As those themselves that made them could foretell: Praise, like a robe of state, should not sit close For as the Britons long have bop'd, in vain, To th' person 'tis made for, but wide and loose; Arthur would come to govern them again,
Derives its comeliness from being unfit, You have fulfill'd their prophecy alone,
And such have been our praises of your wit; And in this poem plac'd him on his throne. Which is so extraordinary, no height Such magic power has your prodigious pen, Of fancy but your own can do it right; To raise the dead, and give new life to men; Witness those glorious poems you have writ, Make rival princes meet in arms and love, With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit, Whom distant ages did so far remove;
And those stupendious discoveries For as eternity has neither past
You ’ve lately made of wonders in the skies: Nor future (authors say) nor first nor last, For who, but from yourself, did ever hear
The sphere of atoms was the atmosphere? i Most of the celebrated wits in Charles the who ever shut those stragglers in a room, Second's reign addressed this gentleman, in a ban- Or put a circle about vacuum ? tering way, upon his poem called The British What should confine those undetermin'd crowds, Princes, and, among the rest, Butler.
And yet extend no further than the clouds ?
And thrown away, though on a less sick brain ;
You grew improv'd, and much the better for 't.
A maggot first breeds in his pregnant urn,
Did life renewd and vigorous youth acquire ;
Your after-wit is like to be your best,
Than the bought Cooper's Hill, or borrow'd Sophy; That to no purpose serve, but (as he haps
Such as your Tully lately dress'd in verse, To want a syllable) to fill up gaps.
Like those he made himself, or not much worse; You justly coin new verbs, to pay for those
And Seneca's dry sand unmix'd with lime,
Nor were your morals less improv'd, all pride
All, that you durst with safety, to affront.
No China cupboard rudely overthrown,
No poet jeer'd, for scribbleing amiss,
Nor did your crutch give battle to your duns,
And hold it out, where you had built a sconce; And not submit to that which has no force
Nor furiously laid orange-wench aboard, But o'er delinquents and inferiors.
For asking what in fruit and love you ’ad scord; Your poems will endure to be try'd
But all civility and complacence,
Beside, you never over-reach'd the king
One farthing, all the while, in reckoning,
Nor brought in false account, with little tricks,
Deduction out of wages, and dead pay
By thrifty management, to no small sum. Has an abstersive virtue to make clean
You pulld no lodgings down, to build them worse, Whatever Nature made in man obscene.
Nor repair'd others, to repair your purse,
As you were wont, till all you built appear'd
For had the stones, like bis, charm'd by your perse, In Paris they perfume their rooms with it:
Built up themselves, they could not have done torse:
You did design to do 't no other way.
Until fresh straw and darkness op'd your eves?
As all the cheats of a Dutch war could waste, Whose wondrous power 's so generally known, Or all those practis'd upon public money? Fame is the echo, and her voice your own.
For nothing, but your cure, could have undone ye.
temptuous a manner, the character of a poet so
much esteemed as sir John Denham was. k what PANEGYRIC UPON SIR JOHN DENIIAM'She charges him with be true, there is, indeed, some RECOVERY FROM HIS MADNESS!.
room for satire; but still there is such a spirit of
bitterness runs through the whole, besides the Sir, you 're outliv'd so desperate a fit
cruelty of ridiculing an infirmity of this pature, as As none could do but an immortal wit;
can be accounted for hy nothing but some personal
quarrel or disgust. How far this weakness may 'It must surprise the reader to find a writer of carry the greatest geniuses, we have a proof in what Butler's judgment attacking, in so severe and con- | Pope has written of Addison.
For ever are you bound to curse those quacks Are qualify'd to be destroy'd by Fate,
weak, Nor forc'd upon the king's account to lay
And give diversion to the great to break;
And suffer all the worst the worst approver
Can, to excuse and save himself, discover.
No longer shall dramatics be contin'd
Reprieve the innocent, and hang the false;
For nothing, whomsoe'er they please, at will,
These are the reformations of the stage,
Like other reformations of the age,
As th’ other did all law and conscience;
No better than the laws of British plays, WHOEVER will regard poetic fury,
Confirm'd in th' ancient good king Howell's days; When it is once found ideot by a jury,
Who made a general council regulate And every pert and arbitrary fool
Men's catching women by the-you know what, Can all poetic licence over-rule;
And set down in the rubric at what time Assume a barbarous tyranny, to handle
It should be counted legal, when a crime; The Muses worse than Ostrogoth and Vandal;
Declare when 'twas, and when 'twas not a sin, Make them submit to verdict and report,
And on what days it went out or came in. And stand or fall to th' orders of a court ?
An English poet should be try'd b’ bis peers, Much less be sentenc'd by the arbitrary
And not by pedants and philosophers, Proceedings of a witless plagiary,
Incompetent to judge poetic fury, That forges old records and ordinances
As butchers are forbid to b' of a jury;
Besides the most intolerable wrong
Or tales, falser than Euripides;
When not an English native dares appear Reduce all tragedy, by rules of art,
To be a witness for the prisoner ; Back to its antique theatre, a cart,
When all the laws they use t' arraign and try And make them henceforth keep the beaten roads The innocent and wrong'd delinquent by, Of reverend choruses and episodes;
Were made b’ a foreign lawyer and his pupils, Reform and regulate a puppet play,
To put an end to all poetic scruples, According to the true and ancient way,
And, by th' advice of virtuosi Tuscans, That not an actor shall presume to squeak,
Determin'd all the doubts of socks and buskins; Unless he have a licence for 't in Greck;
Gave judgment on all past and future plays,
Which Lope Vega first began to steal,
And after him the French filou Corneille; Unless it be in order to raise pity;
And since our English plagiaries nim Nor Devil in the puppet-play b' allow'd
And steal their far-fet criticisms from him,
Enough to furnish all the lewd impeachers
Are charg'd by those who ten times worse commit; That have been ruin'd only to be pity'd:
And, for misjudging some unhappy scenes, And only those held proper to deter,
Are censur'd for 't with more unlucky sense; Who ’ve had th’ill luck against their wills to err. When all their worst miscarriages delight, Whence only such as are of middling sizes, And please more than the best that pedants Between morality and venial vices,
* This warm invective was very probably occa- find some few inaccuracies to censure in this comsioned by Mr. Rymer, historiographer to Charles II. position; but the reader of taste will either overWho censured three tragedies of Beaumont's and look or pardon them for the sake of the spirit that Fletcher's. The cold, severe critic may perhaps runs through it.
PHILIP NYE’S THANKSGIVING BEARDI, QUEEN OF ARRAGOV,
A BEARD is but the vizard of a face,
That Nature orders for no other place; ACTED BEFORE THE DUKE OF YORK, UPON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
The fringe and tassel of a countenance,
That hides his person from another man's, Sir, while so many nations strive to pay
And, like the Roman habits of their youth, 'The tribute of their glories to this day,
Is never worn until his perfect growth; That gave them earnest of so great a sum
A privilege no other creature has, Of glory (from your future acts) to come,
To wear a natural mask upon his face, And which you have discharg'd at such a rate,
That shifts its likeness every day he wears, That all succeeding times must celebrate;
To fit some other persons' characters, We, that subsist by your bright influence,
And by its own mythology implies, And hare no life but what we own from thence,
That men were born to live in some disguise. Come humbly to present you, our own way,
This satisfy'd a reverend man, that clear'd
His disagreeing conscience by his beard.
He 'ad been preferr'd i'th'army, when the church
Was taken with a Why not? in the lurch; We bring you only what your great commands
When primate, metropolitan, and prelates, Did rescue for us from engrossing hands,
Were turn'd to officers of horse and zealots, That would have taken out administration
From whom he held the most pluralities Of all departed poets' goods i' th' nation;
Of contributions, donatives, and salaries; Or, like to lords of manors, seiz'd all plays
Was held the chiefest of those spiritual trumpets, That come within their reach, as wefts and strays, That sounded charges to their fiercest conabats; And claim'd a forfeiture of all past wit,
But in the desperatest of defeats But that your justice put a stop to it.
Had never blown as opportune retreats, 'Twas well for us, who else must have been glad
Until the synod order'd his departure
To London, from his caterwauling quarter,
To sit among them, as he had been chosen,
And pass or null things at his own disposing: And though those fierce inquisitors of wit,
Could clap up souls in limbo with a vote, The critics, spare no flesh that ever writ,
And for their fees discharge and let them out; But, just as tooth-drawers, find, among the rout,
Which made some grandees bribe him with the place Their own teeth work in pulling others out; Of holding-forth upon thanksgiving-days; So they, decrying all of all that write,
Whither the members, two and two abreast, Think to erect a trade of judging by 't.
March'd to take in the spoils of all—the feast; Small poetry, like other heresies,
But by the way repeated the oh-hones By being persecuted multiplies;
Of his wild Irish and chromatic tones; But here they 're like to fail of all pretence;
His frequent and pathetic hums and haws, For he that writ this play is dead long since,
He practis'd only t' animate the cause, And not within their power; for bears are said With which the sisters were so prepossest, To spare those, that lie still and seem but dead.
They could remember nothing of the rest.
" As our poet has thought fit to bestow so many
verses upon this trumpeter of sedition, it may, perEPILOGUE TO THE SAME.
haps, be no thankless office to give the reader some further information about him, than what merely relates to his beard.—He was educated at Oxford,
first in Brazen Nose College, and afterwards in Madam, the joys of this great day are due, Magdalen Hall; where, under the influence of a No less than to your royal lord, to you; And, while three mighty kingdoms pay your part,
puritanical tutor, he received the first tincture of
sedition and disgnist to our ecclesiastical establishYou have, what 's greater than them all, his
ment. After taking his degrees, he went into orders, heart; That heart that, when it was his country's guard,
but soon left England to go and reside in Holland,
where he was not very likely to lessen those preThe fury of two elements outdar'd, And made a stubborn haughty enemy
judices which he had already imbibed. In the
vear 1640, he returned home, became a furious The terrour of his dreadful conduct fly; And yet you conquer'd it—and made your charms 1 ment; and was thought considerable enough, in
preshyterian, and a zealous stickler for the parliaAppear no less victorious than his arms; For which you oft have triumph'd on this day,
his way, to be sent by his party into Scotland, to And many more to come Heaven grant you may!
encourage and spirit-up the cause of the covenant;
in defence of which he wrote several pamphlets. But, as great princes use, in solemn times
Ilowever, as his zeal arose from self-interest and Of joy, to pardon all but heinous crimes,
ambition, when the independents began to hare the If we have sinn'd without an ill intent, And done below what really we ineant,
ascendant, and power and profit ran in that chan
nel, be faced about, and became a strenuous We humbly ask your pardon for 't, and pray preacher on that side; and in this situation he was You would forgive, in honour of the day.
when be fell under the lash of Butler's satire.
TO THE DUTCHESS.