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Plain truths enough for needful ufe they found; | Sh, alone, my perfect image bears,
But men would ftill be itching to expound:
Each was ambitious of th' obfcureft place,
No measure ta'en from knowledge, all from grace.
Study and pains were now no more their care;
Texts were explain'd by fafting and by pray'r:
This was the fruit the private spirit brought;
Occafion'd by great zeal and little thought;
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion
About the facred viands buz and swarm. [warm,
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily fects rife up and die;
A thousand more the perifh'd race fupply:
So all we make of Heaven's difcover'd will,
Is not to have it, or to use it ill.

The danger's much the fame; on fev'ral fhelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.
What then remains, but, waving each extreme,
The tides of ignorance and pride to stem?
Neither fo rich a treasure to forego;
Nor proudly feek beyond our pow'r to know:
Faith is not built on difquifitions vain;
The things we must believe are few and plain:
But, fince men will believe more than they need,
And ev'ry man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful queftions 'tis the fafeft way
To learn what unfufpected ancients fay:
For 'tis not likely we fhould higher foar

In fearch of heaven than all the church before;
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we fee
The fcripture and the fathers disagree.
If after all they stand suspected still,
For no man's faith depends upon his will;
'Tis fome relief, that points not clearly known
Without much hazard may be let alone:
And, after hearing what our church can fay,
If still our reafon runs another way,
That private reafon 'tis more just to curb,
Than by difputes the public peace disturb;
For points obfcure are of small use to learn;
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

Thus have I made my own opinions clear;
Yet neither praise expect, nor cenfure fear:
And this unpolish'd rugged verse I chose,
As fitteft for difcourfe, and nearest profe:
For while from facred truth I do not fwerve,
Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadwell's rhymes
will ferve.

AL

30. Mac Flecknoe. DRYDEN.
LL human things are fubject to decay, [obey.
And when Fate fummons, monarchs muft
This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
In profe and verfe was own'd, without difpute,
Thro' all the realms of Nonfenfe, abfolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blefs'd with iffue of a large increase;
Worn out with bufinefs, did at length debate
To fettle the fucceffion of the ftate:

And pond'ring which, of all his fons, was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit,
Cried, "Tis refolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he
Should only rule who most resembles me.

Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Sh, alone, of all my fons, was he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence;
But Sh never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike thro', and make a lucid interval;
But Sh's genuine night admits no ray;
the day.
His rifing fogs prevail upon
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems defign'd for thoughtless majefty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that fhade the plain,
And, fpread in folemn ftate, fupinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of Tautology.
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ftrung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didft cut thy way;
With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets tofs'd.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,

The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar:
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh-call,
And Sh-

they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield't thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more cqual time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The lute and fword which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augufta bind
(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the fight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houfes rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets

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Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
or greater Jonfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the fuburbian mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmlefs war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Sh's throne:
For ancient Decker prophefied, long fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of wit, and flail of fenfe :
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pfyche's owe,
But worlds of Mifers from his pen fhould flow;
Humorifts and Hypocrites it fhould produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now emprefs Fame had publifh'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation thro' the town.
Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill, and diftant Watling-street;
No Perfian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled pocts lay:
From dufty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pyes, and relicks of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh- almoft choak'd the way.
Bilk'd ftationers for yeomen food prepar'd,
And H-n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Afcanius fat,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows, thick fogs, inftead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulnefs play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;
So Sh-fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain,
That he, till death, true dulnefs would maintain;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with fenfe.
The king himself the facred unction made,
As king by office, and as prieft by trade.
In his finifter hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his fceptre, and his rule of fway; young,
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd
And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche fprung:
His temples laft with poppies were o erfpread,
That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head.
Tuft at the point of time, if fame not lye,
On his left hand twelve rev rend owls did fly.'
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tiber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.

The fire then thook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion fhed
Full on the filial dulnefs: long he stood,
Repelling from his breaft the raging god;
At length burft out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens blefs my fon, from Ireland let him
To far Barbadoes on the weftern main; [reign

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Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne;

Beyond Love's kingdom let him ftretch his pen!"
He paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.
Then thus continued he: My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach; learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuofos in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage;
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftify their author's want of sense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copics drawn, but iilue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.
But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And, when falfe flow'rs of Rhetoric thou wouldst
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy beft, and top; and, in cach line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:
Sir Formal, tho' unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill."
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonfon's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raife.

Thou art my blood, where Jonfun has no part:
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand ?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble strain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-ftitch, kifs my arfe;
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doft transfufe to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of fenfe.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:
Thy tragic mufe gives fimiles; thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet ft thyfelf to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In the felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.
Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.

There

There thou mayft wings display, and altars raife,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.'
He faid; but his laft words were scarcely
heard:

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

§ 31. An Efay upon Satire.

DRYDEN and BUCKINGHAM.
HOW dull and how infenfible a beaft

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft!
Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
In ev'ry age the lumpish mais to move:
But thofe were pedants, when compar'd with thefe,
Who know not only to inftruct but pleafe.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Myfterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; fo that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too.
Satire has always fhone among the reft,
And is the boldest way, if not the beft,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took diff'rent ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praife.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilft others laugh'd, and fcorn'd them into
fhame.

But, of these two, the last succeeded beft,
As men aim righteft when they fhoot in jeft.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides,
And cenfure those who cenfure all befides,
In other things they juftly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd:
Against the groffeft follies they declaim;
Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is eafier than fuch blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit :
Befides, 'tis labour loft for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind;
That little fpeck which all the reft does spoil,
To wash off that, would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loofc-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to see the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the moft,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boat.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a share,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too muft pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;

Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griey'd to find herself decay'd fo foon,

No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing fparks appear;
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight:

Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half wits: that's more against ourrules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier fhould be flighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes fo much ado;
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like Efop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor fhall the royal miftreffes be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too eafy, to be blam'd;
They are as common that way as the other:
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother,
Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beastly
brace,

Meets with diffembling ftill in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep:
But who can rail fo long as he can fleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of buty blockheads, fhall have here no place;
At council fet as foils on Dorfet's fcore,
To make that great falfe jewel fhine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lyes.
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen :
But there's no meddling with fuch naufeous men;
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter fubject for a tharper Mufc.

First, let's behold the merrieft man alive
Against his carclefs genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear cafe, fome deep defign to lay,
'Gainst a fet time; and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends; and be
Juft as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at bus'nefs ne'er fo earnest fit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit;
That shadow of a jeft shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd fat gravely and demure,
Till moufe appear'd, and thought himself iecure,
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As, by our little Machiavel, we find
That nimbleft creature of the bufy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body thakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this buttle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled Jowler lugs him ftill
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill.
"Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To ufc a body fo, tho' 'tis one's own a

Yet

Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er,
That whilst he creeps his vig'rous thoughts can foar:
Alas! that foaring, to thofe few that know,
Is but a bufy grov'ling here below.

So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilft on the ground th’entrancedwretches lic:
So modern fops have fancied they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a bufy man.

And what is that, at beft, but one whofe mind
Is made to tire himfelf and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantaftic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudg'ry do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
Refin'dly leave his bitches and his bones
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a statefman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.

Though fatire nicely writ no humour stings
But thofe who merit praife in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos fake,
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore fcarce deferves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing fmoothly, and for reas'ning wrong.
As boys on holidays let loofe to play
Lay waggifh traps for girls that pafs that way,
Then fhout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs
Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish drefs;
So have I mighty fatisfaction found,
To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground:
To fee the florid fool defpis'd, and know it,
By fome who fcarce have words enough to fhew it:
For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay fometimes the wittieft speaker:
But 'tis prodigious fo much eloquence
Should be acquired by fuch little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree;
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abufive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolfack, fop at council-table.
Thefe are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whofe harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can pleafe,
And lazinefs call loving of their cafe;
To live diffolv'd in pleafures ftill they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of furfeits, head-achs, claps are feen,
We scarce perceive the little time between;
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleafure lofe only for pleafure's fake;
Each pleafure has its price; and when we pay
Too much of pain, we fquander life away.

Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat, Married; but wifer pufs ne'er thought of that; And first he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's maftiffs at his kindest time; Then for one night fold all his flavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife; Swell'd by contact of fuch a fulfome toad, He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Has ill reftor'd him to his liberty! Which he would ufe in his old fneak ing way, Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times Had fam'd for dulnefs in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the fnare, Tho' learn'd in all thofe arts that cheat the fair; For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes, To fee him catch a tartar for his prize; Th'impatient town waited the wish'd-for change, And cuckolds fmil'd in hopes of fweet revenge; Till Petworth plot made us with forrow fee, As his estate, his person too was free: Him no foft thoughts, no gratitude could move; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Yet failing there he keeps his freedom ftill, Forc'd to live happily againft his will: 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r Break not his boafted quiet ev'ry hour.

And little Sid, for fimile renown'd, Pleasure has always fought, but never found: Though all his thoughts on wine and women

fall,

His are fo bad, fure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
His meat and miftreffes are kept too long.
But fure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his perfon all he can :
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin;
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common fenfe;
And 'tis a miracle, we may fuppofe,
No naftinefs offends his fkilful nofe;
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume, and effence from a f-t:
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till be takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.

Rochefter I defpife for want of wit,

Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For, while he mifchief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find:
And fo like witches juftly fuffers fhame,
Whofe harmlefs malice is fo much the fame.
Falfe are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, fo feldom hit;
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks;
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mifchievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature
A very Killigrew, without good-nature.

For

For what a Beffus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd!
For there's the folly that's ftill mix'd with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting fparks fome may their pleasures fay,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:

The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance still:
Falfely he falls into fome dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose:
A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low fubmitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit:
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under fo much nafty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deferve no comments here;
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulnefs must atone.

How vain a thing is man, and how unwife;
Ev'n he, who would himself the most despise !
I, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't fee.
While the world's nonfenfe is fo fharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own:
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatires to fet up ourselves.
I(who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev'n with my master, who first satire taught;
And did by that defcribe the task so hard,
It feems ftupendous and above reward)
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time;
'Tis juft that I should to the bottom fall;
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

§ 32. Cymon and Iphigenia. DRYDEN.

Poeta Loquitur.

LD as I am, for ladies love unfit,
The pow'r of beauty I remember yet,
Which once inflam'd my foul, and still inspires
my wit.

If love be foily, the severe divine

Has felt that folly, though he censures mine;
Pollutes the pleasures of a chaste embrace,
Acts what I write, and propagates in grace,
With riotous excefs, a priestly race.
Suppose him free, and that I forge th' offence,
He thew'd the way, perverting first my sense;
In malice witty, and with venom fraught,
He makes me fpeak the things I never thought.
Compute the gains of his ungovern'd zeal ;
Ill fuits his cloth the praise of railing well.
The world will think that what we loofely write,
Though now arraign'd, he read with fome delight;
Because he feems to chew the cud again,
When his broad comment makes the text too plain;
And teaches more in one explaining page
Than all the double-meanings of the stage.

What needs he paraphrafe on what we mean?
We were at worst but wanton; he's obfcene.
I not my fellows nor myself excufe;
But love's the fubject of the comic Mufe;
Nor can we write without it, nor would you
A tale of only dry inftruction view;
Nor love is always of a vicious kind,
But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind;
Awakes the fleepy vigour of the foul,
And, brushing o'er, adds motion to the pool.
Love, ftudious how to please, improves our parts
With polish'd manners, and adorns with arts.
Love first invented verfe, and form'd the rhyme,
The motion meafur'd, harmoniz'd the chime;
To lib'ral acts enlarg'd the narrow-foul'd,
Soften'd the fierce, and made the coward bold;
The world, when wafte, he peopled with increase,
And warring nations reconcil'd in peace.
Ormond, the firft, and all the fair may find,
In this one legend, to their fame defign'd,
When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts
the mind.

IN that fweet ifle where Venus keeps her court,
And ev'ry grace, and all the loves, refort;
Where either fex is form'd of fofter earth,
And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth;
There liv'd a Cyprian lord above the rest
Wife, wealthy, with a num'rous iffue bleft:
But, as no gift of fortune is fincere,
Was only wanting in a worthy heir.
His eldeft born, a goodly youth to view,
Excell'd the reft in fhape and outward fhew;
Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd
But of a heavy, dull, degen'rate mind.
His foul belyed the features of his face;
Beauty was there, but beauty in difgrace:
A clownish mien, a voice with ruftic found,
And ftupid eyes that ever lov'd the ground.
He look'd like nature's error; as the mind
And body were not of a piece defign'd, [join'd.
But made for two, and by mistake in one were

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The ruling rod, the father's forming care,
Were exercis'd in vain on wit's defpair;
The more inform'd, the lefs he understood;
And deeper funk by flound'ring in the mud.
Now fcorn'd of all, and grown the public fhame,
The people from Galefus chang'd his name,
And Cymon call'd, which fignifies a brute;
So well his name did with his nature fuit.

His father, when he found his labour loft,
And care employ'd that answer'd not the coft,
Chofe an ungrateful object to remove,
And loath'd to fee what nature made him love;
So to his country farm the fool confin'd;
Rude work well fuited with a ruftic mind.
Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,
A 'fquire among the fwains, and pleas'd with ba

nishment.

His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his fupreme delight. a country fair.

It happen'd on a fummer's holiday,
That to the green-wood fhade he took his way;
For Cyinon fhunn'd the church, and as'd not
much to pray.

His

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