1

THE MISER'S SPEECH; IN A MASQUE.

ALLS of this metal flack'd At'lanta's pace,

race:

the

Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own)
Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had proftrated to Mars, could well advise
The adventurous lover how to gain the prize.
Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe:
For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danaë, or the brazen tower,
That they withstood not that almighty shower?
Never till then, did Love make Jove put on
A form more bright, and nobler, than his own :
Nor were it juft, would he resume that shape,
That flack devotion fhould his thunder fcape.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Thofe afs's ears on Midas' temples hung:
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus blefs me fo, I'd conftant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

UPON BEN JONSON.

IRROR of Poets! Mirror in our age!
Which, her whole face beholding on thy
Stage,

Pleas'd, and difpleas'd, with her own faults, endures

A remedy like those whom mufic cures.
Thou haft alone these various inclinations,
Which nature gives to ages, fexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-refembling pen,
That whate'er custom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them fo,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is reprefented to the wondering eyes
Of all that fee or read thy comedies.
Whoever in thofe glaffes looks, may
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind:
And, by the help of fo divine an art,

find

At leifure view and dress his nobler part.
Narciffus, cozen'd by that flattering Well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, difcovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preferv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood fo well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac'd,
Virtue with colours, fpeech, and motion grac'd.
The fundry poftures of thy copious Mufe
Who would express, a thousand tongues must use ;
Whofe fate's no lefs peculiar than thy art;
For as thou could'st all characters impart,
So none could render thine; which still escape,
Like Proteus, in variety of fhapes:

Who was, nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.

* Hippomenes.

L

LETCHER! to thee we do not only owe

Fall chofe good plays, but thofe of others too a

Thy wit repeated, does fupport the stage;
Credits the laft, and entertains this age.

No worthies, form'd by any mufe but thine,
Could purchase robes, to make themselves fo fine.
What brave commander is not proud, to fee
Thy brave Melantius, in his gallantry?
Our greatest Ladies love to fee their scorn
Out-done by thine, in what themselves have worn:
Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Afpafia weeping in her gown.

I never yet the Tragic ftrain affay'd,
Deter'd by that inimitable + Maid.
And, when I venture at the comic style,
Thy Scornful Lady feems to mock my toil.

Thus has thy Mufc at once improv'd and mar'd
Our sport in plays, by rendering it too hard!
So, when a fort of lufty fhepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the reft out-go
So far, but that the best are measuring cafts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts :
But, if fome brawny yeoman of the guard
Step in, and tofs the axle-tree a yard,
Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the rest,
Defpairing stand, their sport is at the best.

HOW bold a work attempts the pen,

Which would enrich our vulgar tongue With the high raptures of thofe men,

Who here with the same spirit fung, Wherewith they now affift the choir Of angels, who their fong admire! Whatever those inspired fouls

Were urged to exprefs, did fhake The aged Deep, and both the Poles;

Their numerous thunder could awake Dull earth, which does with Heaven confent To all they wrote, and all they meant. Say, facred Bard! what could bestow

Courage on thee to foar fo high? Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee fo To shake off all mortality?

To light this torch thou haft climb'd higher, Than he who ftole celestial fire.

The breath (though ftrain'd) sounds flat and low:

But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it laft:
So in your airs our numbers drest,
Make a fhrill fally from the breaft

Of nymphs, who finging what we pen'd,
Our paffions to themselves commend;
While Love, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice and heart.

You, by the help of tune and time,

*

Can make that Song, which was but rhyme:
Noy pleading, no man doubts the caufe;
Or questions verfes fet by Lawes.

As a church-window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint;
So others, with divifion, hide
The light of fenfe, the Poet's pride:
But you alone may truly boaft
That not a fyllable is loft:
The writer's and the fetter's fkill
At once the ravish'd ears do fill.
Let thofe which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a fong,
Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:
Let words and fenfe be fet by thec.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT, UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT,

WRITTEN IN FRANCE.

home,

"HUS the wife nightingale, that leaves her THU Her native wood, when storms and winter come Purfuing conftantly the chearful spring, To foreign groves does her old mufic bring.

The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps, ftrung,

un

At Babylon, upon the willows hung: Yours founds aloud, and tells us you excel No lefs in courage, than in finging well; While, unconcern'd, you let your country know, They have impoverish'd themselves, not you; Who, with the Mufe's help, can mock those fates Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states. So Ovid, when from Cæfar's rage he fled, The Roman Mufe to Pontus with him led; Where he fo fung, that we, through pity's glass, See Nero milder than Auguftus was. Hereafter fuch, in thy behalf, shall be Th' indulgent cenfure of pofterity. To banish those who with fuch art can fing, Is a rude crime, which its own curfe doth bring: Ages to come fhall ne'er know how they fought, Nor how to love their present youth be taught. This to thyfelf.-Now to thy matchlefs book, Wherein those few that can with judgment look, May find old love in pure fresh language told, Like new-ftamp'd coin, made out of Angel-gold: Such truth in love as th' antique world did know, In fuch a ftyle as Courts may boast of now:

* The Attorney-General.

Which no bold tales of Gods or monsters fwell;
But human paffions, fuch as with us dwell.
Man is thy theme; his virtue, or his rage,
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Mars, nor Bellona, are not named here;
But fuch a Gondibert as both might fear:
Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshin'd,
By thy bright Birtha, and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy fkill, and fuch the odds,
Betwixt thy Worthies, and the Grecian Gods!
Whofe Deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the fovereign crown:
Such as, of fiefh compos'd, by flesh and blood,
Though not refifted, may be understood.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. WASE, THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.

HUS, by the mufic, we may know When noble wits a hunting go, Through groves that on Parnaffus grow.

The Mufes all the chace adorn;
My friend on Pegafus is borne,
And young Apollo winds the horn.

Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

Here huntsmen with delight may read
And how to change and mend the breed:
How to chufe dogs, for fcent or speed;

What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beafts to combat, or to tame;
With all the mysteries of that game.

But, worthy friend! the face of war In ancient times doth differ far, From what our fiery battles are.

Nor is it like, fince powder known, That man, fo cruel to his own, Should fpare the race of beafts alone.

No quarter now but with the gun Men wait in trees, from fun to fun; And all is in a moment done.

And therefore we expect your next Should be no comment, but a text; To tell how modern beafts are vext.

Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Mufe to court the age
With fomewhat of your proper rage;

Since none doth more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can fhow
Thofe arts, which you so early know.

We wish remov'd what ftandeth in our light, And nature blame for limiting our fight: Where you ftand wifely winking, that the view Of the fair profpect may be always new. CON.

They, who know all the wealth they have, are poor; He's only rich that cannot tell his flare.

PRO.

Not he that knows the wealth he has, is poor; Bhe that dares not touch, nor ufe his store.

TO A FRIEND,

OF THE DIFFERENT SUCCESS OF THEIR LOVES.

THRI

HRICE happy Pair! of whom we cannot
know

Which first began to love, or loves most now:
Fair courfe of paffion, where two lovers start,
And run togethe, heart ftill yok'd with heart:
Successful youth! whom Love has taught the way
To be victorious, in the firft effay.
Sure love 's an art best practis'd at first,
And where th' experienced ftill profper worst!
I, with a different fate, purfued in vain
The haughty Calia; till my juft disdain
Of her neglect, above that paffion borne,
Did pride to pride oppofe, and fcorn to fcorn.
Now the relents; but all too late, to move
A heart directed to a nobler love:
The fcales are turn'd, her kindness weighs no more
Now, than my vows and fervice did before.
So, in fome well-wrought hangings, you may fee
How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee:
Here, the fierce Mars his courage so inspires,
That with bold hands the Argive fleet he fires:
But there, from Heaven the blue-ey'd virgin
falls,

And frighted Troy retires within her walls:
They that are foremost in that bloody race,
Turn head anon, and give the conquerors chafe.
So like the chances are of love and war,
That they alone in this diftinguifh'd are;
In love, the victors from the vanquish'd fly:
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.

AN APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

HEY that never had the use

Tof the grape's furprifing juice,

To the first delicious cup
All their reafon render up:
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be beft or no.

So, they that are to love inclin'd,
Sway'd by chance, not choice or art,
To the first that 's fair or kind,
Make a prefent of their heart:
"Tis not fhe that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.
* Minerva.

VOL. II.

To man, that was in th' evening made,
Stars gave the first delight;
Admiring, in the gloomy fhade,
Those little drops of light:
Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand
Remov'd them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertain'd his eyes.

But when the bright fun did appear,
All thofe he 'gan defpife;
His wonder was determin'd there,
And could no higher rise :

He neither might, nor wifh'd to know
A more refulgent light:

For that (as mine your beauties now) Employ'd his utmost fight.

F

The

TO ZELINDA.

AIREST piece of well-form'd earth! Urge not thus your haughty birth: power, which you have o'er us, lies. Not in your race, but in your eyes. None put a prince!-alas! that voice Confines you to a narrow choice. Should you no honey vow to taste, But what the mafter-bees have plac'd In compafs of their cells, how fmall A portion of your fhare would fall! Nor all appear among those few, Worthy the flock from whence they grew: The fap, which at the root is bred, In trees, through all the boughs is fpread; But virtues, which in parents fhine, Make not like progrefs through the line. 'Tis not from whom, but where, we live : The place docs oft thofe graces give. Great Julius, on the mountains bred, A flock perhaps, or herd, had led: +He that the world fubdued, had been But the best wrestler on the green. 'Tis art, and knowledge, which draw forth The hidden feeds of native worth: They blow thofe fparks, and make them rife Into fuch flames as touch the fkies: To the old Herocs hence was given A pedigree, which reach'd to heaven: Of mortal feed they were not held, Which other mortals fo excell'd. And beauty too, in fuch excefs As yours, Zelinda! claims no lefs: Smile but on me, and you fhall fcorn Henceforth to be of Princes born. I can defcribe the fhady grove, Where your lov'd mother flept with Jove: And yet excufe the faultlefs dame, Caught with her spouse's shape and name: Thy matchlefs form will credit bring To all the wonders I fhall fing.

[s [F]

† Alexander.