ELEGY.

THE PETITION.

IN IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

Is there a pious pleasure that proceeds
From contemplation of our virtuous deeds?
That all mean sordid actions we despise,
And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?
Thyrsis, thou hast sure blessings laid in store,
From thy just dealing in this curst amour :
What honour can in words or deeds be shown,
Which to the fair thou hast not said and done?
On her false heart they all are thrown away;
She only swears, more eas'ly to betray.
Ye powers! that know the many vows she broke,
Free my just soul from this unequal yoke!
My love boils up, and, like a raging flood,
Runs through my veins, and taints my vital blood.
I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste,
Or with an equal passion burn at last;
The one she cannot practise, though she would;
And I contemn the other, though she should:
Nor ask I vengeance on the perjur'd jilt;
'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt.
I beg but balsam for my bleeding breast,
Cure for my wounds, and from my labours rest.

UPON QUITTING HIS MISTRESS.

I KNOW, Celinda, I have borne too long,
And, by forgiving, have increas'd my wrong:
Yet if there be a power in verse to slack
Thy course in vice, or bring fled Virtue back,
I'll undertake the task, howe'er so hard;
A generous action is its own reward.

Oh! were thy virtues equal to thy charms,
I'd fly from crowns to live within those arms:
But who, oh who, can e'er believe thee just,
When such known falsehoods have destroy'd all trust?
Farewell, false fair! nor shall I longer stay,
Since we must part, why should we thus delay?
Your love alone was what my soul could prize,
And missing that, can all the rest despise ;
Yet should I not repent my follies past,
Could you take up and grow reserv'd at last,
"Twould please me, parted from your fatal charms,
To see you happy in another's arms.
Whatever threatenings fury might extort,
Oh fear not I should ever do you hurt:
For though my former passion is remov'd,
I would not injure one I once had lov'd.
Adieu! while thus I waste my time in vain,
Sure there are maids I might entirely gain:
I'll search for such, and to the first that 's true,
Resign the heart so hardly freed from you.

TO HIS MISTRESS,

AGAINST MARRIAGE.

Yes, all the world must sure agree, He who 's secur'd of having thee, Will be entirely blest;

But 't were in me too great a wrong, To make one who has been so long My queen, my slave at last.

Nor ought those things to be confin'd, That were for public good design'd;

Could we in foolish pride, Make the Sun always with us stay, 'Twould burn our corn and grass away, To starve the world beside.

Let not the thoughts of parting fright
Two souls, which passion does unite;
For while our love does last,
Neither will strive to go away;
And why the Devil should we stay,
When once that love is past?

EPIGRAMS.

CHLOE.

CHLOE, new-marry'd, looks on men no more; Why then 'tis plain for what she look'd before.

CORNUS.

CORNUS proclaims aloud his wife's a whore;
Alas, good Cornus, what can we do more?
Wert thou no cuckold, we might make thee one;
But, being one, we cannot make thee none.

THRASO.

THRASO picks quarrels when he 's drunk at night;
When sober in the morning dares not fight.
Thraso, to shun those ills that may ensue,
Drink not at night, or drink at morning too.

GRIPE AND SHIFTER.

RICH Gripe does all his thoughts and cunning bend,
T' increase that wealth he wants the soul to spend.
Poor Shifter does his whole contrivance set
To spend that wealth he wants the sense to get.
How happy would appear to each his fate,
Had Gripe his humour, or he Gripe's estate!
Kind Fate and Fortune, blend them if you can,
And of two wretches make one happy man!

TO CÆLIA,

UPON SOME ALTERATIONS IN HER FACE

Aн, Cælia! where are now the charms
That did such wondrous passions move?
Time, cruel Time, those eyes disarms,
And blunts the feeble darts of Love.

What malice does the tyrant bear

To womens' interest, and to ours? Beauties in which the public share,

The greedy villain first devours.

Who, without tears, can see a prince,
That trains of fawning courtiers had,
Abandon'd, left without defence?
Nor is thy hapless fate less sad.

Thou who so many fools hast known,
And all the fools would hardly do,
Shouldst now confine thyself to one!
And he, alas! a husband too.
See the ungrateful slaves, how fast

They from thy setting glories run; And in what mighty crowds they haste To worship Flavia's rising sun!

In vain are all the practis'd wiles,

In vain those eyes would love impart ; Not all th' advances, all the smiles, Can move one unrelenting heart. While Flavia, charming Flavia, still

By cruelty her cause maintains ; And scarce vouchsafes a careless smile To the poor slaves that wear her chains. Well, Cælia, let them waste their tears; But sure they will in time repine, That thou hast not a face like hers, Or she has not a heart like thine,

THE RETIREMENT,

ALL hail, ye fields, where constant peace attends!
All hail, ye sacred solitary groves!
All hail, ye books, my true, my real friends,
Whose conversation pleases and improves !

Could one who studied your sublimer rules

Become so mad to search for joys abroad? To run to towns, to herd with knaves and fools, And undistinguish'd pass among the crowd?

One to ambitious fancy 's made a prey,

Thinks happiness in great preferment lies; Nor fears for that his country to betray, Curst by the fools, and laught at by the wise.

Others, whom avaricious thoughts bewitch,

Consume their time to multiply their gains;
And, fancying wretched all that are not rich,
Neglect the end of life to get the means.

Others, the name of pleasure does invite,
All their dull time in sensual joys they live;
And hope to gain that solid firm delight

By vice, which innocence alone can give.

But how perplext, alas! is human fate!

I, whom nor avarice nor pleasures move, Who view with scorn the trophies of the great, Yet must myself be made a slave to love.

If this dire passion never will be gone,

If beauty always must my heart enthral, Oh! rather let me be confin'd to one,

Than madly thus be made a prey to all!

One who has early known the pomps of state, (For things unknown 'tis ignorance to condemn) And after having view'd the gaudy bait,

Can boldly say, The trifle I contemn.

In her blest arms contented could I live,
Contented could I die: but oh! my mind
I feed with fancies, and my thoughts deceive
With hope of things impossible to find.

In women how should sense and beauty meet?
The wisest men their youth in follies spend;
The best is he that earliest finds the cheat,
And sees his errours while there 's time to mend

THE DESPAIRING LOVER. DISTRACTED with care

For Phyllis the fair,

Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,

Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;

His torments projecting,

And sadly reflecting,

That a lover forsaken

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken
Can never be set;
And, that he could die
Whenever he would,

But, that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour
To finish it so.

But bold, unconcern'd
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.

SONG.

Or all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;

In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

A SONG TO PHYLLIS. PHYLLIS, we not grieve that Nature, Forming you, has done her part; And in every single feature

Show'd the utmost of her art.

In vain to stop it I essay'd,
Though often, often, I display'd

The turns and doubles women made.
Nay more, when it has home return'd,

By some proud maid ill-us'd and scorn'd,
I still the renegade carest,

And gave it harbour in my breast.
O! then, with indignation fir'd
At what before it so admir'd;
With shame and sorrow overcast,
And sad repentance for the past,
A thousand sacred oaths it swore
Never to wander from me more;
After chimeras ne'er to rove,

Or run the wild-goose chase of Love.
Thus it resolv'd

Till some new face again betray'd
The resolutions it had made:
Then how 'twould flutter up and down,
Eager, impatient, to be gone:
And, though so often it had fail'd,
Though vainless every heart assail'd,
Yet, lur'd by hope of new delight,
It took again its fatal flight.
'Tis thus, malicious deity,

That thou has banter'd wretched me;
Thus made me vainly lose my time,
Thus fool away my youthful prime;
And yet, for all the hours I've lost,
And sighs, and tears, thy bondage cost,
Ne'er did thy slave thy favours bless,
Or crown his passion with success.
Well-since 'tis doom'd that I must find
No love for love from womankind;
Since I no pleasure must obtain,
Let me at least avoid the pain:
So weary of the chase I 'm grown,
That with content I'd sit me down,
Enjoy my book, my friend, my cell,
And bid all womankind farewell.
Nay, ask for all I felt before,
Only to be disturb'd no more.
Yet thou (to my complainings deaf)
Wilt give my torments no relief;

But now, ev'n now, thou mak'st me die,
And love I know not whom, nor why,
In every part I feel the fire,
And burn with fanciful desire;
From whence can love its magic draw?
I doat on her I never saw:

And who, but lovers, can express
This strange, mysterious tenderness?
And yet methinks 'tis happier so,
Than whom it is I love to know:
Now my unbounded notions rove,
And frame ideas to my love.
I fancy I should something find,
Diviner both in face and mind,
Than ever Nature did bestow
On any creature here below.
I fancy thus Corinna walks,
That thus she sings, she looks, she talks.
Sometimes I sigh, and fancy then,
That, did Corinna know my pain,
Could she my trickling tears but see,
She would be kind and pity me.
Thus thinking I've no cause to grieve,
I pleasingly myself deceive;
And sure am happier far than he
Who knows the very truth can be.

Then, gentle Cupid, let me ne'er

See my imaginary fair:

Lest she should be more heavenly bright
Than can be reach'd by Fancy's height:
Lest (when I on her beauty gaze,
Confounded, lost in an amaze;

My trembling lips and eyes should tell,
'Tis her I dare to love so well)
She, with an angry, scornful eye,
Or some unkind, severe reply,
My hopes of bliss should overcast,
And my presuming passion blast.
If but in this thou kind wilt prove,
And let me not see her I love,
Thy altars prostrate I'll adore,
And call thee tyrant-god no more.

PASTORAL ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I.

DAPHNE.

SICILIAN Muse, my humble voice inspire
To sing of Daphne's charms and Damon's fire.
Long had the faithful swain supprest his grief,
And, since he durst not hope, ne'er ask'd relief,
But at th' arrival of the fatal day

That took the nymph and all his joys away,
With dying looks he gaz'd upon the fair,
And what his tongue could not, his eyes declare;
Till with deep sighs, as if his heartstrings broke,
Pressing her hand, these tender things he spoke:

DAMON.

Ah, lovely nymph! behold your lover burn,
And view that passion which you 'll not return.
As no nymph's charms did ever equal thine,
So no swain's love did ever equal mine:
How happy, fair, how happy should I be,
Might I but sacrifice myself for thee!
Could I but please thee with my dying verse,
And make thee shed one tear upon my hearse!

DAPHNE.

Too free an offer of that love you make,
Which now, alas! I have not power to take:
Your wounds I cannot, though I would, relieve;
Phaon has all the love that I can give.
Had you among the rest at first assail'd
My heart, when free, you had, perhaps, prevail'd.
Now if you blame, oh, blame not me, but Fate,
That never brought you 'till 'twas grown too late.

DAMON.

Had the Fates brought me then, too charming fair,
I could not hope, and now I must despair.
Rul'd by your friends, you quit the lover's flame,
For flocks, for pastures, for an empty name.
Yet though the blest possession Fate denies,
Oh, let me gaze for ever on those eyes:
So just, so true, so innocent 's my flame,
That Phaon, did he see it, could not blame.

DAPHNE,

Such generous ends I know you still pursue,
What I can do, be sure I will for you.
If on esteem or pity you can live,
Or hopes of more, if I had more to give,

Those you may have, but cannot have my heart:
And since we now perhaps for ever part,
Such noble thoughts through all your life express,
May make the value more, the pity less.

DAMON.

Can you then go? Can you for ever part,
(Ye gods! what shivering pains surround my heart!)
And have one thought to make your pity less?
Ah, Daphne could I half my pangs express,
You could not think, though hard as rocks you were,
Your pity ever could too great appear.

I ne'er shall be one moment free from pain,
Till I behold those charming eyes again.
When gay diversions do your thoughts employ,
I would not come to interrupt the joy;
But when from them you some spare moment find,
Think then, oh think, on whom you leave behind!
Think with what heart I shall behold the green,
Where I so oft those charming eyes have seen!
Think with what grief I walk the groves alone,
When you, the glory of them all, are goné!
Yet, oh that little time you have to stay,
Let me still speak, and gaze my soul away!
But see my passion that small aid denies;
Grief stops my tongue, and tears o'erflow my eyes.

ECLOGUE II.

GALATEA.

THYRSIS, the gayest one of all the swains,
Who fed their flocks upon th' Arcadian plains,
While love's mad passion quite devour'd his heart,
And the coy nymph that caus'd, neglects his smart,
Strives in low numbers, such as shepherds use,
If not to move her breast, his own amuse.
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see
The mighty wounds that you have made on me;
Yet cannot sure with equal pride disdain,
To hear an humble hind of his complain.

Now while the flocks and herds to shades retire,
While the fierce Sun sets all the world on fire;
Through burning fields,through rugged brakes I rove,
And to the hills and woods declare my love.
How small 's the heat! how easy is the pain
I feel without, to that I feel within!

Yet scornful Galatea will not hear,

But from my songs and pipe still turns her ear:
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Egon's only care;
From them my songs a just compassion drew;
And they shall have them, since contemn'd by you.
Why name I them, when ev'n chaste Cynthia stays,
And Pan himself, to listen to my lays?
Pan, whose sweet pipe has been admir'd so long,
Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my song:
Yet Galatea scorns whate'er I say,
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.
Relentless nymph! can nothing move your mind?
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?
Though you dislike the subject of my lays,
Yet sure the sweetness of my voice might please.
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use;
His songs divert you, though you mine refuse:
Yet I could tell you, fair-one, if I would,
(And since you treat me thus, methinks I should)
What the wise Lycon said, when in yon plain
He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;
"Forbear, fond youth, to chase a heedless fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd verse to please her ear;

Seek out some other nymph, nor e'er repine
That one who likes his songs, should fly from thine."
Ah, Lycon! ah! your rage false dangers forms;
'Tis not his songs, but 'tis his fortune charms:
Yet, scornful maid, in time you'll find those toys
Can yield no real, no substantial joys;
In vain his wealth, his titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of him.

Ah, Galatea, would'st thou turn those eyes,
Would'st thou but once vouchsafe to hear my cries;
In such soft notes I would my pains impart,
As could not fail to move thy rocky heart;
With such sweet songs I would thy fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh could'st thou, fair-one, but contented be
To tend the sheep, and chase the hares, with me;
To have thy praises echo'd through the groves,
And pass thy days with one who truly loves:
Nor let those gaudy toys thy heart surprise,
Which the fools envy, and the sage despise.

But Galatea scorns my humble flame, And neither asks my fortune, nor my name, Of the best cheese my well-stor'd dairy 's full, And my soft sheep produce the finest wool; The richest wines of Greece my vineyards yield, And smiling crops of grain adorn my field.

Ah, foolish youth! in vain thou boast'st thy store, Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more. See, whilst thou sing'st, behold her haughty pride, With what disdain she turns her head aside! Oh, why would Nature, to our ruin, place A tiger's heart, with such an angel's face?

Cease, shepherd, cease, at last thy fruitless moan; Nor hope to gain a heart already gone. While rocks and caves thy tuneful notes resound, See how thy corn lies wither'd on the ground! The hungry wolves devour thy fatten'd lambs; And bleating for the young makes lean the dams. Take, shepherd, take thy hook, thy flocks pursue, And when one nymph proves cruel, find a new.

ECLOGUE III.

DAMON.

TAKEN FROM THE EIGHTH ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL.

ARISE, O Phosphorus! and bring the day,
While I in sighs and tears consume away;
Deceiv'd with flattering hopes of Nisa's love;
And to the gods my vain petitions move:
Though they 've done nothing to prevent my death,
I'll yet invoke them with my dying breath.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.

Arcadia 's famous for its spacious plains,
Its whistling pine-trees, and its shady groves,
And often hears the swains lament their loves.
Great Pan upon its mountains feeds his goats,
Who first taught reeds to warble rural notes.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.

Mopsus weds Nisa! oh, well-suited pair;
When he succeeds, what lover can despair?
After this match, let mares and griffins breed ;
And hounds with hares in friendly consort feed.
Go, Mopsus, go; provide the bridal cake,
And to thy bed the blooming virgin take:
In her soft arms thou shalt securely rest,
Behold, the evening comes to make thee blest!
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Oh, Nisa, happy in a lovely choice!
While you with scorn neglect my pipe and voice ;