Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

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 Epsom blankets toss'd. Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well shapen'd thumb, from shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar:
Echoes from. Pissing-Alley Sh-
call,
And Sh they resound from Aston-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'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind
(The fair Augusta, much to fears inclin'd)
An antient fabric, rais'd t' inform the sight,
There stood of yore and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tow'r once: but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains :
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets
keep,

And undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep,
Near these a nursery erects its head, [bred:
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy.

Great Fletcher never treads the buskins here,
Nor greater Johnson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simpkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the suburbian Muse affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Sh's throne:
For antient Decker prophesied, long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dulness should some Psyche's owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce,
Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation thro' the town.
Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill and distant Watling-street;
No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pyos, and relics of the bum.

Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh-almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And H-n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on the throne of his own labors rear'd,
At his right hand our young Ascanius sat,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows, thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;
So Sh- swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he, till death, true dulness would maintain,
And, in his father's right and realni's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as a priest by trade.
In his sinister 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 sceptre and his rule of sway;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd

young,

And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung;
His temples last with poppies were o'erspread,
That, nodding, seem'd to consecrate his head.
Just at the point of time, if fame not lye,
On his right hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung by Tiber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then shook the honors of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.

}

• Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him To far Barbadoes on the western main; [reign Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne; Beyond Love's kingdom let him stretch his pen.' He paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen. Then thus continued he: My son, advance Still in new impudence, new ignorance. Success let others teach; learn thou, from me, Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage;
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Lnt Cully Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of my own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.
But let no alien S-dl-y interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
Aud

Y 2

And, when false flow'rs of Rhetoric thou would'st | Poets alone found the delightful way,
Trust Nature, do not labor to be dull: [cull, Mysterious morals gently to convey
But write thy best, and top; and, in cach line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:
Sir Formal, tho' unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill."
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.
Let father Frecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson 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 swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse;
Promis'd'a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd, as oil and water flow;
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wond'rous way,
New humors to invent for each new play;
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

In charming numbers; so that, as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In satire too the wise took diff'rent ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd, and scorn'd them into
shame.

By which, one way, to dulness 'tis inclin'd ;
Which make thy writings lean on one side still,
And in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly inake pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;.
But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic Muse gives smiles; thy comic, sleep.
With whate er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite.

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

But of these two, the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone inethinks the antients err'd:
Against the grossest follies they declaim ;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game,
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis a talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 'tis labor lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
"Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that, would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-w rit libels of this age,
Or the fore'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit;
Who judging better though concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon,

There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said; but his last words were scarcely
heard;

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

§ 31. An Essay upon Satire.
Dryden and Buckingham.
How dull and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove

In ev'ry age the lumpish mass to move: [these,
But those were pedants, when compar'd with
Who know not only to instruct but please.

No common coxcomb must be mention'd here;
Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear;
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight:
Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that's more against our rules,
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like sop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such
Too ugly, or too easy, to be blam'd;
pother,

They are as common that way as the other:
Yet gaunt'ring Charles, between his beastly]
brace,

Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humor, or a painted face.

la

In royal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other sold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep:
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council sat as foils on Dorset's score,"
To make the great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise:
Ouly for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no ineddling with such nauseous men;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse.

First let's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive ;
Quit his dear case, some deep design to lay,
Gainst a set time; and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends; and be
Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he ainis at reason or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit;
That shaddow of a jest shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transformed sat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But soon 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 Machiaval, we find
That nimblest creature of the busy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes,
Yet his hard mind, with all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill.
"Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, tho' 'tis one's own :
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
Thatwhilsthecreepshisvig'rousthoughts can sour:
Alas! that soaring to those few that know,
Is but a busy grov'ling here below.

So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilst on the ground th'entrancedwretcheslie:
So modern fops have fancied they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deserving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he he can,
For the fine motion of a busy man.
And what is that, at best, but one whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind ?
For Ireland he would go; 'faith, let him reign;
For if some odd fantastic lord would faiu
Carry in trunks, and all my drudg'ry do,

ll not only pay him, but admire him too.

But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so 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 statesinan's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his faune.
Though satire nicely writ no humor stings
By those who merit praise in other things:
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos' sake,
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing smoothly, and for reas'ning wrong,
As boys on holidays let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way,
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress
Some silly cit in her flower'd foolish dress;
So have I mighty satisfaction found,
To see his tinsel reason on the ground;
To see the florid fool despis'd, and know it, [it;
By some who scarce have words enough to show
For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer may sometimes the wittest speaker:
But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquir'd by such little sense;
For words and wit did antiently agree;
And Tully was no fool though this man be:
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolsack, fop at council-table.
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.

Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease;
To live dissolv'd in pleasure still they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of surfeits, head-achs, claps, are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between ;
Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake;
Each pleasure has its price; and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.

Thus Dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat, Married; but wiser puss ne'er thought of that; And first he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's mastiffs at his kindest time; Then for one night sold all his slavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife;

well'd by contact of such a fulsome toad, He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; bill fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Has ill restor'd him to his liberty! Which he would use in his old sneaking way, Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, Tho' learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; Y J Deluded

Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes,
To see him catch a tartar for his prize;
Th'impatient town waited the wish'd-for change
And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free:
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Fore'd to live happily against his will:
"Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r
Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry hour.

And little Sid, for simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought, but never found;
Though all his thoughts on wine and women
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. [fall,
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for sin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin :
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilful nose;
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume, and essence from a f―t:
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes lewit and Jack Hall for wits.

Rochester I despise for want of wit, Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For, while he mischief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects doth find: And so like witches justly suffer shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, so seldom 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 mischievous in him: A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature A very Killigrew, without good nature. For what a Bessus has he always liv'd, And his own kickings notably contriv'd! For there's the folly that's still mix'd with fear, Cowards more blows than any hero bear; Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say, But is a bolder thing to run away: The world may well forgive him all his ill, For ev'ry fault does prove his penance still: Falsely he falls into some dang'rous noose, And then as meanly labors to get loose: A life so infamous is better quitting, Spent in base injury and low submitting, I'd like to have left out his poetry; Forgot by all almost as well as me. Sometimes he has some humor, never wit: And if it rarely, very rarely, hit, "Tis under so much hasty rubbish laid, To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;

Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire.
Se lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deserve no comments here;
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness must atone.

How vain a thing is man, and how unwise;
Ev'n he who would himself the most despise!
I, who so wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't see.
While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown,
We pull down others but to raise our own:
That we may angels seem, we paint them elves,
And are but satires to set up ourselves.

(who have all this while been finding fault, Ev'n with my master, who first satire taught; And did by that describe the task so hard, It seem'd stupendous and above reward) Now labor with unequal force to climb That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time; "Tis just that I should to the bottom fall; Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

§ 32. Cymon and Iphigenia. Dryden.
Poeta loquitur.

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

If love be folly, 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 excess, a priestly race.

Suppose him free, and that I forge th' offence,
He show'd the way, perverting first my sense;
In malice witty, and with venom fraught,
He makes me speak the things I never thought,
Compute the gains of his ungovern'd zcal;
Ill suits his cloth the praise of railing well.
The world will think that what we loosely write,
Tho' now arrang'd, he read with some delight;
Because he seems to chew the cud again,
When his broad comment makes the text too
plain :

And teaching more in one explaining page
Than all the double-meanings of the stage.

What needs he paraphrase on what we mean?
We were at most but wanton; he's obscene.
I not my fellows nor myself excuse;
But love's the subject of the comic Muse;
Nor can we write without it, nor would you
A tale of only dry instruction view;
Nor love is always of a vicious kind,
But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind;
Awakes the sleepy vigor of the soul,
And, brushing o'er, adds motion to the pool,
Love, studious how to please, improves our parts
With polish'd manners, and adorns with arts.
Love first invented verse, and form'd the rhyme,
The motion measur'd, harmoniz'd the chime;
To lib'ral acts enlarg'd the narrow soul'd,
Soften'd the berce, and made the coward bold;

The

The world, when waste, he peopled with increase,
And warring nations reconcil'd in peace.
Ormond, the first, and all the fair may find,
In this one legend, to their faune désign'd,
When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts
the mind.

In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court,
And ev'ry grace, and all the loves, resort;
Where either sex is form'd of softer earth,
And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth:
There liv'd a Cyprian ford, above the rest
Wise, wealthy, with a num'rons issue blest:
But, as no gift of fortune is sincere,
Was only wanting in a worthy heir.
His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,
Excell'd the rest in shape and outward shew;
Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd,
But of a heavy, dull, degen'rate mind.
His soul belied the features of his face;
Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace :
A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound,
And stupid eyes that ever lov'd the ground.
He look'd like nature's error; as the mind
And body were not of a piece design'd, [join'd.
But made for two, and by mistake in one were.
The ruling rod, the father's forming care,
Were exercis'd in vain on wit's despair;
The more inform'd, the less he understood;
And deeper sunk by found'ring in the mud.
Now scorn'd of all, and grown the public shame,
The people from Galesus chang'd his name,
And Cymon call'd, which signifies a brute;
So well his name did with his nature suit.

His father, when he found his labor lost,
And care employ'd that answer'd not the cost,
Chose an ungrateful object to remove,
And loath'd to see what nature made him love;
So to his country farm the fool confin'd:
Rude work well suited to a rustic mind.
Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,
A 'squire among the swains, and pleas'd with
banishment.

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

It happen'd on a summer's holiday,
That to the green-wood shade he took his way;
For Cymon shunn'd the church, and us'd not
much to pray.

His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake,
Hung half before, and half behind his back.
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept thro' the matted grass a crystal flood,
By which an alabaster fountain stood:
And on the margin of the fount was laid
(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid.
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tir'd with
sport,

To rest by cool Eurotas they resort:
The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguish'd by her purple vest,

Than by the charming features of her face,
And ev'n in slumber a superior grace:
Her comely limbs compos'd with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymarr;
Her bosom to the view was only bare
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied,
For yet their places were but signified:
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows,
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose :
The fanning wind and purling streams, con-
tinue her repose.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,
And gaping mouth that testified surprise,
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight,
New as he was to love, and novice to delight:
Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff,
His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh ;
Then would have spoke, but by his glimm'ring

sense.

First found his want of words, and fear'd offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his clown accent, and his country tone.
Thro' the rude chaos thus the ruining light
Shot the first ray that pierc'd the native light:
Theu day and darkness in the mass were mix'd,
Till gather'd in a globe the beams were fix'd:
Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere,
Illumin'd heaven and earth, and roll'd around
So reason in this brutal soul began, [the year.
Love made him first suspect he was a man;
Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound;
By love his want of words and wit he found ;
That sense of want prepar'd the future way
To knowledge, and disclos'd the promise of a day,
What not his father's care, nor tutor's art,
Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
The best instructor, love, at once inspir'd,
As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fir'd:
Love taught him shame; and shame, with love
Soon taught the sweet civilities of life; [at strife,
His gross material soul at once could find
Somewhat in her excelling all her kind :
Exciting a desire till then unknown;
Somewhat unfound, or found in her alone:
This made the first impression on his mind,
Above, but just above, the brutal kind.
For beasts can like, but not distingnish too,

Nor why they like or this or t'other face,
Or judge of this or that peculiar grace;
But love in gross, and stupidly admire:
As flies allur'd by light, approach the fire.
Thus our man-beast, advancing by degrees,
First likes the whole, then separates what he sees:
On sev'ral parts a sev'ral praise bestows:
The ruby lips, the well proportion'd nose,
The snowy skin and raven-glossy hair,
The dimpled cheek, and forehead rising fair,
And ev'n in sleep itself, a smiling air.
From thence his eyes descending view'd the rest,
Her plump round arms, white hands, and heav-
ing breast.

Long on the last he dwelt, though every part
A pointed arrow sped to pierce his heart.
Y 4

Thus

« ПредишнаНапред »