Sure, in the better ages of old time, Nor poetry nor love was thought a crime;
From heaven they both the gods best gifts were sent, Divinely perfect both, and innocent.
Then were bad poets and loose loves not known;
None felt a warmth which they might blush to own,
Beneath cool fhades our happy fathers lay,
And spent in pure untainted joys the day :
Artless their loves, artlefs their numbers were,
While Nature simply did in both appear,
Now could the cenfor or the critic fear.
Pleas'd to be pleas'd, they took what heaven bestow'də
Nor were too curious of the given good.
At length, like Indians fond of fancy'd toys,
We loft being happy, to be thought more wife.
In one curs'd age, to punish verfe and fin,
Critics and hangmen, both at once, came in.
Wit and the laws had both the fame ill fate,
And partial tyrants fway'd in either state.
Ill-natur'd cenfure would be fure to damn
An alien-wit of independent fame,
While Bays grown old, and harden'd in offence,
Was fuffer'd to write on in spite of sense;
Back'd by his friends, th' invader brought along
A crew of foreign words into our tongue,
To ruin and enflave the free-born English fong;
Still the prevailing faction propt his throne,
And to four volumes let his Plays run on;
Then a lewd tide of verfe, with vicious rage,
Broke in upon the morals of the age.
The Stage (whofe art was once the mind to move
To noble daring, and to virtuous love)
Precept, with pleasure mix'd, no more profest,
But dealt in double-meaning bawdy jest :
The shocking founds offend the blushing fair,
And drive them from the guilty Theatre.
Ye wretched bards! from whom these ills have fprung,
Whom the avenging powers have spar'd too long,
Well may you fear the blow will surely come,
Your Sodom has no Ten to avert its doom;
Unless the fair Ardelia will alone
To heaven for all the guilty tribe atone;
Nor can Ten Saints do more than fuch a One.
Since the alone of the poetic crowd
To the falfe gods of wit has never bow'd,
The empire, which the faves, fhall own her fway,
And all Parnaffus her bless'd laws obey.
Say, from what facred fountain, nymph divine!
The treasures flow, which in thy verse do shine?
With what strange infpiration art thou bleft,
What more than Delphic ardour warms thy breast?
Our fordid earth ne'er bred fo bright a flame,
But from the fkies, thy kindred fkies, it came.
To numbers great like thine, th' angelic quire
In joyous concert tune the golden lyre;
Viewing, with pitying eyes, our cares with thee,
They wifely own, that "All is Vanity;"
Ev'n all the joys which mortal minds can know,
And find Ardelia's verfe the least vain thing below.
If Pindar's name to those blefs'd manfions reach,
And mortal Mufes may immortal teach,
In verfe like his, the heavenly nation raise
Their tuneful voices to their Maker's praise.
Nor fhall celeftial harmony disdain,
For once, to imitate an earthly strain,
Whose fame fecure, no rival e'er can fear,
But thofe above, and fair Ardelia here.
She who undaunted could his raptures view,
And with bold wings his facred heights pursue ;.
Safe through the Dithyrambic stream she steer'd,
Nor the rough deep in all its dangers fear'd;
Not fo the reft, who with fuccefsless pain
Th' unnavigable torrent try'd in vain.
So Clelia leap'd into the rapid flood,
While the Etrufcans ftruck with wonder stood:
Amidst the waves her rash purfuers dy'd,
The matchlefs dame could only stem the tide,
And gain the glory of the farther fide.
See with what pomp the antic mafque comes in! The various forms of the fantastic spleen. Vain empty laughter, howling grief and tears, Falfe joy, bred by false hope, and falser fears; Each vice, each paffion which pale nature wears, In this odd monstrous medley mix'd appears. Like Bays 's dance, confusedly round they run, Statefman, Coquet, gay Fop, and penfive Nun, Spectres and Heroes, Hufbands and their Wives, With Monkish Drones that dream away their lives. Long have I labour'd with the dire disease, Nor found, but from Ardelia's numbers, ease: The dancing verse runs through my sluggish veins, Where dull and cold the frozen blood remains.
Pale cares and anxious thoughts give way in hafte,
And to returning joy refign my breast;
Then free from every pain I did endure,
I blefs the charming author of my cure.
So when to Saul the great mufician play'd,
The fullen fiend unwillingly obey'd,
And left the monarch's breaft, to seek some saferfhade.
WHILE Sappho with harmonious airs
Her dear Philenis charms,
With equal joy the nymph appears
Diffolving in his arms.
Thus to themselves alone they are
What all mankind can give;
Alternately the happy pair
All grant, and all receive.
Like the Twin-ftars, fo fam'd for friends,
Who fet by turns, and rife;
When one to Thetis' lap defcends,
His brother mounts the skies.
With happier fate, and kinder care,
Thefe nymphs by turns do reign,
While ftill the falling does prepare
The rifing to fuftain.
The joys of either fex in love,
In each of them we read;
Succeffive each to each does prove,
Fierce youth and yielding maid.
EPIGRAM TO THE TWO NEW MEMBERS
FOR BRAMBER, 1708.
HOUGH in the Commons House
Good Sir Cleeve Moore, and gentle Mafter Hale;
Yet on good luck be cautious of relying,
Burgess for Bramber is no place to die in.
Your predeceffors have been oddly fated;
Afgill and Shippen have been both translated.
VERSES MADE TO A SIMILE OF POPE'S.
HILE at our house the fervants brawl,
And raise an uproar in the hall;
When John the butler, and our Mary,
About the plate and linen vary :
Till the smart dialogue grows rich,
In fneaking dog! and ugly bitch!
Down comes my lady like the devil,
And makes them filent all and civil.
Thus cannon clears the cloudy air,
And scatters tempefts brewing there :
Thus bullies fometimes keep the peace,
And one fcold makes another ceafe.
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