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Such as the swift Apulian's Bride,
Sunburnt and Swarthy tho' she beg Will fire for Winter Nights provider.
And without noise will oversee,
His Children and his Family ;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If the in Pens his Flocks will fold,
And then produce her Dairy store,
With Wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainries of the poor si Not Oysters of the Lucrine Lake
My sober appetite would wish,
Nor Turbet, or the Foreign Fish That rowling Tempefts overtake,
And hither waft the coftly Dish. Not Heathpout, or the rarer Bird,
Which Phafis, or lonia yields, More pleasing Morsels would afford
Than the fat Olives of my Fields ;; Than Shards or Mallows for the Pot,
That keep the loosen'd Body sound, Or than the Lamb that falls by Lot,
To the just Guardian of my Ground.
Amidst these Feafts of happy Swains,
The jolly Shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the Plains ;
The Farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his Oxen, swearing smoak
Bear on their Necks the loosen'd Yoke
To look upon his menial Crew,
That sit around his chearful Hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew
With wholesome Food and Country Mirth: This Morecraft said within himself;
Resolv'd to leave the wicked Town,
And live retir'd upon his own; He call'd his Mony in:
But the prevailing Love of Pelf,
Soon split him on the former Shelf, And put it out again.
BAJAZET to GLORIANA, 1684.
Air Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone,
By what Degrees he took that Paffion in,
That made him guilty of Promethean Sin,
Who from the Gods durft teal Celestial Fire ;
And, tho’ with less fuccefs, I did as high afpire.
Ah! why (you Gods) was the of mortal Race,
And why'twixt her and me was there so vaft a space ?
Why was she not above my Paffion made ?
Some Star in Heaven, or Goddess of the Shade:
And yet my haughty Soul could ne'er have bow'd
To any Beauty of the common Crowd :
None but the Brow that did expect a Crown
Could charm or awe me with a Smile or Frowa.
I liv'd the Envy of th' Arcadian Plains,
Sought by the Nymphs, and bow'd to by the Swains,
Where-e'er I pass'd, I swept the Street along,
And gather'd round me all the gazing Throng.
In num'rous Flocks and Herds I did abound ;
And when I vainly spread my Wishes round,
They wanted nothing but my being Crown'd;
Yet witness all you spightful Pow'rs above,
If my Ambition did not spring from Love :
Had you, bright Gloriana, been lefs fair,
Less excellent, less charming than you are,
I had my honeft Loyalty retain'd,
My noble Blood untainted had remain'd;
Witness you Graces, and you facred Bowers,
You shaded Rivers, Banks, and Beds of Flowers,
Where the expectingNymphs have pat their hours;
Witness how oft (all careless of their Fame)
They languish'd for the Author of their Flame :
And when I came reproach'd, my old Reserve
Ask'd for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve
What fighing Maid was next to be undone,
For whom I dreft and put my Graces on ?
And never thought (tho' I feign'd ev'ry proof
Of tender Passion) that I lov'd enough.
While I with Love's Variety was cloy'd,
Or the faint Pleasure like a Dream enjoy'd ;
'Twas Gloriana's Eyes my Soul alone
With everlasting Gust could feed upon :
From her first Bloom my Fare I did parsi:e,
And from the tender fragrant Bud I knew
The charming Sweet it promis'd when it blew.
They gave me hope, and 'twas in vain I try'd
The Beauty from the Princess to divide :
For he at once must feel, whom you inspite,
A foft Ambition, and a haughry Fire,
And Hopes, the natural Aid of young Desire,
My unconsidering Paffion had not yet
Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great :
'Twas Love that I pursu'd, that God that leads
Sometimes the equaľd Slave to Princes Beds.
But O, I had forgot that Flame mult reit
In your bright Soul that makes th’Adorer bleft;
Your sacred Fire alone muft
subdue, Tis that, not mine, can raise me up to you ; Yet if by chance m'Ambition met a stop With any Thought that check'd m’advancing Hope : This new one straight would all the rest confound, How every Coxcomb ain'd at being Crown'd; The vain young Fool with all his Mother's Parts, Who wanted Sense enough for little Arts; Whofe Compofition was like Cheder-Cheese, (In whose Production all the Town agrees) To whom from Prince to Priest was added Stuff, From Great King Chartes e'en down to Father Goji
Yet he with vain Pretensions lays a Claim
To th' glorious Title of a Sovereign ;
And when for Gods such wretched things set up:
Was it so great a Crime for me to hope?
No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove,
There is no Treason in ambitious Love ;
That sacred Antidote i'th' poison’d Cup,
Quells the Contagion of each little Drop.
I bring no Forces but my Sighs and Tears,
My Languishments, my soft Complaints and Prayʻrs.
- Artillery which was never sent in vain,
Nor fails, where-e'er it lights, to wound or pain.
Here only, here rebated they rerurn,
Meeting the solid Armour of your Scorn ;
Scorn! by the Gods, I any thing could bear,
The rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War;
Long Winter Marches, or the Summer's Heat,
Nay e'en in Battel from the Foe defeat ;
Scars on this Face, Scars, whose dull Recompence
Would ne'er atone for what they rob from thence ;
Scandal of Coward, nay, half-witted too,
Or fiding with the pardon's Rebel Crew ;
Or ought but Scorn: And yet you must frown on,
Your Slave was deftin'd thus to be undone ;
You the avenging Deity appear,
And I a Vidim fall to all the injur'd Fair.
Left he that with a mighty Hand,
; Whom threatning. Uls, and flattering Pleasures find, Safe in the Empire of a constant Mind :
Who from the peaceful Beach descries, Repiging Man in the World's Ocean toft, ,
And with a chearful Smile defies,
The Storm in which the discontented's loft.
Content, thou best of Friends, for thou
In our Neceficies art so,
Mid'ft all our Ill, a Blessing still in store,
Joy to the Rich, and Riches to the Poor.
Thou Chymick good, that can'st alone,
FromFace's most poisonous Drugs, rich Cordial raise :
Thou truest Philosophick Stone,
That turn'ft Life's melancholy Dross to golden days.
Content, the good, the golden Mean,
The safe Estate that fits between
The sordid Poor, and miserable Great,
The humble Tenant of a rural Seat.
In vain we Wealth and Treasure heap;
He’mid'ft his thousand Kingdoms still is poor,
That for another Crown does weep;
'Tis only he is Rich, that wishes for no more.
Hence Titles, Manors and Estate,
Content alone can make us great ;
Content is Riches, Honour, all beside:
While the French Hero with insatiate Pride,
A single Empire does disdain ;
While, till he's great, and still would greater be,
On the least spot of Earth I Reign,
A happier Man, and mightier Monarch far-than he.
I beg good Heaven, with just Desirés,
What Need, not Luxury, requires ;
Give me with sparing Hands, but moderate Wealth,
A little Honour and enough of Health ;.
Life from the busie City free;
Near shady Groves, and purling Streams .confin'd;
A faithful Friend, a pleasing the,
And give me all in one, give a contented Mind