Such as the swift Apulian's Bride,
Sunburnt and Swarthy tho' fhe be,
Will fire for Winter Nights provide,
And without noise will overfee,
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 ftore,
With Wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties of the poor;
Not Oyfters of the Lucrine Lake
My fober appetite would wish,
Nor Turbet, or the Foreign Fish
That rowling Tempests overtake,
And hither waft the coftly Dish.
Not Heathpout, or the rarer Bird,
Which Phafis, or Ionia yields,
More pleafing Morfels would afford
Than the fat Olives of my Fields;
Than Shards or Mallows for the Pot,
That keep the loofen'd Body found,
Or than the Lamb that falls by Lot,
To the juft Guardian of my Ground.
Amidft these Feafts of happy Swains,
The jolly Shepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the Plains;
The Farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his Oxen, fweating fmoak
Bear on their Necks the loofen'd Yoke-
To look upon his menial Crew,
That fit around his chearful Hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew
With wholesome Food and Country Mirth
This Morecraft faid within himself;
Refolv'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, To tell you how he drew his Ruin on; By what Degrees he took that Paffion in, That made him guilty of Promethean Sin, Who from the Gods durft fteal Celeftial Fire; And, tho' with lefs 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 the 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 Frown.
I liv'd the Envy of th' Arcadian Plains,
Sought by the Nymphs, and bow'd to by the Swains.
Where-e'er I pafs'd, I fwept 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 fpightful Pow'rs above,
If my Ambition did not spring from Love:
Had you, bright Gloriana, been lefs fair,
Lefs excellent, lefs 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 fhaded Rivers, Banks, and Beds of Flowers,
Where the expectingNymphs have past their hours;
Witnefs how oft (all careless of their Fame)
They languish'd for the Author of their Flame:
And when I came reproach'd, my old Referve
Ask'd for what Nymph I did my Joys preferve
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 Paffion) that I lov'd enough.
While I with Love's Variety was cloy'd,
Or the faint Pleafure like a Dream enjoy'd;
'Twas Gloriana's Eyes my Soul alone
With everlafting Guft could feed upon:
From her firft Bloom my Fare I did purfte,
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 Princefs to divide :
For he at once muft feel, whom you infpite,
A foft Ambition, and a haughty Fire,
And Hopes, the natural Aid of young Defire.
My unconfidering Paffion had not yet
Thought your Illuftrious Birth for mine too great :
'Twas Love that I purfu'd, that God that leads
Sometimes the equal'd Slave to Princes Beds.
But O, I had forgot that Flame must rest
In your bright Soul that makes th' Adorer bleft ;*
Your facred Fire alone muft you fubdue,
Tis that, not mine, can raife 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 ftraight would all the reft confound,
How every Coxcomb aim'd at being Crown'd;
The vain young Fool with all his Mother's Parts,
Who wanted Senfe enough for little Arts;
Whofe Compofition was like Cheder-Cheefe,
(In whofe Production all the Town agrees)
To whom from Prince to Priest was added Stuff,
From Great King Charles e'en down to Father Goff
Yet he with vain Pretenfions lays a Claim
To th' glorious Title of a Sovereign;
And when for Gods fuch wretched things fet up,
Was it fo great a Crime for me to hope?
No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove,
There is no Treafon in ambitious Love;
That facred Antidote i'th' poifon'd Cup,
Quells the Contagion of each little Drop.
I bring no Forces but my Sighs and Tears,
My Languishments, my foft Complaints and Pray'rs.
-Artillery which was never fent in vain,
Nor fails, where-e'er it lights, to wound or pain.
Here only, here rebated they rerurn,
Meeting the folid 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, whofe dull Recompence
Would ne'er atone for what they rob from thence;
Scandal of Coward, nay, half-witted too,
Or fiding with the pardon'd 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 Victim fall to all the injur'd Fair.
Left he that with a mighty Hand,
Doe's bravely his own Fate command;
Whom threatning Ills, and flattering Pleasures find,
Safe in the Empire of a conftant Mind:
Who from the peaceful Beach defcries,
Repining Man in the World's Ocean toft,
And with a chearful Smile defies,
The Storm in which the difcontented's loft.
Content, thou beft of Friends, for thou
In our Neceffities art fo,
Mid'ft all our 111, a Bleffing ftill in store,
Joy to the Rich, and Riches to the Poor.
Thou Chymick good, that can'ft alone,
FromFate's moft poisonous Drugs, rich Cordial raife:
Thou trueft Philofophick Stone,
That turn'ft Life's melancholy Drofs to golden days.
Content, the good, the golden Mean,
The fafe Eftate that fits between
The fordid Poor, and miferable Great,
The humble Tenant of a rural Seat.
In vain we Wealth and Treasure heap;
He 'mid'ft his thoufand Kingdoms ftill is poor,
That for another Crown does weep ;
'Tis only he is Rich, that wishes for no more.
IV.
Hence Titles, Manors and Eftate, Content alone.can make us great; Content is Riches, Honour, all befide: While the French Hero with infatiate Pride, A fingle Empire does difdain;
While, ftill he's great, and ftill 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 juft Defirés,
What Need, not Luxury, requires ;
Give me with sparing Hands, but moderate Wealth,
A little Honour and enough of Health;
Life from the bufie City free;
Near fhady Groves, and purling Streams confin'd ; A faithful Friend, a pleafing the,
And give me all in one, give a contented Mind...
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