« ПредишнаНапред »
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were formd with such harmonious grace:
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the foul;
Which her own inward symmetry reveald;
And like a picture shone, in glass anneald.
Or like the fun eclips'd, with shaded light:
Too piercing, elfe, to be sustain'd by fight.
Each thought was visible that rolld within:
As through a crystal case the figur'd hours are seen.
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-faint, she fought the skies:
For marriage, though it sullies not, it dies.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind;
As if she could not, or she would not find
How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below,
That when arriv’d, she scarce had more to know:
But only to refresh the former hint;
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confin d to prayer,
Yet in such charities she pass’d the day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul fo calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which paffion could but curl, not discompose.
A female softness, with a manly mind :
A daughter duteous, and a sister kind:
In fickness patient, and in death refign'd.
EPITAPH ON MRS. MARGARET PASTON, OF BUR
NINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.
O fair, fo young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well expreft,
Her very fight upbraided all the rest;
Too juftly ravishd from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
E, who in impious times undaunted stood,
And midft rebellion durft be juft and good:
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he fought before;
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince;
For what his earthly could not recompence.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ak of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, heaven confin'd in thee,
Few sabjects could a king like thine deserve:
And fewer, such a king, so well could serve,
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate.
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven,
EPITAPH UPON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER'S BEING
DISMISSED FROM THE TREASURY, IN 1687.
ERE lies a creature of indulgent fate,
From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
Elisha like, he's hurl'd
To th’ upper empty regions of the world:
The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky;
And as it
does into atoms fly:
While we on earth see, with no small delight,
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper
With drunken pride and rage he did so well,
The hated thing without compassion fell;
By powerful force of universal prayer,
The ill-blown bubble is now turn d to air;
To his first less than nothing he is gone,
By his preposterous transaction!
INTENDED FOR DRYDEN'S WIFE.
HERE lies my wife : here let her lie!
Now she's at rest, and so am I.
EPIGRAM, ON THE DUTCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH'S PICTURE. SY
URE we do live by Cleopatra's age,
Since Sunderland does govern now the stage:
She of Septimius had nothing made,
Pompey alone had been by her betray’d.
Were she a poet, she would surely boast,
That all the world for pearls had well been loft.
DESCRIPTION OF OLD JACOB TONSON*.
ITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair,
With two left-legs, with Judas-colour'd hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.
* On Tonson's refusing to give Dryden the price he asked for his Virgil, the Poet sent him the above ; and added, “ Tell the dog, “ that he who wrote them, can write more.” The money was paid.
APPY and free, securely bleft;
No beauty could disturb my reft ;
My amorous heart was in despair,
To find a new victorious fair.
Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control
The mighty sovereign of my soul.
Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country arms:
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.