Part 3

I hear this Town does so abound With saucy Censurers, that Faults are found With what of late we (in poetick Rage) Bestowing threw away on the dull Age. But (howsoe'er Envy their Spleens may raise, To rob my Brows of the deserved Bays) Their Thanks at least I merit; since thro' me They are Partakers of your Poetry: And this is all I'll say in my Defence, } T'obtain one Line of your well-worded Sence, } I'll be content t'have writ the _British_ Prince. } I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd Nor write with the vain Hope to be admir'd; But from a Rule I have (upon long Trial) T'avoid with Care all sort of Self-denial. Which way soe'er Desire and Fancy lead, (Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread; And if exposing what I take for Wit, } To my dear self a Pleasure I beget, } No Matter tho' the cens'ring Criticks fret. } These whom my Muse displeases are at Strife, With equal Spleen against my Course of Life, The least Delight of which I'll not forego, For all the flatt'ring Praise Man can bestow. If I design'd to please, the Way were then To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen: The first's unnatural, therefore unfit; } And for the second, I despair of it, } Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit. } Perhaps ill Verses ought to be confin'd In meer good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind, Were reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to think, Men might no more write scurvily than stink: But 'tis your Choice, whether you'll read, or no. If likewise of your Smelling it were so, I'd fart just as I write, for my own Ease, Nor shou'd you be concern'd unless you please. I'll own that you write better than I do, But I have as much need to write as you. What tho' the Excrements of my dull Brain, Flows in a harsh and an insipid Strain; While your rich Head eases it self of Wit, Must none but Civet Cats have leave to shit? In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Wit, and Rhime Fail me at once, yet something so sublime, Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see, It cou'd have been produc'd by none but me. And that's my End; for Man can wish no more Than so to write, as none e'er writ before. Yet why am I no Poet of the Times? I have Allusions, Similes, and Rhimes, And Wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone, Of the whole Race of Mankind shou'd have none. Unequally the partial Hand of Heav'n, Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n. The World appears like a great Family, Whose Lord, oppress'd with Pride and Poverty, (That to a few great Bounty he may show) Is fain to starve the num'rous Train below: Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain, Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain: Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves, And for one Prince it makes ten thousand Slaves. In Wit, alone, 't has been Magnificent, } Of which so just a Share to each is sent, } That the most avaricious are content. } For none e'er thought (the due Division's such) His own too little, or his Friends too much. Yet most Men shew, or find, great want of Wit, Writing themselves, or judging what is writ. But I who am of sprightly Vigour full, Look on Mankind, as envious, and dull. Born to my self, I like my self alone; And must conclude my Judgment good, or none: For cou'd my Sense be naught, how shou'd I know Whether another Man's were good or no, Thus I resolve of my own Poetry, That 'tis the best; and there's a Fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance Whether to Merit due, or Arrogance? Oh! but the World will take Offence hereby: Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I. Did e'er this saucy World and I agree, To let it have its beastly Will on me? Why shou'd my prostituted Sense be drawn, To ev'ry Rule their musty Customs spawn? But Men may censure you, 'tis two to one Whene'er they censure they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name, So foolish, and so false, as common Fame: It calls the Courtier Knave; the plain Man rude; Haughty the Grave; and the Delightful lewd; Impertinent the Brisk; morose the Sad; Mean the Familiar; the Reserv'd one mad. Poor helpless Woman, is not favour'd more, She's a sly Hypocrite, or publick Whore. Then who the Dev'l wou'd give this to be free From th' innocent Reproach of Infamy. These Things consider'd, make me, in despite Of idle Rumour, keep at home and write.

THE _Maim'd Debauchee_.

I.

As some brave Admiral in former War Depriv'd of Force, but prest with Courage still, Two rival Fleets appearing from afar, Crawls to the Top of an adjacent Hill.

II.

From whence (with Thoughts full of Concern) he views The wise, and daring Conduct, of the Fight: And each bold Action to his Mind renews, His present Glory, and his past Delight.

III.

From his fierce Eyes flashes of Rage he throws, As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away, Transported thinks himself amidst his Foes, And absent yet enjoys the bloody Day.

IV.

So when my Days of Impotence approach, And I'm by Love and Wine's unlucky Chance, Driv'n from the pleasing Billows of Debauch, On the dull Shore of lazy Temperance.

V.

My Pains at last some Respite shall afford, While I behold the Battels you maintain; When Fleets of Glasses sail around the Board, From whose Broad-sides Vollies of Wit shall rain.

VI.

Nor shall the Sight of honourable Scars, Which my too forward Valour did procure, Frighten new-listed Soldiers from the Wars, Past Joys have more than paid what I endure.

VII.

Shou'd some brave Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice, And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink, 'Twould please the Ghost of my departed Vice, If at my Counsel he repent and drink.

VIII.

Or shou'd some cold complexion'd Sot forbid, With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarms, I'll fire his Blood by telling what I did, When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.

IX.

I'll tell of Whores attack'd their Lords at home, Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won; Windows demolish'd, Watches overcome, And handsome Ills by my Contrivance done.

X.

With Tales like these I will such Heat inspire. As to important Mischief shall incline; I'll make him long some ancient Church to fire, And fear no Lewdness they're call'd to by Wine.

XI.

Thus Statesman-like I'll saucily impose, And safe from Danger valianly advise; Shelter'd in Impotence urge you to Blows, And being good for nothing else be wise.

Upon _NOTHING_.

I.

_Nothing!_ thou elder Brother ev'n to Shade, Thou hadst a Being e'er the World was made, And (well fix'd) art alone, of ending not afraid.

II.

E'er Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, When primitive _Nothing_ something straight begot, Then all proceeded from the great united--What.

III.

Something the gen'ral Attribute of all, Sever'd from thee, it's sole Original, Into thy boundless self must undistinguish'd fall.

IV.

Yet something did thy mighty Pow'r command, And from thy fruitful Emptiness's Hand, Snatch'd Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Air, and Land.

V.

Matter, the wicked'st Off-spring of thy Race, By Form assisted, flew from thy Embrace, And rebel Light obscur'd thy rev'rend dusky Face.

VI.

With Form and Matter, Time, and Place did join, Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line.

VII.

But turn-coat Time assists the Foe in vain, And, brib'd by thee, assists thy short-liv'd Reign. And to thy hungry Womb drives back thy Slaves again.

VIII.

Tho' Mysteries are barr'd from Laick Eyes, And the Divine alone, with Warrant, pries Into thy Bosom, where the Truth in private lies.

IX.

Yet this of thee the Wise may freely say, Thou from the Virtuous nothing tak'st away, And to be part with thee the Wicked wisely pray.

X.

Great Negative, how vainly wou'd the Wise Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise? Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies.

XI.

_Is_, or _is not_, the two great Ends of Fate, And, true or false, the Subject of Debate, That perfect, or destroy, the vast Designs of Fate.

XII.

When they have rack'd the Politician's Breast, Within thy Bosom most securely rest, And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and best.

XIII.

But, _Nothing_, why does _Something_ still permit, That sacred Monarchs should at Council sit, With Persons highly thought at best for nothing fit.

XIV.

Whilst weighty _Something_ modestly abstains, From Princes Coffers, and from Statesmens Brains, And nothing there like stately _Nothing_ reigns.

XV.

_Nothing_, who dwell'st with Fools in grave Disguise, For whom they rev'rend Shapes and Forms devise, Lawn Sleeves, and Furs, and Gowns, when they like thee look wise.

XVI.

_French_ Truth, _Dutch_ Prowess, _British_ Policy, _Hibernian_ Learning, _Scotch_ Civility, _Spaniards_ Dispatch, _Danes_ Wit, are mainly seen in thee.

XVII.

The Great Man's Gratitude to his best Friend, King's Promises, Whores Vows tow'rds thee they bend, Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

The ADVICE.

All Things submit themselves to your Command, Fair _Cælia_, when it does not Love withstand: The Pow'r it borrows from your Eyes alone; All but the God must yield to, who has none. Were he not blind, such are the Charms you have, He'd quit his Godhead to become your Slave: Be proud to act a mortal Hero's Part, And throw himself for Fame on his own Dart. But Fate has otherwise dispos'd of Things, In different Bands subjected Slaves and Kings: Fetter'd in Forms of Royal State are they, While we enjoy the Freedom to obey. That Fate like you resistless does ordain, To Love, that over Beauty he shall reign. By Harmony the Universe does move, And what is Harmony but mutual Love? Who would resist an Empire so divine, Which universal Nature does enjoin? See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide, Kissing the rugged Banks on either Side. While in their Crystal Streams at once they show, And with them feed the Flow'rs which they bestow: Tho' rudely throng'd by a too near Embrace, In gentle Murmurs they keep on their Pace To the lov'd Sea; for Streams have their Desires; Cool as they are, they feel Love's powerful Fires; And with such Passion, that if any Force Stop or molest them in their amorous Course; They swell, break down with Rage, and ravage o'er The Banks they kiss'd, and Flow'rs they fed before. Submit then, _Cælia_, e'er you be reduc'd; For Rebels, vanquish'd once, are vilely us'd. Beauty's no more but the dead Soil, which Love Manures, and does by wise Commerce improve: Sailing by Sighs, thro' Seas of Tears, he sends Courtships from foreign Hearts, for your own Ends: Cherish the Trade, for as with _Indians_ we Get Gold and Jewels for our Trumpery: So to each other for their useless Toys, Lovers afford whole Magazines of Joys. But if you're fond of Baubles, be, and starve, Your Guegaw Reputation still preserve: Live upon Modesty and empty Fame, Foregoing Sense for a fantastick Name.

The DISCOVERY.

_Cælia_, that faithful Servant you disown, Would in Obedience keep his Love his own: But bright Ideas, such as you inspire, We can no more conceal, than not admire. My Heart at home in my own Breast did dwell, Like humble Hermit in a peaceful Cell. Unknown and undisturb'd it rested there, Stranger alike to Hope and to Despair. Now Love with a tumultuous Train invades The sacred Quiet of those hollow'd Shades. His fatal Flames shine out to ev'ry Eye, Like blazing Comets in a Winter Sky. How can my Passion merit your Offence, That challenges so little Recompence? For I am one, born only to admire; Too humble e'er to hope, scarce to desire. A Thing whose Bliss depends upon your Will, Who wou'd be proud you'd deign to use him ill. Then give me leave to glory in my Chain, My fruitless Sighs, and my unpitied Pain. Let me but ever Love, and ever be Th' Example of your Pow'r and Cruelty. Since so much Scorn does in your Breast reside, Be more indulgent to its Mother Pride. Kill all you strike, and trample on their Graves; But own the Fates of your neglected Slaves: When in the Croud yours undistinguish'd lies, You give away the Triumph of your Eyes. Perhaps (obtaining this) you'll think I find More Mercy than your Anger has design'd: But Love has carefully design'd for me, The last Perfection of Misery. For to my State the Hopes of Common Peace, Which ev'ry Wretch enjoys in Death, must cease: My worst of Fates attend me in my Grave, Since, dying, I must be no more your Slave.

THE NINTH ELEGY, In the Second Book of _Ovid_'s Amours, translated.

_To LOVE._

O Love! how cold and slow to take my part? Thou idle Wanderer about my Heart: Why, thy old faithful Soldier, wilt thou see Oppress'd in thy own Tents? They murther me. Thy Flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy Friends: Rather on Foes pursue more noble Ends. _Achilles_ Sword would certainly bestow A Cure, as certain as it gave the Blow. Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o'er When the Prey's caught, Hopes still lead on before. We thine own Slaves feel thy tyrannick Blows, Whilst thy tame Hand's unmov'd against thy Foes. On Men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove? And I was long ago disarm'd by Love. Millions of dull Men live, and scornful Maids: We'll own Love valiant when he these invades. _Rome_ from each Corner of the wide World snatch'd A Laurel, or't had been to this Day thatch'd. But the old Soldier has his resting Place; And the good batter'd Horse is turn'd to Grass: The harrass'd Whore, who liv'd a Wretch to please, Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her Ease. For me then, who have truly spent my Blood (Love) in thy Service; and so boldly stood In _Cælia_'s Trenches; were't not wisely done, E'en to retire, and live in Peace at home? No--might I gain a Godhead to disclaim My glorious Title to my endless Flame: _Divinity_ with Scorn I wou'd forswear Such sweet, dear, tempting Devils _Women_ are. Whene'er those Flames grow faint, I quickly find A fierce, black Storm pour down upon my Mind: Headlong I'm hurl'd like Horsemen, who, in vain, Their (Fury-flaming) Coursers would restrain. As Ships, just when the Harbour they attain, Are snatch'd by sudden Blasts to Sea again: So Love's fantastick Storms reduce my Heart Half rescu'd, and the God resumes his Dart. Strike here, this undefended Bosom wound, And for so brave a Conquest be renown'd. Shafts fly so fast to me from ev'ry Part, You'll scarce discern the Quiver from my Heart. What Wretch can bear a live-long Night's dull Rest? Fool--is not Sleep the Image of pale Death? There's time for Rest, when Fate hath stopt your Breath. Me may my soft deluding Dear deceive; I'm happy in my Hopes while I believe. Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide: Often may I enjoy; oft be deny'd. With doubtful Steps the God of War does move By the Example, in ambiguous Love. Blown to and fro like Down from thy own Wing; Who knows when Joy or Anguish thou wilt bring: Yet at thy Mother's and thy Slave's Request, Fix an eternal Empire in my Breast: And let th' inconstant, charming, Sex, Whose wilful Scorn does Lovers vex, Submit their Hearts before thy Throne: The Vassal World is then thy own.

_Woman's HONOUR._

A SONG.

I.

_Love_ bid me hope, and I obey'd; _Phillis_ continu'd still unkind: Then you may e'en despair, he said, In vain I strive to change her Mind.

II.

_Honour's_ got in, and keeps her Heart; Durst he but venture once abroad, In my own Right I'd take your part, And shew my self a mightier _God_.

III.

This huffing _Honour_ domineers In Breasts, where he alone has place: But if true gen'rous _Love_ appears, The Hector dares not shew his Face.

IV.

Let me still languish, and complain, Be most inhumanly deny'd: I have some Pleasure in my Pain, She can have none with all her Pride.

V.

I fall a Sacrifice to _Love_, She lives a Wretch for _Honour_'s sake; Whose Tyrant does most cruel prove, The Difference is not hard to make.

VI.

Consider _Real Honour_ then, You'll find _Hers_ cannot be the same, 'Tis noble Confidence in Men, In Women mean mistrustful Shame.

_Grecian_ KINDNESS.

A SONG.

I.

The utmost Grace the _Greeks_ could shew, When to the _Trojans_ they grew kind, Was with their Arms to let 'em go, And leave their lingring Wives behind. They beat the Men, and burnt the Town, Then all the Baggage was their own.

II.

There the kind Deity of Wine Kiss'd the soft wanton God of Love; This clapt his Wings, that press'd his Vine, And their best Pow'rs united move. While each brave _Greek_ embrac'd his Punk, Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk.

The MISTRESS.

A SONG.

I.

An Age in her Embraces past, Would seem a Winter's Day; Where Life and Light with envious haste, Are torn and snatch'd away.

II.

But, oh! how slowly Minutes roul, When absent from her Eyes; That fed my Love, which is my Soul, It languishes and dies.

III.

For then no more a Soul but Shade, It mournfully does move; And haunts my Breast, by Absence made The living Tomb of Love.

IV.

You wiser Men despise me not; Whose Love-sick Fancy raves, On Shades of Souls, and Heav'n knows what; Short Ages live in Graves.

V.

Whene'er those wounding Eyes, so full Of Sweetness, you did see; Had you not been profoundly dull, You had gone mad like me.

VI.

Nor censure us, you who perceive My best belov'd and me, Sigh and lament, complain and grieve, You think we disagree.

VII.

Alas! 'tis sacred Jealousie, Love rais'd to an Extream; The only Proof 'twixt them and me, We love, and do not dream.

VIII.

Fantastick Fancies fondly move; And in frail Joys believe: Taking false Pleasure for true Love; But Pain can ne'er deceive.

IX.

Kind jealous Doubts, tormenting Fears, And anxious Cares, when past; Prove our Hearts Treasure fix'd and dear, And make us blest at last.

A SONG.

I.

Absent from thee I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return? The straying Fool 'twill plainly kill, To wish all Day, all Night to mourn.

II.

_Dear_, from thine Arms then let me fly, That my fantastick Mind may prove, The Torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix, Heart from my Love.

III.

When wearied with a World of Woe, To thy safe Bosom I retire, Where Love and Peace and Truth does flow, May I contented there expire.

IV.

Left once more wandring from that Heav'n, I fall on some base Heart unblest; Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, And lose my everlasting Rest.

To _CORINNA_.

A SONG.

I.

What cruel Pains _Corinna_ takes, To force that harmless Frown: When not one Charm her Face forsakes, Love cannot lose his own.

II.

So sweet a Face, so soft a Heart, Such Eyes so very kind, Betray, alas! the silly Art Virtue had ill design'd.

III.

Poor feeble Tyrant! who in vain Would proudly take upon her, Against kind Nature to maintain Affected Rules of Honour.

IV.

The Scorn she bears so helpless proves, When I plead Passion to her, That much she fears, (but more she loves,) Her Vassal should undo her.

_A young Lady to her ancient Lover._

A SONG.

I.

Ancient Person, for whom I All the flatt'ring Youth defie; Long be it e're thou grow old, Aking, shaking, crasie, cold. But still continue as thou art, _Ancient Person of my Heart_.

II.

On thy withered Lips and dry, Which like barren Furrows lie; Brooding Kisses I will pour, Shall thy youthful Heart restore. Such Kind Show'rs in Autumn fall, And a second Spring recal: Nor from thee will ever part, _Ancient Person of my Heart_.

III.

Thy nobler Part, which but to name, In our Sex wou'd be counted Shame, By Ages frozen grasp possess'd From their Ice shall be releas'd: And, sooth'd by my reviving Hand, In former Warmth and Vigour stand. All a Lover's Wish can reach, For thy Joy my Love shall teach: And for thy Pleasure shall improve All that Art can add to Love, Yet still I love thee without Art, _Ancient Person of my Heart_.

To a LADY: IN A LETTER. A SONG.

I.

Such perfect Bliss, fair _Chloris_, we In our Enjoyment prove: 'Tis pity restless Jealousie Should mingle with our Love.

II.

Let us, since Wit has taught us how, Raise Pleasure to the top: You rival Bottle must allow, I'll suffer rival Fop.

III.

Think not in this that I design A Treason 'gainst Love's Charms, When following the God of Wine, I leave my _Chloris_ Arms.

IV.

Since you have that, for all your Haste, At which I'll ne'er repine, Its Pleasure can repeat as fast, As I the Joys of Wine.

V.

There's not a brisk insipid Spark, That flutters in the Town: But with your wanton Eyes you mark Him out to be your own.

VI.

Nor do you think it worth your Care, How empty, and how dull, The Head of your Admirers are, So that their Veins be full.

VII.

All this you freely may confess, Yet we ne'er disagree: For did you love your Pleasure less, You were no Match for me.

The FALL.

A SONG.

I.

How blest was the Created State Of Man and Woman e're they fell, Compar'd to our unhappy Fate, We need not fear another Hell!

II.

Naked, beneath cool Shades, they lay, Enjoyment waited on Desire: Each Member did their Wills obey, Nor could a Wish set Pleasure higher.

III.

But we, poor Slaves, to Hope and Fear, Are never of our Joys secure; They lessen still, as they draw near, And none but dull Delights endure.

IV.

Then, _Chloris_, while I Duty pay, The nobler Tribute of my Heart, Be not you so severe to say, You love me for a frailer Part.

_LOVE_ and _LIFE_.

A SONG.

I.

All my past Life is mine no more, The flying Hours are gone: Like transitory Dreams giv'n o'er, Whose Images are kept in store, By Memory alone.

II.

The Time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present Moment's all my Lot; And that, as fast as it is got, _Phillis_, is only thine.

III.

Then talk not of Inconstancy, False Hearts, and broken Vows; If I, by Miracle, can be This live long Minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

A SONG.

I.

While on those lovely Looks I gaze, To see a Wretch pursuing; In Raptures of a blest Amaze, His pleasing happy Ruin; 'Tis not for pity that I move; His Fate is to aspiring, Whose Heart, broke with a Load of Love, Dies wishing and admiring.

II.