And when the Times begin to alter,
None rife fo high as from the Halter.
The Faith of moft with Fortune does decline;
Duty's but Fear, and Confcience but Defign.
Let Fools the Name of Loyalty divide;
Wife Men and Gods are on the ftrongeft Side.
For whom should we esteem above
The Men whom Gods do love ?
The Laws of Friendship we ourselves create,
And 'tis but fimple Villany to break them :
But Faith to Princes broke is Sacrilege,
An Injury to the Gods; and that loft Wretch,
Whofe Breaft is poifon'd with fo vile a Purpose,
Tears Thunder down from Heav'n on his own Head,
And leaves a Curfe to his Pofterity.
As Virtue never will be mov'd,
Tho' Lewdness court it in a Shape of Heav'n :
So Luft, tho' to a radiant Angel join'd,
Will feat itself in a celeftial Bed,
And prey on Garbage.
To a Lady playing on the L U T E.
The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,
And tell their Joy for every Kifs aloud:
Small Force there needs to make them tremble fo;
Touch'd by that Hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes ftand, and while fhe charms the Ear,
Empties his Quiver on the lift'ning Deer:
Mufick fo foftens and disarms the Mind,
That not one Arrow does Refiftance find:
Thus the fair Tyrant celebrates the Prize,
And Acts herself the Triumph of her Eyes.
So Nero once, with Harp in Hand, furvey'd
His flaming Rome, and as that burn'd he play'd.
To burning Rome when frantick Nero play'd,
Had he but heard thy Lute, he foon had found
His Rage eluded, and his Crime atton'd:
Thine, like Amphion's Hand, had rais'd the Stone,
And from Deftruction call'd a fairer Town:
Malice to Mufick had been forc'd to yield,
Nor could he burn so fast as thou could'st build.
Awake, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy filent Matter's humble Tale,
In Sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle Thoughts infpire:
Tho' fo exalted the,
Tell her fuch diff'rent Notes make all thy Harmony.
Hark! how the Strings awake,
And, tho' the moving Hand approach not near,
Themfelves with awful Fear
A kind of num'rous Trembling make:
Now all thy Forces try,
Now all thy Charms apply;
Revenge upon her Ear the Conquefts of her Eye.
Weak Lyre, thy Virtue fure
Is ufelefs here, fince thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound;
As fhe to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove
My Paffion to remove :
Phyfick to other Ills, thou'rt Nourishment to Love.
Sleep, fleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canft never tell my humble Tale
In Sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle Thoughts in her inspire :
All thy vain Mirth lay by,
Bid thy Strings filent lie,
Sleep, fleep again, my Lyre, and let thy Mafter die. Cowl
Now fee that noble and moft fov'reign Reason, Like fweet Bells, jangled out of Tune and harth;. Mad as the Seas and Winds, when both contend. Which is the mightier.
She hems, and beats her Breaft,
Spurns enviously at Straws; fpeaks things in doubt,
That carry but half Senfe:
Yet her unihap'd Ufe of Speech does move
The Hearers to Collection; They aim at it,
And their Words up-fit to their own Thoughts;
Which as her Winks and Nods, and Gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there would be Thoughts;
Tho' nothing fuit, yet much, unhappily.
Behold her lying in her Cell;
Her unregarded Locks
Matted like Furies Treffes; her poor Limbs
Chain'd to the Ground; and 'stead of thofe Delights,
Which happy Lovers tafte, her Keeper's Stripes,
A Bed of Straw, and a coarse wooden Dish
Of wretched Sustenance.
Obferve the Gallantry of her Distraction:
Hark how fhe mouths the Heav'ns, and mates the Gods:
Her blazing Eyes darting the wand'ring Stars,
While with her thund'ring Voice the threatens high,
And ev'ry Accent twangs with fmarting Sorrow. Lee Oedip.
He raves: His Words are loofe
As Heaps of Sand, and fcatt'ring wide from Senfe.
So high he's mounted in his airy Throne,
That now the Wind is got into his Head,
And turns his Brains to Frenzy.
As a robb'd Tigrefs bounding o'er the Woods. Lee Oedip..
That sweep the Defarts of our moving Plains. Dryd. Don Seb.. There is a Pleasure fure in being mad,
Which none but Madmen know.
Madmen ought not to be mad,
But who can help their Frenzy ?
A Woman! If you love my Peace of Mind, Name not a Woman to me: But to think
Of Women were enough to taint my Brains
"Till they ferment to Madnefs. A Woman is the thing I would forget, and blot from my Remembrance. Otw.Orph To my charm'd Ears no more of Woman tell;
Name not a Woman and I shall be well:
Like a poor Lunatick that makes his Moan,
And for a while beguiles his Lookers-on;
He reafons well, his Eyes their Wildness lofe,
He vows the Keepers his wrong'd Sense abuse:
But if you hit the Caufe that hurts his Brain,
Then his Teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his Chain,
His Eye-balls roll, and he is mad again. Lee Caf, Borg.
Tom-a-Bedlam.
I have bethought myself
To take the baseft and the poorest Shape,
That ever Penury, in conteinpt of Man,
Brought near to Beaft. My Face I'll grime with Filth,
Blanket my Loins, put all my Hair in Knots;
And with presented Nakednefs out-face
The Winds and Perfecutions of the Sky.
The Country gives me Proof and Precedent
Of Bedlam Beggars, who with roaring Voices
Strike into their numb'd and mortify'd Arms
Pins, wooden Pricks, Nails, Sprigs of Rosemary;
And with this horrible Object from low Farms,
Poor pelting Villages, Sheep-cotes, and Mills,
Sometimes with lunatick Bans, fometimes with Pray'rs,
Inforce their Charity.
Shak. K. Lear.
MAN. See Babe. Creation. Philofophy.
Like Leaves on Trees the Race of Man is found,
Now green in Youth, now with'ring on the Ground :
Another Race the foll'wing Spring fupplies;
They fall fucceffive and fucceffive rife:
So Generations in their Courfe decay;
So flourish these when thofe are past away.
Time was when we were fow'd, and just began
From fome few fruitful Drops, the Promife of a Man :
Then Nature's Hand (fermented as it was)
Moulded to Shape the foft coagulated Mafs;
And when the little Man was fully form'd,
The breathless Embryo with a Spirit warm'd:
But when the Mother's Throes begin to come,
The Creature pent within the narrow Room,
Breaks his blind Prifon, pufhing to repair
His ftifled Breath, and draw the living Air;
Caft on the Margin of the World he lies
A helpless Babe, but by Inftinct he cries:
He next effays to walk, but, downwards prefs'd,
On four Feet, imitates his Brother Beast:
By flow degrees he gathers from the Ground
His Legs, and to the Rolling-Chair is bound :
Then walks alone; A Horfe-man now become,
He rids a Stick, and travels round the Room.
In time he vaults among his youthful Peers,
Strong-bon'd, and ftrung with Nerves, in pride of Years.
He runs with Mettle his first merry Stage,
Maintains the next, abated of his Rage,
But manages his Strength, and fpares his Age:
Heavy the Third, and stiff, he finks apace,
And tho' 'tis down-hill all, but creeps along the Race.
Now faplefs on the Verge of Death he stands,
Contemplating his former Feet and Hands;
And Milo-like, his flacken'd Sinews fees,
And wither'd Arms, once fit to cope with Hercules;
Unable now to shake, much lefs to tear the Trees.
Thus even our Bodies daily Change receive,
Some Part of what was theirs before, they leave:
Nor are To-day, what Yefterday they were,
Nor the whole fame To-morrow will appear. Dryd. Ovid.
So Man, at first a Drop, dilates with Heat ;
Then form'd, the little Heart begins to beat :
Secret he feeds, unknowing in his Ceil,
At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the Shell,
And ftruggles into Breath, and cries for Aid,
Then, helpless, in his Mother's Lap is laid:
He creeps, he walks; and, iffuing into Man,
Grudges their Life from whence his own began:
Retchlefs of Laws, affects to rule alone,
Anxious to reign, and reftless on the Throne.
Firft vegetive, then feels, and reafons laft,
Rich of three Souls, and lives all three to waste :
Some thus, but Thousands more in Flow'r of Age;
For few arrive to run the later Stage.
Man is but Man, inconftant ftill and various.
There's no To-morrow in him like To-day :
Perhaps the Atoms, rolling in his Brain,
Make him think honeftly this prefent Hour;
The next, a Swarm of base ungrateful Thoughts
Who would truft Chance, fince all Men have the Seeds
Of Good or Ill, which should work upward firft? Dryd.
Men are but Children of a larger Growth,
Our Appetites as apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving too, and full as vain :
And yet the Soul fhut up in her dark Room,
Viewing fo clear abroad, at home fees nothing;
But, like a Mole in Earth, bufy and blind,
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