My dearest Lord, believe a careful Wife, You are too lavish of your precious Life; You foremost into every Danger run, Of me regardless, and your little Son. Shortly the Greeks, what none can singly do, Will compass, pointing all the War at you. But before that Day comes, Heavens! may I have The mournful Priviledge of an early Grave! For I of your dear Company bereft, Have no Reserve, no second Comfort left. My Father, who did in Cilicia reign, By fierce Achilles was in Battel flain: His Arms that Savage Conqueror durst not spoil, But paid just Honours to his funeral Pile; Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted fince A rural Monument to a mighty Prince. Seven Brothers, who seven Legions did command, Had the fame Fate, from the fame murdering Hand. My Mother too, who their sad Heir did reign, With a vast Treasure was redeem'd in vain, For she soon clos'd her Empire, and her Breath, By Wretches last good Fortune - Sudden Death. Thus Father, Mother, Brethren, all are gone, But they feem all alive in you alone. To gain you, those Endearments I have fold, And like the Purchase if the Title hold. Have pity then, here in this Tower abide, And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide. But now the Greeks, by both their Generals led, Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomede, With all their most experienc'd Chiefs and brave, Three fierce Attacks upon the Out-Works gave; Some God their Courage to this pitch did raise, Or this is one of Troy's unlucky Days.
Hector reply'd, This you have faid, and more, I have revolv'd in ferious Thoughts before..
But I not half so much those Gracians fear,
As Carpet-Nights, State-Dames, and Flatterers here.
For they, if ever I decline the Fight,
Miscall wife Conduct, Cowardice and Flight;
Others may Methods chuse the most secure,
My Life no middle Courses can endure.
Urg'd by my own, and my great Father's Name,
I must add fomething to our ancient Fame:
Embark'd in Ilium's Cause, I cannot fly,
Will conquer with it, or must for it die.
But ftill fome Boding Genius does portend,
To all my Toils an unfuccessful end,
For how can Man with heavenly Powers contend?
The Day advances with the swifteft Pace,
Which Troy and all her Glories, shall deface,
Which Afid's facred Empire shall confound,
And these proud Towers lay level with the Ground.
But all compar'd with you does scarce appear,
When I presage your Cafe, I learn to fear:
When you by fome proud Conqueror shall be led,
A mournful Captive to a Master's Bed;
Perhaps fome haughty Dame your Hands shall doom,
To weave Troy's downfal in a Grecian Loom:
Or lower yet, you may be forc'd to bring
Water to Argos from Hiperia's Spring;
And as you measure out the tedious Way,
Some one fhall, pointing to his Neighbour, fay,
See to what Fortune Hector's Wife is brought,
That famous General, that for Ilium fought.
This will renew your Sorrows without end,
Depriv'd in such a Day of fuch a Friend.
But this is Fancy, or before it I,
Low in the Dust will with my Country lie.
Then to his Infant he his Arms address'd, The Child clung, crying, to his Nurse's Breaft,
ar'd at the burnish'd Arms, and threatning Creft.
This made them Smile, whilst Hestor doth unbrace
His shining Helmet, and disclos'd his Face:
Then dancing the pleas'd Infant in the Air,
Kiss'd him, and to the God's conceiv'd this Prayer.
Jove, and you heavenly Powers, whoever hear
Hector's Request with a propitious Ear,
Grant this my Child in Honour and Renown
May equal me, wear, and deserve the Crown:
And when from some great Action he shall come
Laden with hoftile Spoils in Triumphs Home,
May Trojans fay, Hector great Things hath done,
But is furpafs'd by his Illuftrious Son.
This will rejoyce his tender Mother's Heart,
And Sense of Joy to my pale Ghoft impart.
Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child,
With troubled Joy, in flowing Tears she smil'd:
Beauty and Grief shew'd all their Pomp and Pride,
Whilst those soft Passions did her Looks divide.
This Scene ev'n Hector's Courage melted down,
But foon recovering with a Lover's Frown.
Madam, says he, these Fancies put away,
I cannot die before my fatal Day;
Heaven, when we first take in our Vital Breath
Decrees the way, and moment of our Death.
Women should fill their Heads with Womens Cares,
And leave to Men, unquestion'd, Mens Affairs.
A Truncheon fuites not with a Lady's Hand,
War is my Province, that in chief command.
The Beauteous Princess silently withdrew,
Turns oft, and with fad wishing Eyes does her Lord's
Pensive to her Apartment she returns,
And with Prophetick Tears approaching Evils
(mourns:
Then tells all to her Maids; officious they
His Funeral Rites to Living Hector pay,
Whilft forth he rushes through the Scean Gate,
Does his own Part, and leaves the rest to Fate.
By Sir George Etherege.
THE Nymph that undoes me, is fair and unkind,
No less than a Wonder by Nature design'd;
She's the grief of my Heart, the joy of my Eye,
And the Cause of a Flame that never can die.
Her Mouth, from whence Wit still obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful Blush, and the Smell of the Rose:
Love and Deftiny both attend on her Will,
She Wounds with a Look, with a Frown she can kill.
The defperate Lover can hope no redress,
Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess;
In Sylvia they meet, so unhappy am I,
Who fees her must Love, and who loves her must die.
To the Honourable Charles Montague, Esq.
HOW e'er, tis well, that while Mankind
Thro' Fates perverse Mæander errs,
He can imagin'd Pleasures find,
To combat against real Cares...
Fancies and Notions he pursues,
Which ne'er had being but in Thought;
Each, like the Gracian Artist woo's
The Image he himself has wrought.
Againft Experience he believes;
He Argues against Demonftration;
Pleas'd, when his Reason he deceives ;
And fets his Judgment by his Paffion.
The hoary Fool, who many Days
Has ftruggl'd with continu'd forrow,
Renews his Hope, and blindly lays
The defperate Bett upon to morrow.
Tomorrow comes; 'tis Noon, 'tis Night;
This day like all the former flies:
Yet on he runs, to feek Delight
To morrow, 'till to Night he dies.
Our Hopes, like tow'ring Falcons, aim
At Objects in an airy height:
The little Pleasure of the Game
Is from afar to View the Flight.
Our anxious Pains we all the Day,
In fearch of what we like employ:
Scorning at Night the worthlefs Prey,
We find the Labour gave the Joy.
8.
At distance thro' an artful Glafs
To the Mind's Eye Things well appear: They lose their Forms, and make a Mass Confus'd and black, if brought too near.
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