Page images

My deareft Lord, believe a careful Wife,
You are too lavish of your precious Life;
You foremoft 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 fecond Comfort left.
My Father, who did in Cilicia reign,
By fierce Achilles was in Battel flain:

His Arms that Savage Conqueror durft not spoil,
But paid juft Honours to his funeral Pile;
Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted fince
A rural Monument to a mighty Prince.

Seven Brothers, who feven Legions did command,
Had the fame Fate, from the fame murdering Hand
My Mother too, who their fad Heir did reign,
With a vaft Treasure was redeem'd in vain,
For fhe foon clos'd her Empire, and her Breath,
By Wretches laft good Fortune fudden Death.
Thus Father, Mother, Brethren, all are gone,
But they feem all alive in you alone.

To gain you, thofe 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; Sonie 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 fo much thofe Græcians fear,
As Carpet-Nights, State-Dames, and Flatterers here.
For they, if ever I decline the Fight,

Mifcall wife Conduct, Cowardice and Flight;
Others may Methods chufe the moft fecure,
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 Caufe, I cannot fly,
Will conquer with it, or must for it die.
But ftill fome Boding Genius does portend,
To all my Toils an unfuccefsful end,
For how can Man with heavenly Powers contend?
The Day advances with the fwifteft Pace,
Which Troy and all her Glories, fhall deface,
Which Afia's facred Empire fhall confound,
And these proud Towers lay level with the Ground.
But all compar'd with you does fcarce appear,
When I prefage your Cafe, I learn to fear:
When you by fome proud Conqueror fhall be led,
A mournful Captive to a Master's Bed;

Perhaps fome haughty Dame your Hands fhall 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 meafure 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 fuch a Day of fuch a Friend.
But this is Fancy, or before it I,

Low in the Duft will with my Country lie..

Then to his Infant he his Arms addrefs'd, The Child clung, crying, to his Nurfe's Breaft,. Scar'd at the burnish'd Arms, and threatning Creft.

This made them Smile, whilft Hector doth unbrace
His fhining Helmet, and disclos'd his Face:
Then dancing the pleas'd Infant in the Air,
Kifs'd him, and to the God's conceiv'd this Prayer.
Jove, and you heavenly Powers, whoever hear
Hector's Requeft with a propitious Ear,
Grant this my Child in Honour and Renown
May equal me, wear, and deferve the Crown:
And when from fome great Action he fhall 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 Senfe of Joy to my pale Ghoft impart.

Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child,
With troubled Joy, in flowing Tears the fmil'd:
Beauty and Grief fhew'd all their Pomp and Pride,
Whilft thofe foft Paffions did her Looks divide.
This Scene ev'n Hector's Courage melted down,
But foon recovering with a Lover's Frown.

Madam, fays he, thefe Fancies put away,

I cannot die before my fatal Day;

Heaven, when we firft take in our Vital Breath
Decrees the way, and moment of our Death.
Women fhould fill their Heads with Womens Cares,
And leave to Men, unqueftion'd, Mens Affairs.
A Truncheon fuites not with a Lady's Hand,
War is my Province, that in chief command."
The Beauteous Princefs filently withdrew,
Turns oft, and with fad wishing Eyes does her Lord's
(fteps pursue.
Pensive to her Apartment fhe returns,
And with Prophetick Tears approaching Evils

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 reft to Fate.



To Sylvia.

By Sir George Etherege.

HE Nymph that undoes me, is fair and unkind, No less than a Wonder by Nature defign'd; She's the grief of my Heart, the joy of my Eye, And the Caufe of a Flame that never can die.

Her Mouth, from whence Wit ftill obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful Blufh, and the Smell of the Rose:
Love and Destiny both attend on her Will,
She Wounds with a Look,with a Frown fhe can kill.

The defperate Lover can hope no redrefs,
Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess ;
In Sylvia they meet, fo unhappy am I,

Who fees her must Love, and who loves her muft die.


To the Honourable Charles Montague, Efq.


HOW e'er, tis well, that while Mankind
Thro' Fates perverfe Mæander errs,

He can imagin'd Pleafures find,

To combat against real Cares.


Fancies and Notions he purfues,

Which ne'er had being but in Thought; Each, like the Gracian Artist woo's The Image he himself has wrought.


Against Experience he believes;

He Argues against Demonftration; Pleas'd, when his Reafon 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.


To morrow comes; 'tis Noon, 'tis Night;
This day like all the former Alies:

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 Pleafure 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 worthless Prey, We find the Labour gave the Joy.


At diftance thro' an artful Glafs

To the Mind's Eye Things well appear: They lofe their Forms, and make a Mafs

Confus'd and black, if brought too near.

« PreviousContinue »