Do'st thou not see the livid Traces
Of the sharp Scourges rude Embraces?
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of Thorns and Scourges in thy Heart,
If that be yet not crucify'd,
Look on his Hands, look on his Feet, look on his Side.
Open,. Oh! open wide the Fountains of thine Eyes, And let 'em call
Their stock of moisture forth where e're it lies, For this will ask it all.. 'Twould all alas! too little be Tho' thy Salt Tears come from a Sea, Canst thou deny him this, when He Has open'd all his Vital Springs for thee? Take heed; for by his Sides mysterious Flood May well be understood,
That he will still require some. Waters to his Blood. Cowley.
AS the Camelon, who is known
To have no Colours of his own;
But borrows from his Neighbours Hue
His White, or Black, his Green or Blue
And Struts as much in ready Light,
Which Credit gives him upon Sight;
As if the Rain-bow were in Tail
Settl'd on him, and his Heirs Male:
So the young Squire when first he comes
From Country-School, to Will's or Tom's;
And equally (G---d knows) is fit
To be a Statesman, or a Wit
Without one Notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
'Till fome Acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes Notice of a Staring Lad,
Admits him in amongst the Gang:
They Jeft, Reply, Dispute, Harangue :
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smear'd with the Colours, which they lend him.
Thus meerly as his Fortune Chances,
His Merit or his Vice advances.
If haply he the Sect pursues,
That read and Comment upon News;
He takes up their mysterious Face
He drinks his Coffee without Lace :
This week his mimic Tongue runs o'er
What they have faid the Week before;
His Wifdom fets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlb'rough when to fight:
Or if it be his fate to meet
With Folks who have more Wealth than Wit
He loves cheap Port, and double Bub;
And fettles in the hum Drum Club
He learns how Stocks will fall or rife;
Holds Poverty the greatest Vice;
Thinks Wit the Bane of Conversation;
And fays that Learning spoils a Nation.
But if at first he minds his Hits;
And drinks Champaine among the Wits:
Five deep he Toafts the tow'ring Laffes;
Repeats you Verses writ on Glaffes;
Is in the Chair; prescribes the Law;
And lies with those he never faw..
The Praise of RINDAR.
(In Imitation of Horace his Second Ode, B. 4.
Pindarum quisquis ftudet emulari, &c.
PINDAR is imitable by none:
The Phanix Pindar is a vast Species alone. Who e'er but Dedalus with waxen Wings cou'd fly And neither fink too low, nor foar too high? What could he who follow'd claim, But of vain Boldness the unhappy Fame, And by his Fall a Sea to Name? Pindar's unnavigable Song
Like a swoln Flood from fome steep Mountain pours
The Ocean meets with fuch a Voice,
From his enlarged Mouth, as drowns the Ocean's (Noife.
So Pindar does new Words and Figures roul
Down his impetuous Dithyrambique Tide
Which in no Channel deigns t'abide,
Which neither Banks nor Dikes controul.
Whether th' Immortal Gods he fings
In a no less Immortal train
Or the great Acts of God-defcended Kings,
Who in his Numbers still survive and Reign..
Each rich embroider'd Line,
Which their triumphant Brows around,
By his Sacred Hand is bound,
Does all their starry Diadems out shine..
Whether at Pifa's Race he please
To carve in polisht Verse the Conquerors Images,
Whether the fwift, the skilful, or the strong
Be crowned in his Nimble, Artful, Vigorous Song :
Whether fome brave young Man's untimely fate
In Words worth dying for he celebrate,
Such mournful and fuch pleasing words,
As Joy to his Mothers and Mistress Grief affords:
He bids him Live and Grow in fame,
Among the Stars he sticks his Name:
The Grave can but the Drofs of him devour,
So fmall is Deaths, fo great the Poets power.
Lo, how th' obsequious Wind, and swelling Air
The Theban Swan does upwards bear
Into the Walks of Clouds, where he does play,
And with extended Wings opens his liquid way.
Whilft, alas, my timorous Muse
Unambitious Tracts purfues;
Does with weak unballast Wings
About the mossy Brooks and Springs;
About the Trees new-bloffom'd Heads,.
About the Gardens painted Beds,
About the Fields and flowry Meads,
And all inferiour beauteous Things
Like the laborious Bee
For little Drops of Honey flee,
And there with humble Sweets contents her Industry.
By a Person of Honour.
A She lay in the Plain, his Arm under his Head,
And his Flock feeding by, the fond Celadon faid,
If Love's a sweet Passion, why does it Torment?
If a bitter, faid he, whence are Lovers content?
Since I fuffer with Pleasure, why shou'd I complain,
Or grieve at my Fate when I know 'tis in vain?
Yet fo pleasing the Pain is, so soft is the Dart,
That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my Heart
To my felf I figh often without knowing why,
And when absent from Phillis methinks I could die;
But, Oh! what a Pleasure still follows my Pain,
When kind Fortune does help me to fee her again,
In her Eyes (the bright Stars that foretel what's to
(come
By fofr stealth now and then I examine my Doom.
I press her Hand gently, look languishing down,
And by paffionate Silence I make my Love known;
But, Oh! how I'm bless'd, when so kind she does
(prove,
By fome willing Mistake to discover her Love: When in striving to hide, she reveals all her Flante, And our Eyes tell each other what neither dare name.
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