P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That fets it off to a more noble height.
C. He buys his pleasure at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.
But fince you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P Paffion begins indifferent to prove,
When love confiders any thing but love.
P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis paft. C. The darts of love, like lightning, wound within, C. But grows intolerable if it last.
P. Love is too full of honour to regard
What it enjoys, but fuffers as reward.
What knight durft ever own a lover's name,
That had not been half-murder'd by his flame?
Or lady, that had never lain at flake,
To death, or force of rivals for his fake?
C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Difdain's the only mcd'cine for disdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleas'd, and in difpleafing you.
C. Prepofl'rous way of pleafure and of love,
That, contrary to its own end, would move!
"Tis rather hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's bufinefs is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C. He never lov'd at any gen'rous rate,
That in th' enjoyment found his flame abate.
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirst more violent it pretends to flake,
So fhould fruition do the lovers' fire,
Inftead of leffening, inflame defire.
P. What greater proof that paffion does tranfport,
When what I would die for I'm forc'd to hurt?
C. Death among lovers is a thing defpis'd,
And far below a fullen humour priz'd,
That is more fcorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are cross'd in love, or fall at odds:
And, though they pierce it, never hurt the fkin; They leave no marks behind them, where they
Though through the tend'reft part of all, the eye;
But your sharp claws have left enough to fhew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleasure is pain, for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to b' allay'd.
C. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P What you like beft you always disapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love will not be nice,
T' excufe the wrong he does to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant,
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourself the pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve,
But 'tis your want of paffion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For while you ftifle and inflame defire,
You burn, and starve me in the self-fame fire.
C. It is not I, but you, that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accufe me for't:
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt fun and fun,
Make others pay for what themselves have dope,
Upon his incomparable Poem of the
PRINCES*.
BRITISH
You have oblig'd the British nation more
'Than all their bards could ever do before,
And, at your own charge, monuments more hard
Than brafs or marble to their fame have rear'd:
For as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how brave their ancestors could fight,
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
For 'twill be doubted whether you do write,
Or they have acted at a nobler height.
*Moft of the celebrated wits in Charles II's reign adrefied this gentleman, in a bantering way, upon his poem called The Britub Princes, and, among the rift, Butler.
You of their ancient princes have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd; '
Defcrib'd their customs and their rites anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew;
Unriddled their dark oracles as well
As thofe themfelves that made them could foretel;
For as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur could come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in this poem plac'd him on his throne,
Such magic pow'r has your prodigious pen,
To raife the dead, and give new life to men;
Make rival princes meet in arms and love,
Whom diftant ages did fo far remove:
For as eternity has neither paft
Nor future, (authors fay) nor first, nor last,
But is all inftant, your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why should you, whose miracle of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufy'd head
For fince you have fuch arbitrary power, It were defect in judgment to go lower, Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.
There's no man fit to read what you have writ, That holds not fome proportion with your wit As light can no way but by light appear,
T' obferve what time they liv'd in, or were dead? He must bring fenfe that understands it here.
Upon his incomparable Poem of the
BRITISH PRINCES.
It is your pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, fues;
For having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to afk forgiveness, and submit ;
is forry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white :
But fuch is her belief in your juft candour,
She hopes you will not fo mifunderstand her,
To wreft her harmless meaning to the fenfe
Of filly emulation or offence.
No; your fufficient wit does ftill declare
Itfelf too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and fenfelefs a prefumption own,
To yoke your vaft parts in comparison :
And yet you might have thought upon a way
T' inftruct us how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises, and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame :
For who could choose but err, without fome trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was defir'd, upon occafion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Defir'd his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth, to fit it right;
So, had you fent a fcantling of your wit,
You might have blam'd us if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impofe, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge renown;
For he that writes below your vast desert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praife, like a robe of state, fhould not fit clofe
To th' perfon 'tis made for, but wide and loofe;
Derives its comelinefs from b'ing unfit,
And fuch have been our praises of your wit,
Which is fo extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right:
Witness thefe glorious poems you have writ
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And thofe ftupendous discoveries
You've lately made of wonders in the skies;
For who, but from yourfelf, did ever hear
The sphere of atoms was the atmosphere?
Who ever fhut thofe ftragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?
What should confine thofe undetermin'd crowds,
And yet extend no further than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A fign and an afcendant were all one,
Or how 'tis poflible the moon fhould shroud
Her face, to peep at Mars behind a cloud,
Since clouds below are fo far diftant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from b'ing barefac'd?
Who ever did a language fo enrich,
To fcorn all little particles of fpeech?
For though they make the fenfe clear, yet they're
To be a fcurvy hindrance to the found; [found
Therefore you wifely fcorn your style to humble,
Or for the fenfe's fake to wave the rumble,
Had Homer known this art, he 'ad ne'er been fain
To ufe fo many particles in vain,
That to no purpofe ferve, but (as he haps
To want a fyllable) to fill up gaps.
You justly coin new verbs, to pay for hofe
Which in conftruction you o'erfee and lofe;
And by this art do Prifcian no wrong
When you break 's head, for 'tis as broad as long,
Thefe a e your own difcoveries, which none
But fuch a Mufe as your's could hit upon,
That can, in spite of laws of art, or rules,
Make things more intricate than all the fchools:
For what have laws of art to do with you,
More than the laws with honeft men and true?
He that's a prince in poetry should strive
To cry 'em down by his prerogative,
And not fubmit to that which has no force
But o'er delinquents and inferiors.
Your poems will endure to be well try'd
I' th' fire, like gold, and come forth purify'd;
Can only to eternity pretend,
For they were never writ to any end.
All other books bear an uncertain rate,
But thofe you write are always fold by weight;
Each word and fyllable brought to the fcale,
And valu'd to a fcruple in the fale.
Has an abfterfive virtue to make clean
Whatever nature made in man obfcene.
Boys find, b' experiment, no paper-kite,
Without your verfe, can make a noble flight.
It keeps our fpice and aromatics sweet;
In Paris they perfume their rooms with it:
For burning but one leaf of your's, they say,
Drives all their finks and naftiness away.
Cooks keep their pies from burning with your wit,
Their pigs and gecfe from fcorching on the fpit;
And vintners find their wines are ne'er the work,
When ars'nick's only wrapp'd up in the verse.
Thefe are the great performances that raise
Your mighty parts above all reach of praise,
And give us only leave t' admire your worth,
For no man, but yourself, can set it forth,
For when the paper's charg'd with your rich wit, Whofe wondrous pow'r fo generally known,
'Tis for all purposes and uses fit,
Fame is the echo, and her voice your own.
RECOVERY FROM HIS MADNESS.
SIR, you've outliv'd so desperate a fit
As none could do but an immortal wit;
Had your's been lefs, all helps had been in vain,
And thrown away, though on a lefs fick brain
But you were fo far from receiving hurt,
You grew improv'd, and much the better for't.
As when th' Arabian bird does facrifice,
And burn himself in his own country's fpice,
A maggot first breeds in his pregnant urn,
Which after does to a young phenix turn:
So your hot brain, burnt in its native fire,
Did life renew'd, and vig'rous youth acquire;
And with fo much advantage, fome have guest,
Your afterwit is like to be your best,
And now expect far greater matters of ye
Than the bought Cooper's Hill, or borrow'd
Sophy;
Such as your Tully lately drefs'd in verse,
Like thofe he made hinfelf, or not much worse;
And Seneca's dry fand, unmix'd with lime,
Such as you cheat the King with, botch'd in rhyme.
Nor were your morals lefs improv'd, all pride,
And native infolence, quite laid afide:
And that ungovern'd outrage, that was wont
All, that they durft with safety, to affront.
No China cupboard rudely overthrown,
Nor Lady tipp'd, by b'ing accofted, down;
No poet jeer'd, for fcribbling amifs,
With verses forty times more lewd than his :
Nor did your crutch give battle to your duns,
And hold it out, where you had built a fconce;
Nor furiously laid orangewench aboard,
For asking what in fruit and love you 'ad scor'd;
But all civility and complaisance,
More than you ever us'd before or fince.
Befide, you never over-reach'd the King
One farthing, all the while, in reckoning,
Nor brought in falfe account, with little tricks
Of paffing broken rubbish for whole bricks;
False mustering of workmen by the day,
Deduction out of wages, and dead pay
For those that never liv d; all which did come,
By thrifty management, to no fmall fum.
You pull'd no lodgings down, to build them worse,
Nor repair'd others, to repair your purse,
As you were wont, till all you built appear'd
Like that Amphion with his fiddle rear'd:
For had the ftones (like his) charm'd by your verse,
Built up themfelves, they could not have done
worfe :
And fure, when firft you ventur'd to furvey,
You did defign to do't no other way.
All this was done before those days began
In which you were a wife and happy man:
For who e'er liv'd in fuch a paradise,
Until fresh straw and darkness op'd your eyes?
Who ever greater treasure could command,
Had nobler palaces and richer land,
Than you had then, who could raise fums as vast
As all the cheats of a Dutch war could wafte,
Or all those practis'd upon public money?
For nothing, but your cure, could have undone ye.
For ever are you bound to curse those quacks
That undertook to cure your happy cracks;
For though no art can ever make them found,
The tamp'ring cost you threescore thousand pound.
How high might you have liv'd, and play'd, and
loft,
Yet been no more undone by being chouft,
Nor forc'd upon the King's account to lay
All that, in ferving him, you loft at play?
For nothing but your brain was ever found
To fuffer fequeftration, and compound.
Yet you've an imposition laid on brick,
For all you then laid out at Beaft or Gleek;
And when you've rais'd a fum, strait let it fly,
By understanding low, and vent'ring high;
Until you have reduc'd it down to tick,
And then recruit again from lime and brick.
PRECISELY BY THE RULES OF THE ANCIENTS.
WHO ever will regard poetic fury,
When it is once found Idiot by a jury,
And ev'ry pert and arbitrary fool
Can all poetic licence over-rule;
Affume a barb'rous tyranny to handle
The Mufes worse than Ostrogoth and Vandal;
Make 'ein submit to verdict and report,
And ftand or fall to th' orders of the court?
Much lefs be fentenc'd by the arbitrary
Proceedings of witlefs plagiary,
That forges old records and ordinances
Against the right and property of fancies,
More falfe and nice than weighing of the weather
To th' hundredth atom of the lightest feather,
Or measuring of air upon Parnaffus,
With cylinders of Torricellian glaffes;
Reduce all Tragedy, by rules of art,
Back to its antique theatre, a cart,
Unless fome god or demon chanc'd t' have piques
Against an ancient family of Greeks;
That other men may tremble, and take warning,
How fuch a fatal progeny they're born in;
For none but fuch for tragedy are fitted,
That have been ruin'd only to be pity'd;
And only those held proper to deter,
Who 've had the ill luck against their wills to err
Whence only fuch as are of middling fizes,
Between morality and venial vices,
Are qualify'd to be destroy'd by Fate,
For other mortals to take warning at.
As if the antique laws of Tragedy
Did with our own municipal agree,
And ferv'd, like cobwebs, but t' en nare the weak,
And give diverfion to the great to break;
To make a lefs delinquent to be brought
To answer for a greater perfon's fault,
And make them henceforth keep the beaten roads And fuffer all the worst the worst approver
Of rev'rend chorufes and epifodes;
Reform and regulate a puppet play,
According to the true and ancient way,
That not an actor fhall prefume to squeak,
Unless he have a licence for't in Greek;
Nor Whittington henceforward fell his cat in
Plain vulgar English, without mev ing Latin:
No pudding fhall be suffer'd to be witty,
Unless it be in order to raise pity;
Nor devil in the puppet play b' allow'd
To roar and spit fire, but to fright the crowd,
Can, to excufe and fave himself, difcover.
No longer fhall Dramatics be confin'd
To draw true images of all mankind;
To punish in effigy criminals,
Reprieve the innocent, and hang the false;
But a clublaw to execute and kill,
For nothing, whomfoe'er they please, at will,
To terrify fpectators from committing
The crimes they did, and fuffer'd for unwitting,
These are the reformations of the Stage,
Like other reformations of the age,
* "Till he appear'd; for which, fome write, the fent *Upon his tribe as frange a punishment."
This was the only parpofe of their meeting,
For which they chose a time and place moti fitting,
When, at the tull, her equal thares of light
And indueper were at their greatet height.
And now the loty telecope, the teale,
My which aber venture heav'n iticit t' affail,
Wax rand, and planted tull aga nit the Moon,
Anta de nd food ready to fall on.
Ayaset whole bar away the honour
Tristan enign, til or all upon her.
1 * vợ wie tor has sood deep delict WAGA varer the next
The Nove gored the mod prodeund and wise
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This great man, therefore, having fix'd his fight,
T'obferve the bloody formidable fight,
Contider'd carefully, and then cry'd out,
'Tis true, the battle's defperately fought;
The gallant Subv Ivans begin to rally,
And from their trenches valiantly fally,
To fad upon the stubborn enemy,
Who fearfully begin to rout and fly.
Thele paltry domineering Privelvans
Have, ev by fummer-kafon, their campaigns,
And mutter, ake the military fons
Of Rawhead and videricus Blocybones,
As great and rumereas as folan geek
I th' frames-talands of the Orcades,
Courageonly to make a dreadfu. Last,
And arstly face ther tighbours hand to hand,
Ürtil the practica, ang sir emer's come,
nd then diband and march in trampa tome,
And bend the rek fall the year a les
And van Tung of their amatURE TIJ IKS
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