SONG.

BY JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER,

INSULTIN

NSULTING beauty, you misspend

Those frowns upon your slave;

Your scorn against such rebels bend
Who dare with confidence pretend
That other eyes their hearts defend

From all the charms you have.

Your conq'ring eyes so partial are,
Or mankind is fo dull,

That, while I languish in defpair,

5.

Many proud fenfeless hearts declare 10

They find you not fo killing fair
To wish you merciful.

They an inglorious freedom boaft;

I triumph in my chain;

Nor am I unreveng'd, though loft; 15
Nor you unpunish'd, though unjuft;
When I alone, who love you most,

Am kill'd with your disdain.

Born 1648; dyed 1680.

THE SIXTEENTH ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK

IN

OF HORACE.

BY THOMAS OTWAY.*

IN ftorms when clouds the moon do hide,
And no kind stars the pilot guide,

Shew me at fea the boldest there
Who does not wish for quiet here.
For quiet (friend) the foldier fights,
Bears weary marches, fleepless nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold,
Which can't be bought with hills of gold.
Since wealth and power too weak we find
To quell the tumults of the mind,

Or from the monarch's roofs of state

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Drive thence the cares that round him wait,
Happy the man with little bleft,

Of what his father left poffeft;
No bafe defires corrupt his head,
No fears difturb him in his bed.

What then in life, which foon must end,

Can all our vain defigns intend?

From shore to fhore why should we run,
When none his tiresome felf can fhun?

Born 1651; dyed 1682.

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For baneful care will still prevail,

And overtake us under fail:

"Twill dodge the great man's train behind,

Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
If then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away:
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels fate's fudden blow,
Another's ling'ring death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy stock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horses and chariots for thy ease,

Rich robes to deck and make thee please :
For me, a little cell I chufe,

Fit for my mind, fit for mufe,

my

Which foft content does beft adorn,

Shunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.

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40

THE RETIREMENT.

BY JOHN NORRIS.

I.

WELL, I have thought on't, and I find

This bufie world is nonsense all; I here despair to please my mind,

Her sweetest honey is so mixt with gall. Come then, I'll try how 'tis to be alone, Live to myself a while, and be my own.

II.

I've try'd, and bless the happy change;

So happy, I could almost vow

Never from this retreat to range,

For fure I ne'er can be fo bleft as now: From all th' allays of bliss I here am free, I pity others, and none envy me.

III.

Here in this fhady lonely grove,

I fweetly think my hours away,

Neither with business vex'd nor love,

Which in the world bear fuch tyrannic sway.

* Born 1657; dyed 1711.

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No tumults can my close apartment find,

Calm as thofe feats above, which know no ftorm

nor wind.

IV.

Let plots and news embroil the state,

Pray what's that to my books and me? Whatever be the kingdom's fate,

Here I am fure t'enjoy a monarchy.

Lord of myself, accountable to none,
Like the first man in paradice, alone.

V.

While the ambitious vainly fue,
And of the partial stars complain,

I ftand upon the shore, and view

The mighty labours of the diftant main : I'm flush'd with filent joy, and fmile to fee The shafts of fortune still drop short of me.

VI.

Th' uneafie pageantry of state,

And all the plagues to thought and fenfe, Are far remov'd; I'm plac'd by fate

Out of the road of all impertinence.

Thus, tho my fleeting life runs swiftly on,
"Twill not be short, because 'tis all my own.

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