Resolve me, poor apostate, this my doubt,
What hope haft thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath fent thee this intelligence.
A knight there is, if thou canst gain his grace,
Known by the name of the Hard-favour'd Face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote defcended lineally;
And, though like him unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in attempts of wit and love.
Of his unfinish'd face, what shall I say?
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,
That much, much ochre was on it bestow'd,
God's image 'tis not, but some Indian god :
Our Christian earth can no resemblance bring
But ware of Portugal for fuch a thing;
Such carbuncles his fiery face confefs,
As no Hungarian water can redress.
A face which should he see (but heaven was kind,
And, to indulge his self, Love made him blind.)
He durft not stir abroad for fear to meet
Curses of teeming women in the street :
The best could happen from this hideous fight,
Is that they should miscarry with the fright-
Heaven guard them from the likeness of the knight!
Such is our charming Strephon's outward man,
His inward parts let those disclose who can :
One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame,
And now he chants no less Lovisa's name;
For when his passion hath been bubbling long,
The scum at last boils up into a fong;
And fure no mortal creature at one time,
Was e'er so far o'ergone with love and rhyme.
To his dear felf of poetry he talks,
His hands and feet are scanning as he walks;
His writhing looks his pangs of wit accuse,
The airy symptoms of a breeding Muse,
And all to gain the great Lovisa's grace,
But never pen did pimp for fuch a face;
There's not a nymph in city, town, or court,
But Strephon's billet-doux has been their sport.
Still he loves on, yet still he 's sure to miss,
As they who wash an Æthiop's face, or his.
What fate unhappy Strephon does attend?
Never to get a mistress, nor a friend.
Strephon alike both wits and fools detest,
'Cause he's like Æsop's batt, half bird, half beast;
For fools to poetry have no pretence,
And common wit supposes common sense,
Not quite so low as fool, nor quite a-top,
He hangs between them both, and is a fop.
His morals like his wit are motley too,
He keeps from arrant knave with much ado.
But vanity and lying so prevail,
That one grain more of each would turn the scale:
He would be more a villain had he time,
But he's so wholly taken up with rhyme,
That he mistakes his talent; all his care
Is to be thought a poet fine and fair.
Small-beer and gruel are his meat and drink,
The diet he prefcribes himself to think;
Rhyme next his heart he takes at the morn peep,
Some love-epistles at the hour of fleep;
So betwixt elegy and ode we fee
Strephon is in a course of poetry :
This is the man ordain'd to do thee good,
The pelican to feed thee with his blood;
Thy wit, thy poet, nay thy friend, for he
Is fit to be a friend to none but thee.
Make fure of him and of his Muse betimes,
For all his fludy is hung round with rhymes.
Laugh at him, justle him, yet still he writes,
In rhyme he challenges, in rhyme he fights;
Charg'd with the last, and basest infamy,
His business is to think what rhymes to lye;
Which found, in fury he retorts again,
Strephon 's a very dragon at his pen;
His brother murder'd, and his mother whor'd,
His mistress lost, and yet his pen 's his fword.
To the Memory of Mr. OLDHAM.
AREWELL, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own :
For fure our fouls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the fame poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both adhorr'd alike.
To the fame goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nifus fell upon the flippery place,
Whilst his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more ?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
But fatire needs not those, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray'd.
VOL. II,
Thy
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime, Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of
Once more, hail, and farewel; farewel, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue !
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.
To the pious Memory of the accomplished young Lady Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, excellent in the two Sister-Arts of POESY and PAINTING.
THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the bleft;
Whose palms, new-pluck'd from paradise,
In spreading branches more fublimely rife,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in proceffion fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more fuperior bliss,
Thou treadit, with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
|