But gentler sieges, softer wars,
Fights that cause no wounds nor scary,
I'll have no battle on my plate,
Lest sights of them should broils create:
Lest that provoke to quarrels too,
Which wine itself enough can do.
Draw me no constellations there,
No Ram, nor Bull, nor Dog, nor Bear;
Nor any of the monstrous fry
Of animals that flock the sky :
For what are stars to my design?
Stars, which I, when drunk, outshine.
I lack no pole-star on the brink,
To guide in the wide sea of drink;
But would for ever there be toss'd,
And, with no haven, seek no coast.
Yet, gentle artist, if thou'lt try
Thy skill, then draw me, (let me see)
Draw me first a spreading vine,
Make its arms the bowl entwine :
Let its boughs o'erspread above
Scenes of drinking, scenes of love.
Draw next the patron of that tree,
Draw Bacchus, and soft Cupid by:
Draw them both in toping shapes,
Their temples crown'd with cluster'd grapes
Make them lean against the cup,
As 'twere to keep their figures up:
And when their reeling forms 1 view,
I'll think them drunk, and be so too.
XC. APHRA BEHN.
Honour, the error and the cheat
Of the ill-natur'd busy great!
Fond idol of the slavish crowd!
Nonsense invented by the proud!
Oh cursed honour! thou who first didst dana
A woman to the sin of shame!
Honour, who first taught lovely eyes the art
To wound and not to cure the heart,
With love t'invite, but to forbid with awe,
And to themselves prescribe a cruel law.
His chiefest attributes are pride and spite;
His pow'r is robbing lovers of delight!
Honour, that puts our words, that should be free,
Into a set formality!
Thou base debaucher of the gen'rous heart,
That teachest all our looks' and actions' art!
What love design'd a sacred gift,
What nature made to be possessed,
Mistaken honour made a theft:
Thou foe to pleasure! nature's worst disease!
Thou tyrant over mighty kings!
Be gone to princes' palaces;
But let the humble swain go on
In the blest paths of the first race of man;
That nearest were to gods ally'd,
And, form'd for love, disdain'd all other pride.
1. THE TEMPLE OF DEATH.
In those cold climates, where the sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears;
A dreadful vale lies in a desert isle,
On which indulgent heav'n did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress-trees,
Which none without an awful horrour sees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-presaging birds receives:
Poisons are all the plants the soil will bear,
And winter is the only season there.
Millions of graves cover the spacious field,
And springs of blood a thousand rivers yield;
Whose streams, oppressed with carcases and bones,
Instead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous temple stands,
Old as the world itself which it commands.
Round is its figure and four iron gates
Divide mankind. By order of the fates,
There come in crowds, doom'd to one common grave,
The young, the old, the monarch, and the slave:
Old age and pains, which mankind most deplores,
Are faithful keepers of those sacred doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which also load
The sacred walls of this obscure abode;
And tapers, of a pitchy substance made,
With clouds of smoke encrease the dismal shade.
A monster, void of reason, and of sight,
The goddess is, who sways this realm of night.
Her power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A cruel tyrant, and her name is Death.
Here bright eloquence does always smile
In such a choice yet unaffected stile,
As doth both knowledge and delight impart,
The force of reason with the flow'rs of art:
Clear as a beautiful transparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in.
Like a delicious stream it ever ran,
As smooth as woman, but as strong as man.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes, Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True wit is everlasting like the sun.
Mankind upon each other's ruin rise:
Cowards maintain the brave, and fools the wise.
Mankind each other's stories still repeat,
And man to man is a succeeding cheat.
From death we rose to life; 'tis but the same, Thro' life to pass again from whence we came. With shame we see our passions can prevail, Where reason, certainty, and virtue fail : Honour, that empty name, can death despise; Scorn'd love to death, as to a refuge, flies: And sorrow waits for death with longing eyes. Hope triumphs o'er the thoughts of death and fate; Cheats fools, and flatters the unfortunate. We fear to lose what a small time must waste, Till life itself grows the disease at last: Begging for life, we beg for more decay, And to be long a dying only pray.
XCIII. MATTHEW PRIOR.
1. VANITY OF HUMAN THINGS. The workman here obey the master's call, To gild the turret and to paint the wall; To mark the pavement there with various stone, And on the jasper steps to rear the throne: The spreading cedar that an age had stood, Supreme of trees and mistress of the wood, Cut down and carved my shining roof adorns, And Lebanon his ruined honour mourns. A thousand artists show their cunning power. To raise the wonders of the ivory tower: A thousand maidens ply the purple loom, To weave the bed and deck the regal room. Till Tyre confesses her exhausted store, That on her coast the murex is no more: Till from the Parian isle and Libya's coast, The mountains grieve their hopes of marble lost; And India's woods return their just complaint: Their brood decayed and want of elephant. My full design with vast expense achieved, I came, beheld, admired, reflected, grieved: I chid the folly of my thoughtless haste; For, the work perfected, the joy was past.
To my new courts sad thought did still repair; And round my gilded halls hung hovering care.
In vain on silken beds I sought repose,
And restless oft from purple couches rose;
Vexatious thought still found my flying mind
Nor bound to limits nor to place confined:
Haunted my nights and terrified my days:
Stalked through my gardens, and pursued my ways,
Nor shut from artful bower, nor lost in winding maze.
Yet take thy bent, my soul; another sense
Indulge; add music to magnificence:
Essay, if harmony may grief control,
Or power of sound prevail upon the soul.
Often our seers and poets have confessed,
That music's force can tame the furious beast ;
Can make the wolf or foaming boar restrain
His rage the lion drop his crested mane,
Attentive to the song; the lynx forget
His wrath to man and lick the minstrel's feet.
Are we, alas! less savage yet than these?
Else music, sure, may human cares appease.
I spake my purpose: and the cheerful choir
Parted their notes of harmony: the lyre
Softened the timbrel's noise: the trumpet's sound
Provoked the Dorian flute (both sweeter found
When mixed); the fife the viol's notes refined,
And every strength with every grace was joined.
Each morn they waked me with a sprightly lay:
Of opening heaven they sung and gladsome day.
Each evening their repeated skill expressed
Scenes of repose and images of rest;
Yet still in vain: for music gather'd thought:
But how unequal the effects it brought!
The soft ideas of the cheerful note,
Lightly received, were easily forgot :
The solemn violence of the graver sound
Knew to strike deep and leave a lasting wound.
And now reflecting I with grief descry
The sickly lust of the fantastic eye;
How the weak organ is with seeing cloyed,
Flying ere night what it at noon enjoyed.
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