The Works of the English Poets: Otway; Duke; Dorset

Then rifing, through the path I rove
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful ftory tells :

With fighs I dew and kifs the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you 've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told ;

For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,

And curse thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,

For breaking my poor

heart.

PROLOGUE

TO N. LEE'S

CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.

HAT think ye meant wife Providence, when fir

Poets were made? I'd tell you, if I durst,

That 'twas in contradiction to heaven's word,
That when its spirit o'er the waters stirr'd,
When it faw all, and faid that all was good,
The creature Poet was not understood:

For,

For, were it worth the pains of fix long days,
To mould retailers of dull third-day plays,'
That starve out threefcore years in hopes of bays!
'Tis plain they ne'er were of the first creation,
But came by meer equivocal generation :
Like rats in fhips, without coition bred,
As hated too as they are, and unfed.

Nature their species fure must needs difown,
Scarce knowing Poets, lefs by Poets known.
Yet this poor thing, fo fcorn'd and fet at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Disabled wasting Whore-masters are not
Prouder to own the brats they never got,

Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
T'adopt fome base-born fong that's not their own...
Spite of his state, my Lord fometimes defcends,,
To please the importunity of friends.

The dullest he, thought most for business fit,
Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;
And though he finks with his employs of ftate,
Till common fenfe forfake him, he 'll translate.
The Poet and the Whore alike complains
Of trading quality, that spoil their gains;
The lords will write, and ladies will have fwains!
Therefore all you who have male issue born
Under the starving fign of Capricorn,

Prevent the malice of their ftars in time,

And warn them early from the fin of rhyme:

}

Tell them how Spenfer ftarv'd, how Cowley mourn'd, How Butler's faith and fervice was return'd;

And

And if fuch warning they refuse to take,
This laft experiment, O parents, made!
With hands behind them fee th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his fide;
Then lead him to fome stall that does expofe
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nofe,
Till, like a spaniel lash'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,

To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;
Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulnefs how to thrive.

THE

BEGINNING O F

A PASTORAL

O N THE

}

DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.

WHAT horror's this that dwells upon the plain,

And thus difturbs the shepherds' peaceful reign A difmal found breaks through the yielding air, Forewarning us fome dreadful storm is near. The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray, The early larks forsake their wandering way, And ceafe to welcome-in the new-born day. Each nymph possest with a distracted fear, Disorder'd hangs her loose difhevel'd hair.

}

Difcafes

Diseases with her strong convulfions reign,

And deities, not known before to pain,
Are now with apoplectic seizures flain:

Hence flow our forrows, hence increase our fears,
Each humble plant does drop her filver tears.
Ye tender lambs, ftray not so fast away,
To weep and mourn let us together stay :
O'er all the universe let it be fpread,

That now the fhepherd of the flock is dead.
The royal Pan, that shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's
eternal fleep!

Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly Aloft where the foft milky way does lie; Mopfus, who Daphnis to the stars did sing, Shall join with you, and thither waft our king. Play gently on your reeds a mournful strain, And tell in notes, through all th' Arcadian plain, The royal Pan, the fhepherd of the sheep,

He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,

Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's eternal fleep.

CON