« ПретходнаНастави »
Cease to solicit a weak woman's will,
And urge not her you love to so much ill;
But let me live contented as I may,
And make not my unspotted fame your prey:
Some right you claim, since naked to your eyes
Three goddesses disputed beauty's prize:
One offer'd valour, t' other crowns; but she
Obtain'd her cause, who, smiling, promis'd me.
But, first, I am not of belief so light,
To think such nymphs would show you such a sight:
Yet, granting this, the other part is feign'd,
A bribe so mean your sentence had not gain'd.
With partial eyes I should myself regard,
To think that Venus made me her reward;
I humbly am content with human praise,
A goddess's applause would envy raise:
But be it as you say; for 'tis confest,
The men who flatter highest please us best:
That I suspect it ought not to displease,
For miracles are not believ'd with ease.
One joy I have, that I had Venus' voice:
A greater yet, that you confirm'd her choice;
That proffer'd laurels, promis'd sovereignty,
Juno and Pallas, you contemn'd for me.
Am I your empire then, and your renown?
What heart of rock but must by this be won?
And yet bear witness, O ye powers above,
How rude I am in all the arts of love!
My hand is yet untaught to write to men,
This is th' essay of my unpractis'd pen:
Happy those nymphs whom use has perfect made,
I think all crime, and tremble at a shade:
Ev'n while I write, my fearful conscious eyes
Look often back, misdoubting a surprise:
For now the rumour spreads among the crowd,
At court in whispers, but in town aloud.
Dissemble you, whate'er you hear them say:
To leave off loving were your better way;
Yet, if you will dissemble it, you may.
Love secretly the absence of my lord
More freedom gives, but does not all afford:
Long is his journey, long will be his stay,
Call'd by affairs of consequence away.
To go or not, when unresolv'd he stood,
I bid him make what swift return he could:
Then kissing me, he said, "I recommend
All to thy care, but most my Trojan friend."
1 smil'd at what he innocently said,
And only answer'd, "You shall be obey'd."
Propitious winds have borne him far from hence,
But let not this secure your confidence:
Absent he is, yet absent he commands:
You know the proverb, " Princes have long hands."
My fame's my burden, for the more I'm prais'd,
A juster ground of jealousy is rais'd:
Were I less fair, I might have been more blest,
Great beauty through great danger is possest.
To leave me here, his venture was not hard,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard:
He fear'd my face, but trusted to my life,
The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife.
You bid me use th' occasion while I can,
Put in your hands by the good easy man.
I would, and yet I doubt 'twixt love and fear;
One draws me from you, and one brings me near.
Our flames are mutual, and my husband's gone:
The nights are long; I fear to lie alone;
One house contains us, and weak walls divide,
And you're too pressing to be long deny'd.
Let me not live, but every thing conspires
To join our loves, and yet my fear retires.
You court with words, when you should force em.
A rape is requisite to shame-fac'd joy:
Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive,
Our sex can suffer what we dare not give.
What have I said! for both of us 'twere best,
Our kindling fire if each of us supprest.
The faith of strangers is too prone to change,
And, like themselves, their wandering passions
Hypsipyla, and the fond Minoian maid,
Where both by trusting of their guest betray'd:
How can I doubt that other men deceive,
When you yourself did fair Oenone leave?
But, lest I should upbraid your treachery,
You make a merit of that crime to me.
Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd,
Your weary Trojan's wait but for a wind.
Should you prevail, while I assign the night,
Your sails are hoisted, and you take your flight;
Some bawling mariner our love destroys,
And breaks asunder our unfinish'd joys.
But I with you may leave the Spartan port,
To view the Trojan wealth and Priam's court.
Shown while I see, I shall expose my fame,
And fill a foreign country with my shame,
In Asia what reception shall I find!
And what dishonour leave in Greece behind!
What will your brothers, Priam, Hecuba,
And what will all your modest matrons say?
Fv'n you, when on this action you reflect,
My future conduct justly may suspect;
And whate'er stranger lands upon your coast,
Conclude me, by your own example, lost.
I, from your rage, a strumpet's name shall hear,
While yon forget what part in it you bear:
You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid
Deep under ground, oh! let me first be laid!
You boast the pomp and plenty of your land,
And promise all shall be at my command:
Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I despise ;
My own poor native land has dearer ties.
Should I be injur'd on your Phrygian shore,
What help of kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by Jason's flattery won;
I may, like her, believe and be undone.
Plain honest hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat,
And love contributes to its own deceit.
The ships, about whose sides loud tempests roar,
With gentle winds were wafted from the shore.
Your teeming mother dreamt a flaming brand,
Sprung from her womb, consum'd the Trojan land;
To second this, old prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire:
Both give me fear, nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.
For they, who lost their cause, revenge will take,
And for one friend two enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt but, should I follow you,
The sword would soon our fatal crime pursue:
A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouze,
And my relations would his cause espouse.
You boast your strength and courage; but alas!
Your words receive small credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy;
A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ,
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wise as many of my sex:
But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire;
And I, perhaps, may yield to your desire.
You last demand a private conference:
These are your words; but I can guess your sense.
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend:
Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you understand,
For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand;
My woman knows the secret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.
PART OF THE STORY OF ORPHEUS.
BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF
"Tis not for nothing when just Heaven does frown;
The injur'd Orpheus calls these judgments down;
Whose spouse, avoiding to become thy prey,
And all his joys at once were snatch'd away;
The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass,
Spy'd not the serpent lurking in the grass:
A mournful cry the spacious valley fills,
With echoing groans from all the neighbouring hills;
The Dryades roar out in deep despair,
And with united voice bewail the fair.
For such a loss he sought no vain relief,
But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief;
Along the shore he oft' would wildly stray,
With doleful notes begin and end the day.
At length to Hell a frightful journey made,
Pass'd the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade;
Visits the ghosts, and to that king repairs
Whose heart's inflexible to human prayers.
All Hell is ravish'd with so sweet a song;
Light souls and airy spirits glide along
In troops, like millions of the feather'd kind,
Driven home by night, or some tempestuous wind:
Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids;
And mighty heroes' more majestic shades;
And sons entomb'd before their parents face:
These the black waves of bounding Styx embrace
Nine times circumfluent; clogg'd with noisome
And all that filth which standing water breeds.
Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep caves of Death;
The sisters, with blue snaky curls, took breath;
Ixion's wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd, [strain'd.
And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice re-
When safe return'd, and all these dangers past,
His wife, restor❜d to breathe fresh air at last,
Following (for so Proserpina was pleas'd),
A sudden rage th' unwary lover seiz'd;
He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light shin'd,
Could not refrain to cast one look behind;
A fault of love! could Hell compassion find.
A dreadful sound thrice shook the Stygian coast,
His hopes quite fled, and all his labour lost!
"Why hast thou thus un done thys If and me?
What rage is this? oh, I am snatch'd from thee!"
She faintly cry'd. "Night and the powers of Hell
Surround my sight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell!
My hands stretch forth to reach thee as before;
But all in vain, for I am thine no more;
No mor allow'd to view thy face, or day!"
Then from his eyes, like smoke, she fleets away.
Much he would fain have spoke but Fate, alas!
Would ne'er again consent to let him pass.
Thus twice undone, what course remain'd to take,
To gain her back, already pass'd the lake?
What tears, what patience, could procure him ease?
Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appease?
'Tis said, he seven long moons bewail'd his loss
To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold moss,
While, languishing, he sung his fatal flame,
He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame
So the sad Nightingale, when childless made
By some rough swain, who stole her young away,
Bewails her loss beneath a poplar shade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;
Her melting songs a doleful pleasure yield,
And melancholy music fills the field.
Marriage nor love could ever move his mind;
But, all alone, beat by the northern wind,
Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain'd,
And of the god's unfruitful gift complain'd.
Circonian dames, enrag'd to be despis'd,
As they the feast of Bacchus solemniz'd,
Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs;
His head, torn off from the fair body, swims
Down that swift current where the Heber flows,
And still its tongue in doleful accents goes.
"Ah, poor Eurydice!" he dying cry'd;
Eurydice resounds from every side.
AN ESSAY ON POETRY1. Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well: No writing lifts exalted man so high, As sacred and soul-moving Poesy: No kind of work requires so nice a touch, And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much. But Heaven forbid we should be so profane, To grace the vulgar with that noble name. '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, Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd, Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd. Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound, Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound, Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts; And all in vain these superficial parts Contribute to the structure of the whole, Without a genius too; for that's the soul: A spirit which inspires the work throughout, As that of Nature moves the world about; A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit; Ev`n something of divine, and more than wit; Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown, Describing all men, but describ'd by none. Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the brain Can such a vast and mighty thing contain? When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mourn, Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away, From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?
The Essay on Satire, which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the poems of the latter.
Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulness, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reason is that substantial useful part,
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I shall all the various sorts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;
Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain.
"Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who, with that mean shift, himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts:
What need has Satire then to live on theft,
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear;
'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure,
And those who are so, will ev'n this endure.
First, then, of Songs; which now so much a-
Without his song no fop is to be found;
A most offensive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;
For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one small ring, and brings the value down:
So songs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be seen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.
Here, as in all things else, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous songs, by a late author made 2,
Call an unwilling censure on his shade.
No that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
But words obscene, too gross to move desire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of sweet, but solemn voice,
And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there, too oft, despairing Love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That phenix-she deserves to be belov'd;
But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
2 The earl of Rochester.-It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascribed to this nobleman were spurious. N.
This to the praise of those who better knew ;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have try'd)
Women have drawn my wandering thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
But should this Muse harmonious numbers yield,
And every couplet be with fancy fill'd;
If yet a just coherence be not made
Between each thought, and the whole model laid
So right, that every line may higher rise,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies :
Such trifles may, perhaps of late, have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last;
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an elegy, nor writ with skill,
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Muse's most unruly horse,
That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one possess'd.
The poet here must be indeed inspir'd,
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,
Had he with Nature join'd the rules of Art;
But sometimes diction mean, or verse ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language still must soft and easy run.
These laws may sound a little too severe;
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here,
Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows
Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire, well-writ, has most successful prov'd,.
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.
"Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things said oft before:
Some vulgar errours only we'll remove,
That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chosen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be, as the subject, rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd.
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only business was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satyr from a scold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown;
So while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.
The Laureat' here may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mack Fleckno with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus' has borne dead weight,
Rid by some lumpish minister of state.
Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy cares awhile,
A more important task attends thy toil.
As some young eagle, that designs to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and seas she is to soar,
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet, incited by some bold design,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes every feather, views herself with care,
At last, resolv'd, she cleaves the yielding air;
Away she flies, so strong, so high, so fast,
She lessens to us, and is lost at last :
So (though too weak for such a weighty thing)
The Muse inspires a sharper note to sing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On, then, my Muse, adventurously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if observ'd, gives plays so great a grace,
Are, though but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Less obvious errours of the English stage.
First, then, soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in passion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend, only to tell it us;
Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confesses all.
Figures of speech, which poets think so fine,
(Art's needless varnish to make Nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in descriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief dis
From lovers in despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed; for who can choose but pity
A dying hero, miserably witty?
But, oh! the dialogues, where jest and mock
Is held up like a rest at shittle-cock;
Or else, like bells, eternally they chime,
They sigh in simile, and die in rhyme.
What things are these who would be poets thought,
By nature not inspir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deserve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay, more; for they must look within, to find
Those secret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a soul.
All this united, yet but makes a part
Of dialogue, that great and powerful art,
Now almost lost, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakespeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go, see them play'd; then read them as before;
For though in many things they grossly fail,
Over our passions still they so prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wise to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults:
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways;
This oft, alone, has given success to plays.
In Philaster, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Reject that vulgar errour (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;`
There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultless monster, which the world ne'er saw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve compassion too.
Besides the main design, compos'd with art,
Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive cach little turn, mark every place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not so much where shining thoughts to
As what a man would say in such a case:
Neither in comedy will this suffice,
The player too must be before your eyes;
And, though 'tis drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your secret meaning show.
Expose no single fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we see
A fool derided by as bad as he:
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from every flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious juice,
Which serves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff stands inimitable yet.
Another fault which, often may befall,
Is, when the wit of some great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That ev'n his fools speak sense, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If once the justness of each part be lost,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
That silly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper thought.
But since the poets we of late have known
Shine in no dress so much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Cast but a view on this wrong side of sense.
First, a soliloquy is calmly made;
Where every reason is exactly weighed,
Which, once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves,
And all in metaphor his passion proves:
But some sad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone;
He strait grows jealous, though we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die :
But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The absent nymph how much his fiame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who strait appears; but who can Fate withstand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hasty hand,
That just has given himself the cruel stroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Most sadly mourns at being left behind,
Of such a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
? The matchless character of Shakespeare.
What shameful and what monstrous things are these!
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme,
May keep up sinking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rules,
And sense no longer will submit to fools.
By painful steps, at last, we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The Epic poets so divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below,
Heroic poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of such inestimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth!
Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe,
Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast;
So these gigantic souls, amaz'd, we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endless fame,
And universal shouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill;
As something of divine the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,
Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;
Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure from some angel he the secret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shown, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak Reason's sight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such,
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton fail.
ODE ON BRUTUS.
"Trs said, that favourite, mankind, Was made the lord of all below;
But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find, 'Tis only one man tells another so.
And, for this great dominion here, Which over other beasts we claim, Reason our best credential does appear, By which indeed we domineer, But how absurdly, we may see with shame. Reason, that solemn trifle! light as air, Driven up and down by censure or applause;
By partial love away 'tis blown,
Or the least prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high privilege becomes our snare.
In any nice and weighty cause,
How weak, at best, is Reason! yet the grave
Impose on that small judgment which we have.
In all those wits, whose names have spread so wide
And ev'n the force of time defy'd,
Some failings yet may be descry'd.
Among the rest, with wonder be it told,
That Brutus is admir'd for Casar's death;
By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal
Brutus, ev'n he, of all the rest, [breath
In whom we should that deed the most detest,
Is of mankind esteem'd the best.
As snow, descending from some lofty hill,
Is by its rolling course augmenting still,
So from illustrious authors down have roll'd
Those great encomiums he receiv'd of old:
Republic orators will shew esteem,
And gild their eloquence with praise of him: But Truth, unveil'd, like a bright sun appears, To shine away this heap of seventeen hundred years, In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious wit, (To whom in all besides I willingly submit) That Caesar's life no pity could deserve From one who kill'd himself, rather than serve, Had Brutus chose rather himself to slay,
Than any master to obey,
Happy for Rome had been that noble pride; The world had then remain'd in peace, and only Brutus dy'd.
For he, whose soul disdains to own
Subjection to a tyrant's frown,
And his own life would rather end,
Would sure much rather kill himself, than only hurt his friend.
To his own sword in the Philippian field
Brutus indeed at last did yield:
But in those times self-killing was not rare,
And his proceeded only from despair :
He might have chosen else to live,
In hopes another Cæsar would forgive;
Then, for the good of Rome, he could once more
Conspire against a life which had spar'd his before,
Our country challenges our utmost care,
And in our thoughts deserves the tenderest share;
Her to a thousand friends we should prefer,
Yet not betray them, though it be for her.
Hard is his heart, whom no desert can move,
A mistress or a friend to love,
Above whate'er he does besides enjoy; But may he, for their sakes, his sire or sons de stroy!
For sacred justice, or for public good,
Scorn'd be our wealth, our honour, and our blood;
In such a cause, want is a happy state,
Ev'n low disgrace would be a glorious fate;
And death itself, when noble fame survives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives.
But 'tis not surely of so fair renown
To spill another's blood, as to expose our own:
Of all that's ours we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to friendship, oh! 'tis sacrilege to
Can we stand by unmov'd, and see
Our mother robb'd and ravish'd? Can we be