POEMS ON Several Occasions. ORIGINALS, and TRANSLATIONS.

Scrinia da magnis; me Manus una capit.

Mart. Lib. 1. Epig. 3.

Printed in the Year 1694. And are to be Sold by most Booksellers.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN APOLLO and DAPHNE.

Apollo.
I.
WHEN my Eye first gaz'd on thee,
Daphne, Brighter far than me;
Oh! so sure was Cupid's Dart,
Piercing my unwary Heart;
Blind, he All-seeing seem'd, but I
Seem'd blind with my All-seeing Eye.
Daph.
II.
Pray, kind Phoebus, pray forbear,
You'le obtain no Favour here.
Chast Diana has my Vow,
Which I promis'd long ago:
To her I owe Virginity;
I can't thy Sister please and Thee.
[She runs away.
Apollo.
III.
Why so swift? (I'me now I fear
Forc'd to chase this tim'rous Deer)
Would you like Diana seem,
Be the Huntress, not the Game.
Your light-feet ne're from me shall stray,
The World's my Circuit every day.
Daph.
IV.
But you'le wounded halt, while I
Wing'd with untouch'd Chastity,
Cut through craggy Rocks and Dales,
Proudest Hills, and humbleft Vales:
Till like Prometheus I aspire,
And steal thy Swiftness, not thy Fire.
Apollo.
V.
Yet there's one Reserve in store,
Which of Conquest is secure:
On my well-strung Harp I'le Play
Sweeter than the Thracian Lay,
Which stole ev'n Fury's Hearts away,
To tame Thee more Unkind than They.
Daph.
VI.
Hence to Jove's Abode repair,
Love some beauteous Goddess there.
Other Flames Ascend you see,
Why should yours Descend to me?
Or else your Physick Druggs apply,
That you, like me, may Love defy.
Apollo.
VII.
Why to Heaven should I repair?
Alas! alas! my Heaven's here.
Why go Court some Deity?
Thou a Goddess art to me.
Why with my Druggs my Pains remove?
'Tis you alone can heal my Love.
Daph.
VIII.
Well since then I can't be free,
Peneus, I resign to Thee.
Thou my Father art, 'tis you
Gave me Life, you take it too.
Make me a Stock, a Tree, a Grove,
Object of any thing but Love.
Apollo.
IX.
Be a Tree, or what you will,
You shall be my Mistriss still;
For the richer Lawrel Crown
I'le reject a Golden one.
Thou shalt to Rome in Triumph ride,
Heroes thy Bride-groom, thou their Bride.
Daph.
X.
I would sooner, Phoebus, be
Wedded thus, than now to Thee:
Such a Wedding sure will prove
My Denial, not my Love.
While Heroes Triumph over those,
Who than themselves are weaker Foes;
I'le o're a stronger Foe than me,
I'le ride in Triumph over Thee.
Chorus.
XI.
Pity all ye Powers above,
Pity Phoebus Sick of Love:
Lo! his Wreath at once does tell,
Daphne's Change, and Love's Farewel [...].
From hence the Custome first arose,
That Willow-Green baulkt Lovers chose;
Who, Phoebus, catch at Love like thee,
And find their Daphne prove a Tree,
At least a Ribband Green as she,
In Black are other Mourners seen,
The wretched Lover mourns in Green.

CEPHALUS 's Lamentation for his Wife PROCRIS, being ignorantly Slain by him, as he was Hunting of wild Beasts.

WRetch that I am! who (tho' I know not how)
A Skillful Murderer from Huntsman grow.
What Fate my too unerring Dart mis-led,
To strike my better part, my Procris Dead?
Amongst the Bushes while she lay unseen,
A well-concealing, not desending Skreen,
I to the Hunter's Virgin-Goddess pray'd,
And little dreaming any Harm, I said,
May'st thou, as I adore thy Sports and Thee,
Cause that my Darts so many Deaths may be:
She granted straight, and by her Grant did prove,
A Friend to Hunters, but a Foe to Love.
Here the Effect of my Petitions see!
Points to the Dead Body.
Petitions once, now Curses are to me.
See how the Purple Gore defiles the Ground,
And blusheth for the Author of her Wound!
See her pale Face, true Emblem of my Fear,
While Death instead of Venus Triumphs there!
Amazing Sight, that does fresh Horrours breed!
Oh! would she ne're had, or had now been hid!
Unlucky Stars! whole Influence Combine,
That thus her closing Eyes should open mine.
But why these vain Expressions of my Grief?
These bring my Sorrows, not my Guilt relief;
I'le choose a Victim shall my Crime attone,
Ne're spare the worst part when the best is gone.
I'le take the lukewarm Dart, my self I'le slay,
My cruel self that slew th'unwel come Prey.
'Tis I alas! 'tis I my self appear
The real Beast I so mis-took in her.
Assist me Death, by thy kind Aid I'le shew,
My love to Justice, and my Procris due:
I can't my Guilt, and her hard Fate survive,
For since she's Dead, 'tis Death for me to Live.

Amor Fugitivus: or, The fled Love Paraphras'd, out of Moschus.
Idyllium the First.

LEnd all ye Lovers an attentive Ear,
Love's Goddess calling for her lost-Love hear.
Has any found my Cupid gone astray?
(The Blind alas! can't choose but loose his way:)
He that discovers shall enjoy a Kiss,
He that produces him a riper Bliss.
So many Marks about the Boy appear,
So many Signs, which none but he does bear;
That if to any undiscern'd he be,
'Tis only such who are as Blind as he.
Expect no Whiteness in his outward Skin,
That Snow is melted by the Flames within.
He like to Fire, tho' I from Water came,
His Skin, for want of sparkling Eyes, darts Flame.
His Tongue much Sweetness utters, more Deceit,
His Mind as wicked, as his words are sweet.
One thing he speaks, another thinks, his Mind,
No less to others, than his Sight, is Blind.
His Speech drops Honey, but when prone to Rage,
In civil Broyls his Love sick Thoughts engage;
His sharp and dang'rous Weapon is Deceit,
The Use of which, discrectly is to Cheat;
There Falshood reigns: the Truth (if ought there be)
As far from Nakedness, as cloathing He.
The Crocodilish Youth himself betrays,
(O how when angry!) Cruel when he Plays.
His fine curl'd Locks adorn a sawcy Face,
His Hairs are Golden, but his Cheeks are Brass.
His Hands, tho' short, can reach as far as Hell;
His Darts wound ev'n the Dead that therein dwell.
If you examine throughly, you will find,
His Body only Naked, not his Mind.
Swift, as a Bird, he flutters here and there;
In him Men sometimes, sometimes Women share:
And when he does to each himself impart,
The Perch, whereon he Pitches, is the Heart.
Slender his Arrows, little is his Bow,
The Marks they shoot at Hell and Heaven too
Like Bitterness inclos'd in Gilded Pill,
Rank poisnous Shafts his Golden Quiver fill.
From which even I too oft a Wound receive,
A deeper Wound than Diomedes gave.
All things are Cruel, all, alas! the Sun
More by this Little borrow'd Heat out-done,
Than he exceeds his borrow'd Heat, the Moon.
If e're you catch him, bind him Hand and Foot,
And be as Merciless as he to boot:
Take heed least he thy tender Heart beguile,
With Feigned Tears, or a more Feigned Smile.
Avoid his Kiss, those sweetest Lips despise,
Under that Honey hidden Poison lies.
If he his whole Artillery produce,
Then straight presents it freely to your use,
No less his Weapons, than his Kiss refuse.
Reject his Gift, which if Men once acquire,
Like that of Greece, 'twill set a Troy on Fire.

Upon a BEE Entomb'd in Amber.

BEhold this happy Insect's Tomb,
Not sweet, but precious Honey-comb:
You'd think the Bee had brought it forth,
Alike in Colour, and in Worth.
Which to the view does represent,
A Murderer, and Monument.
I thought 'twas Niobe alone,
Whom Moisture harden'd into Stone:
But now the weeping Gem I see,
Transforms at once it self and Bee:
Since to Beholders each does seem,
The Gem a Bee, the Bee a Gem.
The Pyramids in Aegypt's Land,
Astonishment from all command:
Yet, happy Insect, happy thou,
A lesser, but a better Show;
The Pyramids would envy me,
Should I be thus Entomb'd like thee.
Thou with Medusa may'st compare,
Whose Viperous enchanted Hair,
Turn'd all Spectators into Stone,
Conquest and Trophy both in one;
But thou excellest her in this,
Thy self at once Medusa is,
Thy self the Metamorphosis.
Nature has chang'd her usual course,
But for the Better not the Worse;
While Jewels sprout from Poplar-Trees,
These bring forth Jewels, Jewels Bees.
Thus whilst the Bee through Amber shone,
With borrow'd Lustre, not her own,
The Sight so dazling did appear,
You'd think both Bees, both Jewels were.
The Golden Beast, like Bacchus Crown,
Translated to th'Aethereal Throne,
Does, as it were, refin'd appear,
Transform'd from Gold into a Star:
Congeal'd it lies in sparkling Gem,
You'd swear 'twas froze to Death in Flame.
Entangled there it self does shew,
A Labyrinth, and Monster too.
What Freeman would not pay that Fee
Which Prisoners give for Liberty,
To share in this Captivity.
The little Debtor (she, you know,
To Amber does this Yellow owe)
Thither as to her Prison came,
Her Debt and Prison both the same.
A worthy, honourable Cheat!
Whose very Fetters made her Great:
For while she mute in Thraldome lies,
Her buzzing Fame much swifter flies.
Tho' she confin'd, to us may seem,
Within the Limits of a Gem,
She's in effect, by being thus,
Extended through the Universe:
And by her forc'd, yet willing stay,
Debar'd from Flying, flies away.
Whose Hive, not long since, Thatcht we saw,
Like Rome's old Capitol, with Straw;
She now in nobler Structure dwells,
Which Rome's new Capitol excells.
Thou worthy Nurse of mighty Jove,
Supreme o're all the Gods above;
Tell me, thou Insect, tell me why,
When Harlots mounted to the Sky,
He did not thus thy Pains repay,
Deserving Heaven more than they?
But lo! I see thy proud Disdain
Has rendred Deifying vain.
So rich, so glorious thy Attire,
A radiant, not a burning Fire;
That all those Lamps which grace the Sky,
Are seen Unenvy'd by thy Eye.
'Twere Injury to fix thee there,
A brighter Constellation here.
Such is the dazling Garb she wears,
Such Honour from that Garb she bears,
That tho' her Jove be cloath'd with Rays
Immortal, and immortal Praise;
'Tis doubtful which does most confer,
The Bee on Jove, or Jove on her:
While she her self does represent,
As if to give the God, she meant,
Honour, instead of Nutriment.
Proud Animal! 'tis mere Self-love,
Which makes thee like Narcissus prove;
Who view'd himself in Chrystal Streams,
And, as he view'd, thence gather'd Flames:
In liquid Gum you clearer shine,
Others to Envy you incline,
Whilst you your self for Love repine.
True Looking-glass, wherein we view,
Not only Form, but Matter too.
The Eyes, which view this glorious Bee,
Are held almost as fast as she:
For while they gaze, in one, they view
Artificer, and Image too.
'Twas heedlessness this Artist taught,
Exact the Figure, yet not wrought;
Whom like Sejanus here we see,
Too truly slain in Effigy.
Fair Phaethusa (Stories shew)
A Poplar-tree by Weeping grew;
Weeping (Oh! had it sooner came)
Enough to quench her Brother's Flame.
Hence first distill'd the precious Juice,
And Trees the Amber did produce;
From whence a three-fold Change we see,
From humane Shape sproughts up a Tree,
Thence came forth Gum, and thence a Bee.
A Bee, which thus you may divide,
Object of Pity, and of Pride:
It Sister does, and Brother seem,
It Weeps like her, it Shines like him;
In both their Fates does Sympathize,
At once bewails the Dead, and Dies.
Virgin, too like the Crocodile!
Whose treach'rous Tears to Snares beguile,
Thy Weeping's, by Experience known,
More Envious now than Pitteous grown.
Thy Tears, which first made thee a Tree,
And now again transform the Bee,
Harden themselves, and that, like Thee.
See how from Good, ariseth Ill!
While they bewail the Slain, they Kill.
But why, against th' industrious Bee,
Do Trees exert such Cruelty?
She little thinking e're to yield,
Securely Plunder'd all the Field;
For which she now in Chains must stay,
Chains richer than her former Prey,
Flowers, too weak to captive Bees,
Assistance crave from neighbour Trees;
Till they that were opprest before,
Retort the Dammage once they bore:
But Oh! tis thus, they add the more,
And, to deprive, increase the Store.
The cruel Nero, who (says Fame)
Rome doubly Dy'd in Blood and Flame,
Erected no such noble Throne;
No, tho' he built a Golden One,
As that wherein this Tyrant shone,
Most radiant, most illustrious Bee,
I'll to the Phaenix liken thee,
In Death as rare, as bright as She;
Tho' She to Phoebus owe his Night,
Extinguish'd by the Beams of Light;
Tho' thou a distant Fate dost bear,
Drown'd in the Deluge of a Tear.
Thy waxen Wings the Fate has sought,
Which those of Icarus once brought;
The cause whereby (as Stories tell)
So High he soar'd, so Deep he fell.
Yet thee much Happier I esteem,
Not over-whelm'd, tho' drown'd like him:
Thou more conspicuous dost appear
Than others above Water are,
Thy very Cov'ring makes thee clear.
Thou need'st not signalize thy Grave,
With any specious Epitaph,
Thy Corps is so transparent seen
In Golden Characters within.
Thus Death, which never grants Reprieve,
Is here made Life's Preservative.
The dark Recesses of the Tomb,
Become a pleasant, lightsome Room.
Th'unnatural, but honest Grave,
From a Devourer, chang'd to save;
In Justice does its Debt repay,
And give the Life it takes away.
Thy Dipping Thetis has out-done,
Who strove to Eternize her Son;
Bathing him in the Stygian Lake,
That he might ne're of Styx partake▪
Thou that effectually dost gain,
For which she Dipt, but dipt in vain.
The Bee with Hercules compare,
Her lustre may with Aeta's share;
But not consume, not wasted be,
And so gain Immortality.
Eternal Insect! who would grieve
To Dye like thee, like thee to Live?
Jove is a Mortal thought by some,
'Cause ancient Creet can shew his Tomb;
Oh! were he Bury'd there like thee,
His Tomb would prove him Deity.

On a Beggar Insulting over a RICH-MAN's Grave.

I'Le of my Rags and low Condition boast,
Since Robes of Honour are consin'd to Dust:
The Rich in Graves beneath my self I'le scorn,
Rejoice at that which makes all others Mourn.
The Dunghil-Cock may well the Gem despise,
When wrap'd in Dung it undistinguisht lies.
But he's Embalm'd you say, while silthy I
Am quite consum'd with Vermine e're I dye:
Without Persumes, Oh! may I ever dwell,
Whose very sweets increase a nauseous smell;
Conspiring sweets, in time, with double Scent
Destroy the Odour which before they Ient:
The Grave it self can't equal all, since there
They lye most Nasty, who liv'd Neatest here.
The Light of Life, like that of Lamps we find,
Both, when exstinguisht, leave their stink behind.
What tho' each Royal Crown were made a Star,
Translated hence unto the Heavenly Sphere?
Yet if, as these, above Earth upward tend,
Their Owners so beneath the Earth descend;
Hereby would seem but juster cause to Grieve,
That Animals should Death for Life receive,
And these Inanimate thus ever live.
That Corps is here in silent Darkness laid,
Whose Lustre once could chase away a Shade.
That Head would now, as once with Nod it might,
With grimmer Paleness all Beholders fright;
That ghastly Visage drive those Crouds away,
Its awful Presence once provok'd to stay.
Farewel, ye Powers, which cannot Fate subdue!
May Death to me, not Fortune, Kindness shew!
I scout her Darlings, I defy the Great;
All that's Above, I count below my State.
Thus Moses, scorning to be Pharaoh's Son,
Trod undersoot the rich Aegyptian Crown;
A Foot-stool meet for such as can despise a Throne.
Thanks to the Gods, who granted me no more,
Since Life's the Pawn they take for giving Store.
This wealthy Fop, who undervalu'd Me,
When clad in Gold and Tyrian Bravery,
Beneath my Feet shall undervalu'd lye;
Not more the Worms, than viler Beggar's Prey.
The World at length turn'd upside-down I see,
He's Trampled, Dead; who Living, Trampled me.

On the Excellent Translation of the First Book of Virgil's Aeneis, By Mr. THOMAS FLETCHER, Fellow of New-College.

LET Greece the Fabrick of the God's Invade,
Destroy with Mortal Hands, what first Immortal made.
The God of Wit can't hear the World complain,
That what Apollo did was done in vain:
Tho' he to Ruine ancient Troy design'd,
By Virgil first, by Fletcher now we find,
Troy, and a new-born Troy, he left behind.
That for sack'd Troy he might his Sorrows shew,
For One destroy'd, he has rebuilt us Two:
Whose Structure he with firmer Verse does rear,
Which ne're shall ruin'd Troy's Destruction fear,
These as Immortal as her Builders are.
So that the Fire, which wasted Troy, became
Not a consuming, but resining Flame;
Like that which round Ascanius's Temples roll'd,
Not more her Fall than future Grandeur told.
Ev'n Fate it self does almost Doubting stand,
Which is the Ruin'd, which the Rescu'd Land.
For (not to mention Rome's proud Turrets, where
The Conquer'd is for ever Conqueror)
You may behold a nobler Fabrick here;
Since our Oxonian, with the Mantuan Swan,
More than the vulgar sort of Swans have done,
Have sung the Fate of Others, not their Own:
While lo! those Notes which Asian Kings deplore,
That Life, the loss of which they grieve, restore.
'Tis they Aeneas make a Goddess Son,
'Tis they make him a Deity alone,
Not by his Happiness, but Troubles shown.
That Hero's Acts by these Enobled show,
He does to Venus less than Phoebus owe:
His Priestess led him to the Shades below,
His Priests, the Poets, are his Leaders now:
And by th'Immortal State their Lines have given,
One shew'd the way to Hell, but Two to Heaven.

Lent's Meditation.

IN pious Days, when Christian's infant Zeal,
Did Spiritual, with Carnal force repel;
Before Correction to Offenders due,
Like Moses's Rod a tempting Serpent grew;
E're Stripes did Lust's for Anger's Passion frame,
The Lictors Fasces Fuel to its Flame,
And Sin's Reward it self a Sin became:
When pure Religion's new-born Infants were
More Innocent than those of Nature are;
Ev'n them our Saviour's Passion taught to pray,
Peter himself once less concern'd than they.
Course Sack-Cloath then instead of Silk was worn,
Dishevel'd Hair did more than Curls adorn:
As louthsome all, as Sin it self, became,
Nor was A [...]wensday then an empty Name.
Both Kings and Subjects did alike appear,
These humbled Ninevites, those Ahab's were:
They could, with Torture, innate Vice expel,
Preventing, by their own, the Pains of Hell.
Few willful Errors did their Souls defile,
'Twas Ignorance that only could beguile.
Yet even for many stripes did that request,
Repentance greatest was, when Crimes were least.
Each perty Vice requir'd its purging Showers,
Which were a Vertue if compar'd to ours.
Sin then (as far as by their Stripes appears,)
Was oft'ner wash'd in Blood, than now in Tears.
Such were the Faults they were addicted to,
Such the rewards that did those Faults ensue.
So great the Punishment, so light th' Offence,
That Crimes themselves declar'd their Innocence:
Thus were Men Purg'd most, when most Purify'd.
Like Holy Children in the Furnace try'd.
But now the Yoke is shaken off, and we
Are grown to years of such Maturity,
That we no Terror in those Rods espy,
Which harmless Babes in Christ durst not defy.
Frail Man alone these tender Twiggs could bend,
'Tis Thunder-strokes the stubborn Oaks must rend.
They then that hope to shun this fiery Doom,
Its Heat by fervent Prayers overcome:
And when their Grief by outward Signs appears,
Allay its force in Penitential Tears.
These are the means by which Men Heaven scale,
Mountainous Bulks can less than these prevail.
The Soul (a Paradox it seems to be)
Is most exalted by Humility:
Humble Contrition sends her to the Sky,
Her Wings, when wet with Tears, can highest fly:
For when such Floods o're-whelm our Earthly part,
Amidst the watry Eyes, and bleeding Heart;
She Dov'like ( finding none in humane Breast)
Returns to Heaven, from whence she came, for Rest
Scourgings amongst the Romans still prevail,
Which the Priest's Wants, not People's Errors heal.
The wounded Body suffers all in vain,
The wounded Spirit feels the greatest Pain,
And which may bring to Priests, and People, gain.
The Romish Priests with Pilate may devise,
To mingle humane Blood with Sacrifice;
As he with Galilaean's blood had done,
Defile the sacred Temple with their own:
They, like the Priests of Baal, may cry and roar,
Painting their Sins in their own putrid Gore;
Whereby each Supplicant does seem to be,
A Victim rather than a Votary;
If we transcribe Elijah's righteous ways,
Like him, fast Forty Nights, and Forty Days;
As for slain Prophets he was grieved sore,
We our great Prophet's shameful Death deplore;
As he in Flames ascended to the Sky,
By fervent Prayers we ascend as high;
This would alone those hideous Cries excel,
And merit Heaven without the Pains of Hell:
Such ardent Zeal requires no bloody means,
This Fire will more than Purgatory cleanse.
This since 'tis heavenly, as his Chariot's fire,
We need not doubt but 'twill like that aspire.
But carnal Man Aegyptian Meat requires,
And more her Flesh than Bread from Heaven desires.
Sure if such Manna we could still receive,
We by this Bread sustain'd alone might live:
Live in the Flesh, th [...]gh to the Flesh we dy,
Shewing in Mortal, Immortality.
And thus most literally we may speak,
The Spirit's willing when the Flesh is weak.
'Tis true, a strange, but efficacious course,
By which the violent take Heaven by force;
Where those who Conquer are oblig'd to serve,
Where the Besiegers not Besieged starve.
Blind Scribes! who did St. John for Fasting blame,
As if that Vertue from the Devil came:
Whereas that cursed Spirit ne're resorts
To empty Stomachs, but to empty Hearts.
Abstinence was our Saviour's potent Arms,
By which he quell'd the force of Satan's Charms:
While we each day with costly Dainties dine,
And please our Gust with Bowls of sparkling Wine.
Our craving Appetites we ne're controul,
Ne're pinch the Belly to relieve the Soul.
When from the Body any Pains arise,
'Tis from their pamp'ring, not expelling Vice.
These are the Baits by which we taken are,
Our Tables often thus become a Snare.
Judas had scarce his Masters Traytor been,
Had not the Sop made Satan ent [...]r in.
Thus Meat, which should our humane Life sustain,
Proves oft the foretast of Eternal Pain.
While we like Damocles are richly fed,
Worse Judgments than his Sword hang o're our Head.
What Fury Israel once attended thee,
Falling from Murmuring to Gluttony?
When at thy great Deliverer's command,
Numberless Multitudes did crowd the Land;
Flesh as the Dust, and Fishes as the Sand.
Swift, as the Quails, Death's winged Arrows fall,
Theirs were the Feathers, these were fledg'd withal.
But if God's Wrath a too light Motive prove,
Exchange the Scene, contemplate on his Love.
His Dearest Son leaves Heavens sweet repose,
Forsakes his Father, dwells among his Foes.
Behold him in the lonely Desarts, where
He worse than his Fore-runners Fate doth bear,
He eats no Locusts, no wild-Honey there.
Here no Disciples bring him ought to eat;
To do his Father's Will is all his Meat.
Hence to a Garden he does now repair,
(A second Paradise while he was there.)
Where, whilst God walk'd, the Garden seem'd to be,
More like to Eden than Gethsemane.
Lo! how he prays that Man's original Sin
Might have its Exit, where it enter'd in!
That there the second Adam might attone
For what the first had in a Garden done!
Flat on the Ground, besmear'd with Gore, he lies,
And truly seems a Living Sacrifice.
Anticipating what his Side must shew,
His Tears, and Sweat, like Blood and Water flow.
Then Hell's bold Tyrant does his Charms employ,
This Adam like the former to destroy:
Audacious Fiend! who would not yet forbear,
Nor God and Man together join'd, would fear,
In Heaven Vanquish'd, Eve he Conquer'd here.
Hoping he may his lost Estate regain,
Or else at least from hence lost Man retain:
He counsels him, whose Aid he should implore,
And tempts the Deity he should adore.
If thou be Christ, the Son of God, (said he)
Shew me some sign of thy Divinity;
He who made fiery Flints forth Water shed,
Can sure with ease transform these Stones to Bread.
But Christ his Miracles did then decline,
Such precious Jewels were not meet for Swine.
Did faithful Ab'ram begg him, I believe,
From Stones themselves he would an Off-spring give;
And thence (to propagate his Fathers Praise)
The Staff of Life, as well as Life could raise.
But when the tempting Pharisees desire,
When Herod or the Devil a Sign require,
(Who not the Doer but the Deed admire;)
He will not then exert his force Divine;
At evil Sights the Sun desists to shine:
The greatest proof the God of Truth could give,
Was thus the great Deceiver to deceive:
Resistance was the only Prodigy,
Whereby he shew'd himself a Deity.
Great Potentate! this Miracle alone,
Was more than wrought, by being left undone.
But lo! The Airy Prince with speedy care,
Hurries our Saviour through the yielding Air.
But what did Satan then, take Wings and fly?
His Fall so great made him rebound so high.
Straight at Jerusalem they both arriv'd,
(For her One joy'd, for her the Other griev'd)
When pitching on the highest Pinnacle
Of that high House, where the Most High doth dwell;
Christ more than mystically thither led,
There o're the Church, his Body, stood the Head.
There Satan does his subtile Arts peruse,
From one Repulse a bolder suit renews:
If thou art Christ cast thy self down from hence,
The Powers of Heaven will be thy Desence;
Spirits Divine will aid thee from Above,
Each will to thee a Guardian Angel prove;
But being Baulkt, he now at last prepares,
To catch with gilded Baits and painted Snares:
He does the World as his last Stake propose,
Straight all its Glory to his View disclose,
Thinking to Captivate the Deity,
With so much Fruit so pleasant to the Eye.
Before me Kneel, and Worship, be thou Mine,
And all the Glories of the world are thine.
But how canst thou (bold Villain!) e're deserve
Worship from him, whom thou thy self should'st serve?
How stain'd would those his Milk-white Robes appear,
Which on the holy Mount he once did wear,
Had he and thou been thus Transfigur'd here?
This blacker than th' Aegyptian part would shroud
That brighter far than Israel's fiery Cloud.
But here resisted too away he goes,
Adds this as Fuel to his former Woes;
Whose smooth Assaults prevail'd on Earth no more,
Than his more rough Ones did in Heaven before.
This Innocence unspotted he must leave;
Not so the Son of Man as Man deceive.
Reflect vain Man! Reflect on this, and see
If God be Tempted, what awaits on Thee.
Happy, were bare Temptation all thy Doom,
Thou scarce art oftner Tempted than o're-come.
Man is become the great Devourer's Prey;
The best of Men too oft are drawn away,
This Roaring Lyon will a Prophet slay.
Man is the Food to which the Serpent's Curst;
Dust he must Eat, and what is Man but Dust?
Rouze sluggish Wretch! Examine every part,
Pierce through the close Recesses of thy Heart;
And when thou dost the lurking Monster find,
The surest way to drive him from thy Mind,
Is to debar thy self of costly Fare,
Let him have no kind Entertainment there.
Plenty of Vice with Victual plenty shares,
'Twas a fat Soil which Satan sow'd with Tares.
If thou art Wicked, 'tis no more than Just
To mortify those Members prone to Lust;
And mingle Water with thy Saviour's Blood;
To purge the greatest Guilt, there needs a greater Flood
If thou art Righteous be not too Remiss:
Praise God the more; not Fast, or Pray the less.
When thou hast almost won the Blessed Race,
Thou mayst not then stand still, but mend thy pace,
Since not Improvement is abuse of Grace.
Satan we find (as Day springs up from Night)
Is chang'd from Devil to a Saint of Light:
The Terms are too Reciprocal, and we
Some Saints of Light may chang'd to Devils see.
But stay my Muse, return from this Extream,
And through each Passage track thy sacred Theme.
Behold him at the Mount of Olives, where
Viewing the Deity that's seated there,
You'd think Mount Olivet Mount Horeb were.
O how agreeable a Sight it shows!
The harmless Dove among the Olive Boughs!
There he the Eight Beatitudes express'd,
Which being thus deliver'd were increas'd.
Here Moses's Law more fully did repeat,
But not so much Abolish as Compleat.
Whilst this bright Sun with healing Wings doth rise,
The Vale is rent, the Cloud of Darkness flies.
Here are no mighty Thundrings as of Old,
When these same Precepts were to Moses told.
When from Mount Sinai great Jehovah speake,
And made fix'd Hills with reverend Horrour quake.
No harsh loud Clamours grate the Peoples Ears,
Th'Almighty here in still small Voice appears.
From Olivet to Tabor he removes,
One Mountain left, he to another goes.
Lo Hor! Lo Carmel! Pisgah, Horeb; where
Aaron, Elisha, Moses, God appear.
Thus Hills by God, and God-like Men are sought,
Which high the Body, higher raise the Thought;
Where we behold with Contemplation's Eye,
And view more clearly Heaven by being nigh.
Here he was straight o'reshadow'd with a Cloud,
Here with him Moses, here Elias stood.
He Glorious now, as once from God he came;
The Dazling now as in his Chariot's Flame.
While thus the Harbinger of Christ was known,
Not in John Baptist's Person, but his own.
Let's then like Peter, while we stand and gaze,
This humble Temple to their Honour raise.
But Oh! can this that radiant Sight repay?
Sure, sure like him, I know not what I say.
What sudden Change! Lo! straight the same I see
Descended hence, Ascending Calvary;
There Glory ends in shame. The People's Cry,
Is from Hosanna, turn'd to Crucify.
There's no Attendants, his Companions there,
For Two bright Saints, two Malefactors were.
The Purple Robe, which others might Adorn,
As Badge of Reverence, here's a Badge of Scorn;
The King of Jews a Wooden Head-piece wore,
A Reed instead of Golden Scepter bore.
Not him the Crown, but He the Crown Adorns,
The Deity again in Bush of Thorns.
When he a Sacrifice for Sin was made,
The only Son again on Wood was laid;
By which Reed, Crown, and Cross is understood,
He paid for Sin proceeding first from Wood.
Who can relate this Love of God, who can
Rather forsake himself, than Sinful Man?
Rather than Man Eternally should Dye,
Death once for All seiz'd ev'n Eternity.
Who can express the Sorrow he did shew,
Exchang'd from greatest Bliss to greatest Woe?
Full exquisite that Torture must appear,
When besides Cross, sharp Nails, and sharper Spear,
To fill the Cup, increase the bitter Draught,
Myrrh, Hyssop, Gall and Vinegar are brought.
My God why hast forsaken me, that Cry
Made Heaven and Earth have Fellow-sympathy.
Black Clouds of Night in Mourning clad the Sky,
Bewailing its departed Deity.
The Earth she moves, each lofty Mountain shakes,
The Universe with trembling Palsey quakes:
The Rocky Heaps disperse themselves about,
And while Man ceaseth, Stones themselves cry out.
The Temple quite throughout is rent in twain;
The Body suffers when the Head's in Pain.
And now let's Trace him to the Shades below,
(This setting Sun under the Earth must go)
Where once again we may repeated see
Not long since Earth's, long since Heaven's Victory.
Where once for All the Son of Man shall quell
Hell's Bloody Tyrant, conquer'd ev'n in Hell.
Here pause a while, here mute, and silent gaze;
I know so much, I know not what to Praise.
He whom the Heaven of Heavens could not contain,
Does in a low and narrow Tomb remain;
That we no longer Dead in Sin might ly:
That we might Live, the Living God must Dye.
The Ever-Blessed is a Curse become,
To expiate our ever-cursed Doom.
In our behalf he Sorrow underwent,
And was to Hell as well as Heaven sent.
Not there for us new Mansions to prepare,
But destroy those prepar'd already there.
Ascend once more the Top of Calvary,
Thy Blessed Saviour there Expiring see.
There the mixt Rabble wagg their Heads in vain,
To addle their before unsettled Brain.
Ah! Thou the Temple that destroy'st (they Cry)
(Speaking the Truth by way of Irony)
Recover thy almost exhausted Breath,
And Save thy self, who Savest all from Death.
The cruel Souldiers (as may well declare)
The parted Raiment, and the Bloody Spear,
At once his Body and his Garment tear.
Here two Extreams together met I see,
The Pride of Man and God's Humility.
Lo! him Revil'd by Man, whom did before
Angels, by some Ador'd themselves, Adore!
Lo! Him from thence to Heart of Earth convey'd,
In whom true Hearts, as he in her's, are laid!
That without Sin we, born in Sin, might dye,
He that without Sin liv'd, for Sin does Buried lye.
Shall we indulge in Riot, Lust, and Pride?
And live in that for which our Saviour Dy'd?
Shall we too much in comely Dresses trust,
While he lies void of Beauty, Cloath'd with Dust?
Is this a Season sit for Feasting grown?
Fasting is proper when the Bridegroom's gone.
They who refuse to Crucify the Flesh,
Oft Crucify the Son of God afresh.
Their sav'ry Meat does bitter Gall appear,
Their Wine his Vinegar, their Knife his Spear.
Thrice happy they who can from Meats abstain,
And share a little in their Saviour's Pain;
That Pain is Pleasure, and these Losses Gain.
Thrice happy they, who do what Mary did,
(Affording Spring and Towel from her Head,)
She before Death his Funeral prepares,
Anoints with Oyntment, and Embalms with Tears.
Whilst that their Grief more proper will appear,
If after Death they in his Burial share.
Thus whilst with her they Weep, Lament and Howl,
To wash his Corps, they cleanse their filthy Soul.
May we our Master's Pattern thus maintain,
(This Cup the Sons of Zebedee must drain,)
With him thus Suffer, e're with him we Reign.
Twill add some Lustre to that Glorious Day,
To have had Tears that must be * wip'd away.
Then Spring's Green Mantle covers Paradise,
When from our † Earthy part these watry Mists arise.

The RESURRECTION of CHRIST.

INvoke thy Saviour, Dead and Torpid Muse,
That his new Life in thee may Life infuse.
Run to the Sepulchre in hast to view,
Out-run both Peter and the Other too.
How does his Grave unlike it self appear!
Spirits instead of Flesh inhabit there.
His Winding-sheet is all you there can find:
( Elijah thus his Mantle left behind.)
An Angel roll'd away the heavy Stone,
And sate himself in Triumph thereupon.
The moving which its Greatness serv'd to prove,
Since moving it made Earth's vast Fabrick move.
Hither Enquirers early Journies make;
From hence the Angel to Enquirers spake:
He who just now lay Bury'd in this Cell,
Unseal'd this Stone, but faster seal'd up Hell.
What Abram represented, God hath done,
He took the Knife and would have slain his Son.
And when by Works he thought his Faith to show,
That Friend of God was to himself a Foe.
There's no Reluctance, no Paternal care
(Both Great) so great as to discover Fear.
And had not God with-held the fatal Stroake,
Making his Angel his Command revoke,
You then had Isaac a Burnt-offering seen,
A Death as wondrous as his Birth had been.
But though God thus refus'd his Son to spare,
He has not left us wholly in Despair;
Obtaining Conquest o're the Conquering Grave,
More mighty by Destroying, seems to Save.
Great was the Power, great the Love Divine,
Which all preceding Miracles out-shine.
A meaner Prophet's Bones could once before,
When Dead themselves, the Dead to Life Restore
'Twas the Great Prophet's high Prerogative,
To make himself, as well as others Live.
No Trumpet's sound that body need revive,
Which is the Resurrection and the Life.
The Captain of Salvation needs no Call,
Nor Summon'd be himself that Summons all.
With him dead Saints forsake their ancient Urn;
With the Redeemer the Redeem'd return;
And by Experince teach us to believe,
All dye in Adam, all in Adam live.
Fix then my Soul, confide in this Belief,
And to thy Faith conform thy future Life;
Since that from Death thy Saviour rais'd has bin,
Rise from the Death, Eternal Death of Sin.
Let not the Living Death, as Life the Dead surprize,
Like wicked Souldiers sleep while holy Saints arise.
For tho' even these are Destin'd once to dye,
Death seems to them not Death, but Extasy.

To the Late BISHOP of BATH and WELLS, on his Departure from that See.

To You, Great Sir, my humble Muse is come,
To Pity, since she can't reverse your Doom;
My Magdalene Converted first by You,
Stands afar off, and does your Sorrows view.
Your Sorrows? No. Your Temper I forget,
You kindly welcome ev'n the hardest Fate:
You quit your Diocess, your Office leave,
With less Reluctance than you did Receive.
Contentment such a Blessing is, as may,
By teaching to sustain the Loss, repay.
Your Virtues all like Starry Orbs appear,
Brightest and largest in their lowest Sphere.
Ingrateful Wretch, and cruel should I be,
To bear thy Loss as patiently as thee.
Ye Men of Bath, for him let Tears be shed,
Who cloath'd the Naked, who the Hungry fed;
Who nought for Private or Self-ends would save,
But, like th'Apostles, all in Common gave.
Thus he his Talent too of Knowledge us'd,
No less his Doctrines, than his Goods, diffus'd.
Ye Baths, who oft turn others Pains to Ease,
Weep for your own, as well as their Disease:
You who might once Bethesda's-Pool excel,
His Blessing made the Healing-Waters Heal.
No need of a Celestial Angels Care,
When he, Angelick-Man, resided there.
But now your Efficacy will decrease,
Make Desolate the once frequented Place;
No Naham sure had bath'd his Body here,
Had not the Great Ei [...]ha dwelt so near.
At his Removal from that happy See,
None so Indifferent, so Calm as he.
With the same Patience he his Wandrings bore,
As he had his
When with 6 other Bishops im­prisoned in the Tower.
Confinement done before;
Tho we in him his Masters hardships read,
Who scarce knew where to lay his weary Head.
Adam my Pity shall no more engross,
Who bought an Apple with a Garden's loss;
His Guilt depriv'd him of that blessed Coast;
Here Innocence its Paradise has lost.
Upon the Monthly FAST.
WHile Heathen Monarchs on themselves rely,
While they, Mezentius-like, the Gods defy;
Banquets and War are fit Companions thought,
As if they enjoy'd the Prey, for which they fought.
These make the Pigmy soon Gigantick grow,
These make him Plump, these Tall, these Lusty too.
Yet ev'n these Feasts have chang'd to bloody War,
And made a Captive of a Conqueror;
While foul Excess thwarting their prime intent,
Impairs that Strength their mod'rate Diet leut.
But Christian Kings, when they are Warlike seen,
Display a meaner, yet a nobler Scene.
No costly Dainties crown the modest Board,
Each has a Stomach sharper than his Sword.
Till by their rig'rous Abstinence they grow
As much their own, as Adversaries Foe.
These are the means which pious Kings advance
Above the reach of Conduct or of Chance.
Their Tears become the only Drink they tast,
Groanings their Musick, Penitence their Feast.
When mortify'd with Hunger they repine,
They swallow Foes who plentifully Dine,
Foes clogg'd with Gluttony, immers'd in Wine.
Unlikely these should bear the Spoils away,
Pharaoh's Fat Kine became the lean ones Prey.
He most secure from mortal Wounds is grown,
Who does not what Achilles once had done,
Baths not in Stygian Waters, but his own;
Not such as those to Cowardise we owe,
Not such as parting Friends may challenge, no.
The Guilty Conscience makes the watry Eye,
That troubling Moon dos raise the Tide so high,
So Good Cornelius Fasting mixt with Tears;
Not for himself but for his Sins he fears
And were his deeds by every Souldier shown,
The Red-coat almost would excel the Gown.
Nay those who cannot in the Field appear,
(Tho' not in Person) may be useful there:
Might we their lifted Hands, like Moses, see,
Reach up to Heaven, and thence pluck Victory:
Then would their potent Prayers make us grant
The Church Emphatically Militant,
And ev'n the Sacred Temple not in vain
Reduc'd to Tabernacle once again.
What Palat now don't Royal Dainties cloy,
Which cannot them with naked Swords enjoy.
Those Swords make ev'n a Feast become a Fast,
Whose very Sight can serve to wound the Tast.
'Tis Abstinence the healing Med'cine proves,
Abstinence Food at once and War removes.
Juno was forc'd to tast a Flower, e're she
Conceiv'd bold Mars, War's bloody Deity.
Then pleasant Food, as you would him, eschew;
What first created War, will War renew.
Would you have Tumults and Sedition cease?
By Fasting first within your self make Peace.
This will make furious Passions gentle grow,
Reduce the private, and the common Foe;
This will compose Divisions, this at length,
By Aiding thus, extract from Weakness, Strength.

The Final DISSOLUTION.

A Wake, I cry'd, awake my Tuneful Lyre,
Thou, by thy various Notes, thy self a Quire!
I struck, she Groan'd, I struck again, but she
Gave only Shrieks instead of Harmony.
When lo! The loudest last Sound grates my Ear;
The Trumpet, Natures Passing-Bell, I hear.
The Sun, asham'd to see his Doom, does shroud
His radiant Beams behind Night's darkest Cloud.
The Moon too Blusheth at her Fate in Blood,
And weeps her self into a Crimson Flood.
The falling Stars, which falsly we so call,
Turn Lies to Truth, and actually Fall.
The Heavens with more than usual Thunder shake.
And with their own, not Earthly Substance, crack;
The Lightning now from East to West does shine,
And all into one mighty Bonfire joyn.
The Elements dissolve with servent Sweat.
Ev'n Fire and Water now agree in Heat.
The finged Air, not long since Liquid, dries;
The breath of Life, like those it leaveth, Dies.
The parched Earth burns next, and Cedars tall,
With Nether-woods, are Fuel e're they sall.
The lofty Mountains with Convulsions tear;
As many Aeana's, as are Hills, appear.
Their Tops are kindled first, which most aspire,
And Pyramids are more than like to Fire.
Thro' Stones, thro' Clay the Flame its passage breaks;
To its Assistance it all Matter takes.
No more in Lime or Flints its presence cloaks;
These unstruck sparkle, that untemper'd smoaks:
Beneath the Surface of the Earth does stray,
While hidden Metals melt themselves away.
Gold in Earth's Bowels cannot lie secure,
Ev'n in its Mines the Furnace does endure,
But to consume it, not to make it pure.
The Sea permitted by the Wind to smile,
With rolling Waves for very Heat does boil.
The Ambient Flame alike all places burns,
And the whole Globe into a Fire-ball turns.
The fiery Plague does Animals pursue;
Destroys Inanimate and Living too.
The unblemish'd Heifer to the Altar led,
Prev [...] its Fire, and frys before she's Dead.
The Pigeon
Gen. 15.9.
undivided does expire,
Nor by
v. 17.
Aethereal but Terrestrial Fire.
Nor are Mankind exempted from the same,
But go alive into their Funeral-flame.
Ev'n Death her self, grown weary with the toil
Of slaying, and o're glutted with her Spoil?
Must follow after her devoured Prey;
The Oyl once spent, the Lamp will soon decay.
Thus she who hitherto lookt Pale and Wan,
When Tyrannizing o're poor Vanquish'd Man;
Wondring to find her self become a Prize,
Yields to this Fire, and blusheth as she Dies.
But hold presumptuous Muse! No farther go;
Lest thou, surviving Death, Immortal grow.
Since Phoenix-like the World expires, shall I
Make it Swan-like to sing its Elegy?
Cease then my Muse; do thou with Nature Die.

The New-JERUSALEM.

WEll may the Phoenix world in Flames consume;
Since, Phoenix-like 'tis a prolifick Doom,
Bearing a Richer in its pregnant Tomb.
A glorious World, refin'd from drossy Earth;
Far brighter than those Flames that gave it Birth:
Flames which at once their double Office shew,
The Old World's Hesper, Phosper to the New.
Surprizing sight! Gems which once Precious were;
Loose all their Worth, are vile and common here.
The Onyx, Topaz, Saphire, Diamond,
Serve now, like Flints, to pitch the radiant Ground:
The Pride of Crowns is here a Foot-stool found.
The Sea in clearness Chrystal does surpass,
As far as Chrystal might, compar'd with Glass.
Whose Waves themselves within their Limits keep,
Nor scar'd by Moon with over-flowings weep.
Which having been
The suppo­sed Date of the World.
6000 Years opprest
Now on the Seventh, as their Sabbath, Rest.
The meanest Structure which God's word commands,
Exceeds the noblest Buildings rais'd by Hands.
The noblest Architects are here out-gone,
Nimrod in Heighth, in Glory Solomon.
Alas! His Fabrick was but lin'd with Gold,
While here the out-side we Emboss'd behold.
And if the Case be such, the Jewel sure,
Which it contains, must needs be far more pure.
Jacob's Twelve Sons, Twelve several Gates command,
And there as Sentinels to Guard them stand,
Who de­stroyed Se­chem. Gen. 34.25.
Simeon and Levi Expiate what they owe,
For rasing Walls, and their Defenders grow.
Never was Joseph yet so gaudy Drest,
In Pharaoh's Signet, or his Father's Vest.
Never the Patriarchs so Bright and Gay,
Tho' they enroll'd in Aaron's Breast-plate lay.
Where Starry Gems, while they their Names revive,
And, tho' False Stars, yet surest Omens give;
At once make past and future Ages live.
For those which such a Lustre cast before,
Respecting these, less Light than Shaddow bore.
And we th' Aaronick Priesthood now may call,
In Robes, as well as Office, Typical.
But as the Walls and City dazle near,
So do the Woods and Country shine afar.
The very Groves as Rich as Kings are Crown'd;
And Golden Boughs on every Tree are found.
Which free from Autumns spight, themselves ne're fade,
Nor other Objects make so with their Shade:
And which broke off, to Pious Saints are given,
Not Tickets for to enter Hell, but Heaven,
A Thousand Years first spent; their Dated stay:
A Thousand Years, which will but seem a Day;
While they enjoy continued Bliss and Ease,
Charm'd and Protected by the Prince of Peace.
Nor can these Thousand Years by Time be known;
Since Sun and Moon; since Sky and Stars are gone.
Time is involv'd in Nature's common Doom,
And, as it all things, does it self consume.
For why should those bright Bodies still remain?
Nature makes nothing, nor preserves in vain.
Which yet she had, had she preserv'd the Sun,
And made the Stars their wonted Courses run.
What Lustre could from distant Stars appear,
While Saints, who were to shine like them, so near.
The Sun of Righteousness imparts below,
More dazling Rays than could from Phoebus flow;
Which would o're-cast his Light: he no more now
His Light, than Stars, he shining, theirs could show.
For Light the more Obscures, the more 'tis Bright,
And that by which we see deprives of Sight.
But yet this Light is rendred more compleat,
In that it proves as Constant, as 'tis Great.
Nothing obstructs th'uninterrupted Light;
One duskish Cloud would here be thought a Night.
No Zodiack Points out his Measur'd way;
Eternity within no Bounds can stay.
Such is the Majesty which does dispense,
Such are they who enjoy his Influence.
And tho' one Star another may excel
In Glory, all in Union equal dwell.
Some more, some less; yet still all Happy be,
Such different Notes conspire in Harmony;
And Grace Jerusalem, which may be ta'ne,
Or for aspiring Earth, or for descending Heaven.

A Lamentation for MOSES.

WHat News is this? What sudden Change I hear?
Meekness it self is grown a Murmurer.
Must I fetch Water, Moses cries; his Hand
Seconds his Words, words potent as his Wand.
Which to the striker Wounds more Mortal gave,
Than the struck Rock could from his Rod receive.
Dull Rock! hadst thou their meaning understood;
No need of Rod, those words had spoke a Flood:
And pittying Tears from Stones had trickled so,
As might thereby prevent the lifted Blow,
Whilst Speech became the speaker's vocal Rod;
When it dishonour'd him that gave it, God.
Happy had he ne're stiff-neck'd Israel knew!
Been slain himself when he the Egyptian slew.
Why was he spar'd by the Erythraean Sea?
Only that he might want of Water see?
Why by the Beasts that in the Desart stray?
To govern Men less Civiliz'd than they.
How has the Lustre of his radiant Face
Prov'd to himself a threatning Comets Blaze!
Clad with the Wedding-Robe of Heavens bright Quire.
Why was the Chariot wanting to the Fire?
In vain unarm'd he Amalek subdu'd,
In vain the Conquest sent from Heaven he shew'd.
When destitute of Men and Arms defence,
His lifted Hand reach'd Victory from thence.
For, tho' the Obstacle remov'd, he run
The Race, alas! he can't enjoy the Crown,
Moses without the Holy-land must stay;
Nor march in Triumph through that Sacred way.
To Nebo, nature's Pyramid, he's sent:
Nebo, if not his Grave, his Monument.
There viewing Canaan Heaven's Type, that Scene
Clos'd with his Eyes, and Heaven it self is seen.
Go pious Prince to thy eternal Home,
Blest with thy Punishment enjoy thy Doom.
To enter Canaan would less Happy be;
Canaan is now a Wilderness to Thee.

JONATHAN'S Complaint against SAUL, Occasion'd by his Enjoyning an un­seasonable Fast.

WHat has my Conquest over Armies won!
I vanquish'd Thousands to submit to One.
Food, Life's preservative, for Death does call;
My Mouth tasts Honey, but my Belly Gall.
Behold my Father! did I Father say,
Alas! That Title he has cast away;
Behold my King! my fatal Judge! less loath
To loose his Nature, than to break his Oath.
See, he denies my guiltless Life to save,
Mine Eyes are opened, but to see my Grave.
Yet I'le be Dutiful, tho' sure of Death;
And beg his Pardon with my Dying Breath.
Forgive what never was a Fault in me,
Nor in it self, made such by your Decree.
Think me not Faulty, but your self Severe;
Can Hands be Guilty, when the Heart is clear?
Yet grant they could; sure tears y [...] Heart might move,
A captiv'd Victor, and a filial Love.
O more than Stoney! If like Stones you were,
You'd be dissolv'd, as they by Water are.
When I the joyful Laurel should receive,
Can you in Justice mournful Cypress give?
You Swore, you say; but yet you rashly Swore:
Warn'd by one rash Act, rashly Act no more.
Some hidden Impulse pushes on my Fate;
You with false Colours varnish o're your Hate.
Conscience will check you, if my Life you spare:
But did not check you, when you threw your Spear.
Why did my Guardian-Angel ward the Blow,
And save my Life to need a Second throw?
Ye Men of Gibeah, our dear Gibeah, say,
Will ye Relentless see me Die to day?
To save the Wicked once your Arms you lent:
Redeem that Crime, and save the Innocent.
Shall Saul deal worse with me than with his Foe?
He would not serve his Conquer'd Agag so.
Admire the Miracle by Sampson done,
Extracting Honey from a Lion's bone.
Admire, and grieve for Saul, of whom 'tis said,
Lo! One whom Honey has a Lion made.

A DIALOGUE between DIVES and LAZARUS.

WHy do I in those gloomy Regions see
Dives his Grandeur stoop to Slavery?
Div.
The cause of this my Station would you know?
The weight of Riches press me down so low.
Laz.
Thrice happy by my Poverty am I,
The want of these has made me soar so high.
D.
But how came you so well to know me here?
Neither are you, nor I what once we were.
L.
Whether you are the same, you best can tell;
I see you wear your Purple still in Hell.
D.
'Tis true indeed, but not more true than strange;
I would my Purple for thy Rags exchange.
Thus Pharaoh Gorgeously array'd like me,
Drunk his last deadly Potion in that Sea
Whose red-curl'd Waves, that were a Wall before,
Fresh dy'd his Garments with their Crimson gore;
While he and his Retinue downward pass,
Unknown Companions to the Finny race.
[Page 57]
Hard-hearted both; both Rich; we both expire
In Blushing Tides; but mine are Tides of Fire:
Where Doom'd to wretched Immortality,
I'me ever Dying, yet must never Dye.
Joy, as Immortal, do's thy Grief repay:
Each putrid Scar becomes a golden Ray.
Thy Visage like the new-born Sun appears,
Rising more Glorious from a Sea of Tears.
But like the Setting-sun in Flames I shine;
To Tears, a Sea of Tears I must decline.
L.
Your Usage answers your too cruel Mind.
Those who are Pitiless, no Pity find.
D.
One Drop of Water; pray, One drop bestow!
One minutes Pleasure in an endless Woe.
I can't obtain ev'n common Nature's due;
What Beggars scorn to crave, I beg from you,
Tho' I deserve, Reward not ill with ill:
One Crystal Drop will make me Dives still.
L.
I cannot, would not quit this Blessed State:
A Gulf divides us, the sure Hem of Fate.
Left unconfin'd, I scarce should thither go;
Sure Hell's a grievous Place, since Earth was so.
Then in like Terms I answer you, I fear
I shall be Lazarus, if I'me not here.

ORPHEUS 's Complaint.

AM I not Orpheus? If I be,
Where is my dear Euridice.
Poor Soul return'd from Styx in vain!
No sooner Found but Lost again!
Is this the Prize my Musick won,
Thus to be Twice bereav'd of One?
Scarce had my Lyre its last words spoke,
My String unloos'd, her Thread was broke.
But why do I of Fate complain?
'Tis I am Fate; 'tis I have slain.
'Tis I, my dear Euridice,
A Second Adder am to thee.
Fond Love, alas! Too fond to bless!
Thy Joys are more, when Thou art less;
My Eyes no longer could forbear,
Tho' they view'd Death in viewing her.
Eyes, which as Basilisks are said
T'have done with theirs, have look'd her Dead.
At the first Glance she backward fell;
When I my Heaven, she saw her Hell.
Thrice welcome now ye Thracian Crew,
(Poets ye know are Prophets too.)
When by your cruel Kindness, I
Shall glad, as you to have me, Die.
When I to Hell shall Piece-meal go;
Proud to enjoy my Love, ev'n so.
While Pain from every other part
Is Balm, to heal my broken Heart.

The Day of PENTECOST.

GO too ye Pegaseian Streams! and thou
(Once Sacred) Mountain with thy cloven Brow!
My vestal Muse attends the Fiery Tongue:
This double-top'd Parnassus guides her Song.
No sooner was the grateful Season come,
When Jews Devoutly sing their Harvest home
While for their Plenty, Solemn Praise they yield:
And load the Altar, for the Store-bouse fill'd;
But Gifts Divine in greater Measure given,
By their kind Influence tipen Men for Heaven.
Lo! Distant Nations crowd the narrow Room,
Both Jews and Proselytes together come.
Persians and Medes, and Elamites appear,
As many Languages, as Men are there.
Then the Fire kindling. Peter Silence broke,
And Man himself speaks as ne're Man yet spoke.
But e're Elisha heard what pleas'd his Ear,
A Fire and Earth-quake he must see, and hear.
Here mighty Winds rush in with whistling Noise;
Here lambent Flames precede the Heavenly Voice:
A Voice as strange, as easy to be known,
Differing from each, yet to each Tongue its own.
A Glorious Voice, which if at Babel heard,
Amidst Confusion, had the Building rear'd.
Since for this purpose to the Church 'twas given,
To make that Fabrick reach its Top to Heaven.
Behold, and Wonder, ye promiscuous Throng!
While Truth it self assumes a Double-Tongue.
Athens must now give Place to Galilee,
The Seat of Learning to Stupidity;
While Inspiration natural Learning more
Excels, than that did Ignorance before.
Words hover round th'Apostles Lips unsought,
Brought forth without the labour of a Thought.
Revealing, they become a Mystery,
Making, to spake with Tongues, to Prophesy.
See how the Flame, which round their Temples plays,
Different Effects from the same Cause betrays!
For that which is a Mitre sent to some,
To others is a Crown of Martyrdome!
Yet neither Javelin, Cross, or Club; not all
Those liquid Flames, Rivers of burning Oyl,
Shall ever quench the Holy Spirit's Zeal;
Whose Light the Prince of Darkness can't expel.
For as the Body moulders into Earth,
Buried in that First Womb that gave it Birth;
So do's the Heaven-born Soul to Heaven repair,
Which Fan'd by, as it passeth through the Air;
Renews its Flame, and grows a radiant Star:
Till large infusions of the Spirit show
'Twas but his Earnest it receiv'd Below.

A Copy of Verses, Entituled In Li­bellum Clarissimi Viri THOMAE HOBBII, De Natura Hominis. And Compos'd by Rad. Bathurst, M. D. Made English.

THat which o're Wonder's Riddles had prevail'd,
Fathom'd the Ocean, and the Heaven scal'd.
That which both Indies had together brought,
Justling each other at a turn of Thought;
That Mind which could all this, and more command;
That great Container is it self Contain'd.
Which having through the Maze of Knowledge trac'd'
Found out the way to know it self at last.
Learn, Man, thy Inward, once thy hidden Part,
Thou, who the Reader, thou the Lecture art.
Discern the Alien lodg'd within thy Breast,
Thy greatest Stranger, though thy constant Guest.
Here's no insipid School-men's empty Toys,
Whose Words consist of little else but Noise;
Who Seven long Years for their Degrees must wait,
E're Blub-cheeks speak them Masters of Debate:
While the poor Ware that's hardly worth a Groat;
Is vainly boasted, as 'tis dearly bought!
But profound Sense that weighty Matters dress'd.
Sense fit by such as Hobbs to be express'd,
Back'd with the Reason be design'd to shew,
Reason the Painter, and the Picture too.
See here thy secret Labyrinth display'd;
See here thy self a living Engine made;
See what Spring moves, what Trigger stops the Wheel,
Thy very Soul so clearly Drawn, so well,
That should ev'n Momus's Window intervene,
'Twould through that Glass be now but Darkly seen.
Lo! an Idea of the Affections here!
See a Description of the Senses there!
What parted Flames our eager Passions move,
Which, or our Anger kindle, or our Love.
Here is the Seat of Grief and Pleasure, here
Fear it self Dares, yet Trembles to appear;
Let Politicians first be rul'd by thee;
Would they o're vulgar Tempers Rulers be.
Thy Arts are foaming Bits, that curb with ease,
And ply the Stubborn to the Bonds of Peace.
Here Archimedes may sure-Footing find,
(To Know is almost to subdue the Mind)
When he wrests Scepters from the Hands of Kings,
And fierce Barbarians to Compliance brings;
Makes Trembling Palsy seize the Royal Throne,
And ev'n the World it self turns upside-down.
There's nothing can his Government withstand,
Who can the Mind, that Governs all, command.
Audacious Soul! who dost as high aspire
For Knowledge; as Prometheus did for Fire;
Tell me what Deity to thee has shown
These noble Arts, to Ages past unknown?
What Saint, sent hither by the Lord of Light,
Said, Brother Hobbs, recieve Immortal Sight.
Claim this as thy peculiar Gift, alone
Unknown to all, as all to thee are known.
What by Creation was the Work Divine,
Is made, Great Soul, by Revelation Thine.

THE Seventh ELEGY OF THE SECOND BOOK OF TIBULLUS.

WHen Thoughts are mutinous 'twixt D th and Life,
Hope steps between, and parts the fatal Strife:
Many had slept in Death's eternal Night,
Had Hopes bright Sun withdrawn his pleasant Light.
'Tis Hope prolongs the wretched Lovers stay,
Which if it fly, Life with it flies away.
Prophetick Hope can only Grief destroy,
Disarming present ills with future Joy.
The Plow-man trusts his Seed to Mother Earth,
In full Assurance of a better Birth:
But should his Hopes as long Retirement have,
Furrows for Corn would prove the Tillers Grave.
By Hope the Fowler's Nets for Birds are wrought,
Hope the true Bait whereby all Fish are caught.
Hope makes Confinement perfect Liberty;
Hope makes the Slave amidst his Fetters free;
Naught can divert him from his merry Tone;
Hope calls for Songs, when they require a Groan
Hope, like my Mistress, does my Heart beguile:
Hope makes her Frowns the dimples of a Smile.
Forbear, Fair Nymph, forbear thy haughty Scorn;
Teach not the Goddess Hope to Die forlorn.
Let it suffice in Beauty to out-vie;
Submit in Power to her Deity.
If you your Sisters Ghost, or Love, or Fear;
By loving me, evince your Love to her.
So mayst thou Earth on her young Members lay,
A Turf as slender, and as soft as they.
She shall my Prayers, she shall my Offerings have;
Sweet Garland shall perfume her putrid Grave.
And least like her, the sairest Flower, they die;
I'll with my Tears the absent Dew supply.
There secure Refuge, there Redress I'le seek,
And (since you will not) move her Dust to speak;
She'll never let the living Sister have
Those Tears, due only to the Dead one's Grave,
Let me no longer then Denial find;
On her Account, if not on mine, be Kind [...]
Left she to Horror turn your sweet Repose;
Making you view her, tho' your [...]yes you close
View her besmear'd with such a bloody Gore,
As once her deadly [...]all had caus'd before:
When from aloft stain'd into Styx she f [...],
Thus making almost a Red-Sea in Hell.
While in such dreadful Colours Ghosts appear.
Spectators grow as Pale, as those they fear.
But hold, my Mistress do's her Grief renew;
And I my self a Feind, not Lover, shew.
If this dire method must my Woes relieve,
I'de grieve for ever, might she never Grieve.
May those consenting Eyes ne're shed a Tear!
Show'rs are unseasonable when Stars appear.
Not she, but Phryne ought to bear the blame;
Phryne as void of Pity, as of Shame;
Who others Letters (by her cruel Art
Hid in her Bosom) slyly does impart,
And joyns them nearer to my Mistresses's Heart.
When I enquire, she's not at Home, she'll cry:
Altho' my Mistresses's Voice does speak her nigh
And when I come my Promise to obtain,
She says she's in a Fright, or else in Pain.
Till by her Lies 'tis I the Anguish hear,
Making her Feign'd become my real Fear.
Then like some sullen Ghost I sigh and groan,
To see my Treasure stoln away, and gone.
My Fancy's wrack'd, my Thoughts in spite of Fate
Her Lovers pleasures, but my Pains create.
Then I to Phryne in her kind Reply,
And every Curse is Eccho to a Lye.
Whatever part off all my Curses fail,
That you may live Distress'd, let that prevail!
'Tis Just, ye Gods, 'tis just at length, that she
Who caus'd my Grief, should live in Grief, like me
On the DEATH of the late Re­nown'd, Learned and Honourable Mr. ROBERT BOYLE.
FOr Boyle, the Learned Boyle, is this Complaint,
Who liv'd Philosopher, who dy'd a Saint:
And intermix'd with the Angelick Crew,
Augments their Company, and Knowledge too,
Such was his Learning, such his Piety,
That ev'n his Physicks taught Divinity,
Never such Gifts from Heaven, to Man were given,
Never such Gratitude re-paid to Heaven.
Farewel ye ancient Bards, a doting Crew:
Who no more Nature, than its Author, knew;
Ev'n thee, great Stagirite, we bid Adieu!
Whom greater Boyle precedes, in our Esteem,
Far more in Worth, than thou dost him in Time.
Compare both Physicks, and to use thy Term,
Thine the first Matter, his appears the Form.
Thus Boyle re-acts thy part; Excell'd, we see,
By thee, Thy Master; by thy Scholar, Thee.
Nor was he perfect in this Art alone,
Philosophy (alas too rarely known!)
Went hand in hand with his Religion.
Mr. Hobbs &
Others think fit to load the teeming Press,
With studious Effects of Wickedness;
And while mysterious Nature they unfold,
Deny the Providence they there behold;
But Boyle as Pious, as Experienc'd grown,
Their Wisdom knew, their Folly left unknown.
As oft to Church, as Library, he went;
His Time in Prayer, as well as Study spent.
His Practice did their Arguments deny,
Too proud to own a Sovereign Deity;
And taught that Truth was true Philosophy.
So God-like Wise, so God-like Good was he,
Himself seem'd what they'd not allow to be:
So prudently did he his Notions frame,
That his like Gospel-writings may reclaim.
The Temple-walls, like Prisons, ne're confin'd
His in-exhausted, his all-pious Mind.
When Flames he view'd, he did like them aspire;
Thinking on him who is Consuming Fire.
When he for Air the second Station lay,
He thought of him whom Air and Winds obey:
When he the Water's Nature did survey,
He thought of him whose Path is in the Sea.
When he of weighty Earth the Nature view'd,
He shewing that, him whose the Earth was, shew'd.
His Touch-stone Judgment Metal's Nature try'd,
(Nature in them, as they in Earth, lay hid)
Each in his Eye exceeds an Indian Mine;
There lies his sought for Pearl, the Work Divine,
What others gazing towards the Heavenly Throne
Beheld, he oft beheld by looking down.
But now he's Summon'd to the Heavenly Quire,
With refin'd Knowledge, with enlarg'd Desire.
Where ravish'd with the Beatifick show,
Scorns Nature's Glass, through which he view'd below.
He clearly now does Nature's God adore,
Whom in his Works he darkly saw before.
Tho' if compar'd to our less skilful view,
That Sight was clear, that Beatifick too.
While he throughout the Maze of Nature trac'd,
No Foot-steps mov'd so sure, none mov'd so fast:
Till all the Labyrinth at length Display'd,
He found the Monster, Death, within it laid.
Thus having in his Life all other try'd,
Death one Experiment remain'd; he Dy'd.
* Ev'n Nature who before he Liv'd, lay Dead,
In Gratitude his vital Spirits fed;
And Crown'd with hoary Diadem his Head:
Who to his care extending her Relief,
Made him End all Experiments with Life.

On the Death of Admiral CARTER.

[...]
NOT He who did the
Because Troy was Conquer'd by revealing the Arrows wh [...] therein were hid.
Fatal Grave betray,
Wherein obscure, once fam'd, Alcides lay,
Felt such a Wound, by poysonous Arrows stung,
(Just Arrow that reveng'd their Master's
Breach of Promise.
wrong)
As that which now torments my troubled Breast,
By something worse than poysonous Darts opprest;
While I the Death of that Great Hero tell,
Which more did him, than others he excel.
Oh! that for thee I could a Column rear,
More noble than Alcides Pillars were!
(For thou with him in both his Acts dost share,
Renown'd alike for Travels, and for War)
It should at once a double Honour shew,
Thy Ne-plus-ultra, and thy Trophy too.
If Tears and Sighs could with the Fates prevail,
With Tears and Sighs I would thy Fate repel:
Thy Corps I'de animate with lasting Sighs,
Thy wither'd Plant with showers from mine Eyes.
But watry Eyes in common Burials share,
Many for thee shall drop a Crimson Tear.
Till they, who dar'd Immortal Blood to spill,
Make with their Own the neighbouring Channels swell:
And b [...]ush for this their Crime in Scarlet Gore,
Whom mod [...]st Awe ne're painted Red before.
When first the News of thy Decease was known,
They who bewail'd thy Fate, bewail'd their Own.
What Horrour scar'd them? Death to Carter sent,
The Living more than Dying did Torment,
Each Visage gather'd Paleness at thy Fall:
Death seizing thee, Death's Image seiz'd on All.
Oh! Dismal shout! altho' no Mother's Cries,
No Widow's Groans there present rend the Skies;
Altho' no doleful Passing-Bell they hear,
Lo! worse than Passing-Bell renew'd their Fear.
Canons too truly thy Departure spoke,
Thy Lamp extinct thus left behind a Smoak:
The Winds and Waves Emphatically Roar,
They both thy End, and England's Loss deplore.
When Fame, thy Harbinger, to Portsmouth came,
And chang'd thy Great into a Greater Name;
Shewing how thy Heroick Soul alone,
Proof against Force, and Fraud alike could shun
The Leaden Arrow, and the Golden One;
Desire takes Wings, ascends the City-wall,
Expecting Triumphs, not a Funeral;
With greedy Eyes each seek to view thee thence,
A Place as fit for Prospect as Defense.
All waiting thy Return cry, Come away,
The Monster's Conquer'd, why does Theseus stay?
Till they the Fate of Aegeus undergo,
(Oh! that at least they were mistaken so!)
No sooner Carter's Mourning-Flag they found,
But, were in Tears, the Sea of Sorrow, drown'd.
Straight in the Church, with solemn Prayers convey'd,
His Corps Inter'd, almost Ador'd, they laid.
While Links and Torches grac'd the Mourning Night;
Adding more Horrour, than they added Light.
Methinks the Screech-owl-Trumpets pierce my Ear,
The Death-watch beats, the untun'd Drum I hear.
A numerous Train demurely March along;
Alike were Drums, alike all Hearts, Ʋnstrung.
Th' Officious Guns, as if they would repay
For all those Lives they oft had tan'e away;
In vain a rouzing Conclamatum gave;
Still lies Great Carter in his humble Grave,
Where describe this as humble Epitaph:
He, Faithful He, who Ʋnderneath does Lye,
Died, by Refusing to Deserve to Dye.
The rest I leave to be by them made Good
Whose Pens are Daggers, and whose Ink is Blood.
May Grief be Valours Spur! for want of thee,
May each Couragious, Stout, nay Carter be!
May hostile Crowds at Pluto's Court appear,
Not to Resist, but to Attend thee there!
Whose Skulls on Earth, may raise an Heap so high,
That Slaughter's Mount shall Natur's Hills out-vie,
Till they a fatal Pyramid present,
And their Disgrace become thy Monument.

LOVE Reigns Every-where.

MErcury once by Jove was sent
Through Heaven, to call a Parliament;
All to the House of Lords repair;
(For sure there were no Commons there)
The reason was, each God might know,
And knowing to his Province go:
That so great Jove might be releas'd;
While Throngs of Gods and Cares decreas'd.
First let each Element (said he)
Have its peculiar Deity.
Next o're whole Nations, then o're Towns,
Let all have their Respective Crowns.
Lastly appoint a King o're Hell:
Unhappy God who there must dwell!
Unhappy he [...] 'tis he alone
Who must go downwards to a Throne.
The Lot's drawn out deside the Case,
Assigning each his proper Place.
Supremacy was given to none,
None but might somewhat call his Own
Cupid, a beardless Boy, was left
Of Power and Manhood too bereft.
Who in a Passion rail'd at Jove,
( Passion the usual Guest of Love.)
Why must not I have something too?
I am a God as well as You.
To whom Jove tartly thus; Fond Fool,
Thou to be Rul'd art, not to Rule.
I cannot thy Petition grant,
Who more dost Rod than Scepter want.
No; if need be, I'le in thy stead,
Sooner intrust ev'n Ganymede.
The Youth, enrag'd at this Reply,
Resolv'd his utmost Power to try.
His furious Heat wracks every Breast,
Nor Gods, nor Men, nor Fiends have rest.
Pluto, and his infernal Crew
With Cupid's Fire their Flames renew:
Whose Legions are by this increas'd,
In that they are with Love possess'd.
Departed Ghosts own him their Head;
Love dies not ev'n among the Dead.
Earth yields her Might, as weak, to his;
And Man, her Lord, his Vassal is:
Captiv'd by his own Ear, or Eye;
From Beauty, or from Harmony.
For comely Features (as we view)
Pierce deeper than his Arrows do:
And Musick-strings as fatal grow,
As those wherewith he bends his Bow.
The Fowls perceive his Tyranny,
Who shoots more swift than they can fly
The little Flocks become his Prize,
By Love a Burning Sacrifice.
All undergo the Victims doom,
Who, tho' they die not, they consume:
And in short Pantings pine away;
Less greivous are Death's Pangs than they.
The vaster Herd have this desire,
Living, like Brazen-Bulls, breath Fire,
No Infect from this Plague is free:
Love, naught's too great, too small for Thee,
Nor dost to Land confine thy stay;
Thou too dost Neptune's Trident sway.
For thy Amphibious Deity,
Plungeth it self into the Sea.
Through frothy Waves its Power it shows:
The Son dives where the Mother rose.
There Sea-Nymphs, Fishes there, in scorn
Of all the mighty Ocean, burn:
No longer watry Tides admire,
Feeling within them Tides of Fire.
Nor does he only Reign below;
The Gods to him Obeisance owe.
Vulcan, and's Servant Polypheme,
Proof against Aetna's hottest Flame,
Can't sustain his; by which they prove,
That Fire it self Burns less than Love.
Ev'n Mars his Armour is not found
Secure enough against this Wound.
Who, bound by Mulciber, remains
A Captive Lover fit for Chains.
Phoebus, whose glorious Rays bestow
Both Light and Warmth to all below;
Altho' he burns not with the same,
He burns with Love's much fiercer Flame.
Ev'n Jove (such Feats can Cupid do)
Submits his Thunder to his Bow:
And, bowing towards Acrisiu's Tower,
Pays him a Tributary Shower.
Nay that he may his Duty shew,
He leaves his Heaven, his God-head too.
He's Bull, or Swan, what not? to prove,
Jove rules the World, and Cupid Jove.
Thus all things are within his Sphere,
His Royal-seat is every where;
While all Below, and all Above,
Become one Empire, Rul'd by Love.

On the Barbarous Execution of Dr. WILLIAM LAUD, sometime Lord Arch-Bishop of Canterbury.

IT was the time, when Days pass'd dimnly on,
Not to be measur'd by the gazing Sun,
Who drew a Cloudy Curtain o're his Head,
While Crown and Mitre were to Scaffold led.
Heaven, cleft with Lightning, cast a ghastly Look,
And claps of Thunder our Distractions spoke.
Clouds gush'd out drops for those our Martyrs shed;
More numerous, less precious than the Red:
When the best Argument for being Good,
Was to seek Canaan through Red Sea, of Blood.
Lambeth perhaps had never spent a Tear,
Had no Arch-Bishop built his Pallace there.
The Pious LAƲD must impious Rage appease,
Because Ʋnblemish'd, He's a Sacrifice.
For Crimes unknown he was by those Arraign'd,
Who merited the Death for him design'd.
And were their inward dark Recesses seen,
Bradshaw the Pris'ner, LAƲD the Judge had been,
Undaunted LAƲD knew no Assaults of Fear;
Those are the Fearful, who the Guilty are,
His quiet Conscience still possesses Rest,
As being still with Innocence possest.
The Waves may roar; the threatning Billows swell,
Wild Rage may fathom the Abyss of Hell;
Yet he, whom present Death removes to Bliss,
Laughs at their Frowns, whose wish conspires with his.
His stedfast Soul was resolutely Good;
Then most Couragious, when by most withstood.
And after all that Malice could afford;
The Arm of Flesh was weaker than the Spirit's Sword.
For 'tis to him true Valour does belong,
Who Dies sustaining, not redressing Wrong.
Down on the Block his sacred Head he lay,
Praying for those who scarce would let him pray,
And kneeling there, perhaps was Curs'd by them,
Who had crav'd Blessings on their Knees from him.
The factious Rout that wicked Hand applaud,
Which with one stroke Beheads the Church and Laud.
But Angels look, and tremble at his Doom;
Tremble, and Look; yet wish his Soul were come.
As they descend the welcome Prize to bear,
They stay themselves upon more solid Air:
And while Just Men the Pride of England Mourn,
Increase their Company as they Return.
Thus Dy'd the Pious, the Couragious Saint;
Chief of the Church, the Church that's Militant.
Why does his Day, his fatal Day appear,
As undistinguish'd from the vulgar Year!
Let Heaven regard what Time has made unknown;
And when we lost our Glory, hide its own.
Let gloomy Shades our base Neglect betray,
And by Concealing, thus Reveal the Day;
A day as Black as was his Judges Crime,
Black as the Crime they falsly laid on him.

On the Power of Musick.

WHat Muse, tho' Songstress, can reveal
The Charms that in blest Musick dwell?
First to Great WILLIAM's Camp repair,
And view its Magick Power there.
Trumpets the Souldier's strength renew;
These are the Arms that most subdue.
These animate the Meek, the Tame;
These blow the Dead Coals into Flame.
These cure a Wound; these heal a Scar;
These breath the very Soul of War.
Let Joshua speak in Trumpets sound,
The Walls obey, and Tumble down.
Go to a Feast, or Funeral;
Musick adapts it self to all.
This does the drooping Spirit chear,
This is the Language of Despair;
This raises Laughter, draws a Tear.
Are you in peril on the Main?
Let but Arion's Harp complain
The Dolphins to your Rescue hast,
And by their Aid you are Releast.
What Man need dread the Shades below,
Did he with this Companion go?
Theseus, for want of this, remains,
And there heholds his Friend in Chains,
Assistance brought from Harmony,
Had made Pritithous as free,
As once it made Euridice.
The place no Groans, no Howling fills;
This Noise all other Noises stills.
The wretched Ghosts attentive are,
And Snakes unfold themselves to hear.
Fiends to Good Nature it beguiles;
Cerberus fawns; each Fury smiles.
Credit Pythagoras his Ear,
Soft Musick tunes the Studded Sphere:
Ravish'd with which the Planets rove,
And fix'd Stars (falsly call'd so) move.
Such is its Vertue, so sublime;
They dance, while Sun and Moon keep Time.
Thus things Inanimate obey,
And shall Man less be mov'd than they?
Shall Wood upbraid us, or shall Stone?
Both by Harmonious Artists drawn.
Sure that which could a Passion make,
Should Passions Lull'd asleep, awake.
Our very Heart-strings ought to sute,
And tremble with the stringed Lute.
Those, whom Broad ways to Heaven lead,
While they through stately Temples tread;
By the sweet Symphony that's there,
Do make of One an Hymn and Pray'r:
Such Solemn Pleasure is confer'd,
That Duty seems its own Reward.
But Musick, tho' a present Bliss,
Of future an Idea is.
When we at Things above us guess,
And what's unspeakable Express,
We say the Heav'ns with Anthems Ring,
And Angels Hallelujahs sing.
Tho' Golden Cherubims were made,
(Like Solomon's) with Wings display'd,
Tho' Objects pleasing most the sight,
Were all improv'd to th'utmost height;
This would more clearly Heav'n descry,
This sets the Ear above the Eye.
But Verse alone can never shew
The praise to Musick's Power due.
Joyn'd in Apollo both we see,
The God of It, and Poetry.
You that can imitate the God,
And tread the Path that he has trod;
Add merry Harp, and mournful Flute,
Take well-strung Violin, and Lute:
Tho' you Heroick Actions sing,
Adore some God; Extol some King:
If at the Signal given by Time,
Their Notes strike in, and sweeten Rhime;
Whoever hears them, hearing says,
They speak their own in others praise.

TROAS. Act the First. Where Hecuba complains of her Misfortunes.
Hecuba Sola.

A Crown is but a Gilded, Fickle Toy
To One who first reflects on Me, and Troy;
Troy, now no more, a Sooty Ruine stands,
Built by Immortal, Ras'd by mortal Hands.
Her mighty Troops, in forreign Countries bred,
Are either bravely Slain, or basely Fled.
Immerst she lay in shining Waves of Flame;
Flame that first caus'd, and then disclos'd her shame.
But Oh! too weak to snatch the wealthy Prey,
Which fiercer Greecians bore through Flames away.
Thick smoaky Clouds, (as knowing what was done)
Ascend apace to stop the flying Sun;
In vain they Veil his Face; he posts away,
And Troy's black Night bereaves the World of Day.
The bloody Greek our spatious Ruine views;
And takes for Vision what too true it shews.
He senseless Wretch, his Senses dares not trust:
How fear'd he Troy, who trembles at her Dust?
He owns her worthy of a Ten Years Seige,
Of Ten times Ten Years; worthy of an Age.
The tottering Relicks of her shapeless Wall,
Give their last Nod, and threaten as they fall.
I swear by all the angry Powers above,
By Priam's Ghost; by all I fear, or love;
The Loss we suffer was fore-warn'd by me;
I ev'n foretold Cassandra's Prophecy;
I spoke as True, was thought as False as She.
Forgive Ʋlysses, Pardon Sinon; I
Wrought this Destruction; I deserve to die.
The fatal Torch was lighted in my Womb;
Wretch that I am, it did not me consume,
When I grew Pregnant with the Trojan Doom.
But why do I stale Grievances relate,
Omitting Greater of a fresher Date?
I saw the King before the Altar lye,
The prostrate King adore the Gods, and dye.
Bold Pyrrhus caught, Bold Pyrrhus slew him there,
Held by the Cords of his own twisted Hair.
Yet he with less Regret did Death receive,
Than any could (but he who gave it) give.
No Reverence (due to Temples) check'd his Rage,
Nor present Gods; nor Priam's sacred Age;
No, nor his Death: He does his Corps abuse,
And the Grave's Quarters to his Foe refuse.
Troy's Fun'ral Flames none to her King allow,
The only Good Misfortune could bestow.
Nor is this all; his Royal Family
(Once serv'd by Lords) to Lords must Servants be.
Lo! they cast Lots. One Dreams of Hector's Bed,
Another Helenus his Spouse would wed.
A Third is kindled with Antenor's Fires.
Cassandra too is sought. These each requires:
My Lot is thought a Blank; me none desires.
Me all Men dread. Is none concern'd but I?
Help me, my Mates, who suffer silently,
Help me to shew your, and my Misery.
Pay Troy your last Respects. Weep, sigh, and tear
Your Garments; after these, your Breast and Hair.
Let Ida Eccho forth our mournful Song;
That fatal Soil whence our Misfortune sprung.

Upon the Unseasonable Heat and Drought in April, Anno Domini 1694.

VENƲS, Unkind, as thou art Fair!
To leave thy Month at Random here.
April from Thee derives its Name;
From thee it does Protection claim.
But thou a Foe to open Wars;
A Friend to Lovers secret Jars,
Perhaps art fled with winged pace
To make thy Mars his Fury cease;
His Bloody Passions disapprove,
And mould them into those of Love.
The stubborn God at first denies,
At last he's smitten, and complies.
Thus little Dreaming any ill,
Endeavouring to Save, you Kill.
Thy Absence here caus'd greater Rage,
Then t [...]re thy Presence can asswage
While fiery Vulcan sent by You
(Your Husband and your Vassal too)
Does with regret your Place supply;
Then such distructive Flames let fly,
As Aetna yield, and Jealousy.
And by the Heat they did produce,
You'd almost think 'twere Hell broke loose.
No welcome Clouds o're-cast the Sky,
Too long Serene to please the Eye.
No parti-colour'd Iris seen
To dye the Trees, and Meadows Green.
The thirsty Earth asunder cleaves,
And gapes for Drink, but none receives.
Rivers their Aid no longer lent,
Rivers no more; their Waters spent,
The Island grows a Continent.
Deep Waters into shallows shrink;
The Sea it self has need of Drink.
Phoebus with his Red jolly Face,
In vain expects a Cooling-Glass.
He reaches out his Beams in vain.
Still empty they return again.
Unusual paleness shews the Moon,
For want of Moisture sickly grown.
The Heavenly Torches hov'ring stand,
Like parting Flames above a Brand;
And wanting Fuel to their Fire,
Twinkle, as if they would Expire.
Yet loth to perish all alone,
And see no Ruine but their own;
Downwards their hidden Poysons flow,
And scatter Death where e're they go:
While burning Feavers they create,
Fore-runners of poor Mortals Fate:
Whose restless Torture is confin'd
To Beds, for quiet Ease design'd.
Not she, whom once in Nero's Bed
Fore-boding Dreams with Flames o're-spread,
And sleep, Death's Image, painted Dead;
Endur'd such Anguish in her Rest,
As these by wakeful Fires opprest:
Who seiz'd with this Tyrannick ill,
More than her Dreams could fansy, feel:
Their Heat admits of no allay;
And only will with Life decay.
The drops of Sweat distil in vain;
Their liquid Heat increas'd the Pain.
Nor would their Shirts afflict them more;
Had Nessus dip'd them in his Gore.
Thus tortur'd they resign their Breath,
Proof against any Cold, but Death.
No shiv'ring Ague dares appear:
That lesser Ill we us'd to fear;
Companion of the Springing Year:
Expel'd by greater Miseries,
With fear it trembles, as it flies.
The scorched Air still breaths out Woes,
And the short Hell grants no Repose.
No Zephyr's gentle whispers say,
Come forth ye tender Buds! for they
Within the Bark had rather lye,
Than at their very Birth to dye.
If any Scorning to lye hid,
Stept out in hast; their Morning Pride
Before the wisht for Evening dy'd.
Their Beauty set before the Sun,
Before the Day, their Life was gone.
Too soon the parched Leaves did fade,
And of the Spring an Autumn made.
The Field a Yellow Off-spring bears;
The Corn is Straw before it Ears.
Yet these but too faint Emblems are,
Of those Diseases Mortals share.
The Conquerour, the Stout, the Brave
Is the more potent Feavers Slave.
Blood free from all impure Desires,
Boils faster than with Youthful Fires.
Nor are decrepit Limbs secure:
The chill of Fourscore must endure,
And wax warm with another's Rage;
This Heat will thaw that frozen Age.
As Clock-wheels, which too slow have gone.
Aided by Oyl, out-strip the Sun;
With too much hast their Sloth repay,
And wear the Time too fast away:
So this Disease where e're it Reigns,
Tho seated in exhausted Veins;
Driving with too impetuous strife,
O'rethrows the Vehicle of Life.
And those whom ling'ring Sloth might save,
Are thus set forward to their Grave.
The Stripling, that has just begun
The Race of Life; like Phaeton,
O're-power'd by Heat, comes tumbling down,
And sinds it Ev'ning, e're 'tis Noon.
Scarce any Town or City free
From this destroying Enemy.
The Plow-share's beat into a Spade.
Graves are as thick, as Furrows made.
Where e're you pass, a Corps you meet,
And Coffins crowd through every Street.
There's scarce a Houshold in a Town,
But grieves at least the loss of One.
The Winding-sheet about the Dead
Grows as familiar with the Bed,
As those wherewith 'tis over-laid.
While all our April Showers arise
From Widows, or from Orphans Eyes.
All Cheeks besmear'd with Pearly dew,
Instruct the Clouds how they should do.
But now the angry Powers relent,
Away our Grief with April went.
The Mountains laugh, the Valleys sing;
And every Bird salutes the Spring.
A cooling Wind does first appease,
Then blows away the hot Disease.
Ev'n Heaven conscious of our woe
(As alter'd Looks do plainly shew)
Dissolves with Pity into Showers,
And so removes what it deplores.

A Speech of SCAEVA, who Com­manded under Caesar, To his Fly­ing Souldiers. Lucan. Book VI.

WHat Fear your narrow Souls from Fight with­drew;
A Fear unknown to all that Caesar knew?
Mean Slaves to spare their Bloud from whom you fly;
Theirs, who seek Yours. Dare ye not turn, and Dye?
For shame, the fleshy Hills of Heroes view!
Die to revenge their Death, who Dy'd for You.
But yet, suppose you could Ungrateful prove;
Let Anger move the Mind unmov'd by Love.
The Foe takes us alone for Cowards, they,
Who by Retreating would enlarge his way.
Sure, sure his Pass-port shall be dearly bought,
Pompey shall wade through Bloud to cut my Throat.
I could with greater Joy were Caesar by,
I will not say, with greater Courage Dye:
But since he cannot see me, Pompey shall;
Pompey, who feels me, shall approve my Fall.
Rush on, my Mates! and meeting, break his Darts;
Make blunt their Iron with your harder Hearts.
The dusty Clouds we setting Suns, do raise.
The Shouts that tell our Ruine, and our Praise;
Swift, as the Sound, shall bring Great Caesar here;
When those have reach'd his Eye, and these his Ear.
Let's die Victorious! He, when we are gone,
Will reap the Conquest which our Valour won.

On the DEATH of a Skilful, but Unhappy Organist.

THoughtful and Sad, the sweet Musician lay;
No Healing Melody drove Care away;
Which to Hell-Torments might have brought Relief;
Physick to any, but its Owner's Grief.
No pleasant Pastime those fierce Pains asswage,
Which make a Moment swell into an Age.
Grief clip'd Time's Wing, and so, beyond the sleight
Of Nature, lengthen'd at once Day and Night.
Sleep, as affrighted, left his troubled Breast,
And nothing less than Death can give him Rest.
A Rest more certain, had it not been sought;
Had any but himself the Present brought.
But he, impatient of a longer Life,
Resolves to be beholding to his Knife;
Which half fulfills the too severe Command,
Unwilling to Obey, unable to Withstand.
The Bloud a free and easy Passage found;
But grosser Entrals crowd about the Wound:
As at some narrow Gate the hasty Rout,
Where none are Gone, though all are Going out.
He unconcern'd for what he saw, and felt,
(Either of which another's Heart would melt)
Does with a surer Gash his Fate command;
No Pain can stop, when Phrensy guides the hand.
This darted Death; 'twas this made wider Room,
While reeking Bowels leave their native home.
The sight of which made all Spectators mourn,
Till viewing his, their Own within them turn.
The fatal Sisters start to see their Loom,
Cut by a forreign Hand, untimely come,
By Rashness to prevent a riper Doom.
Sure the Infernal Furies prick'd him on
To seek the Danger which he ought to shun.
'Twas they the Thracian Orpheus tore before;
'Twas they alas! our Second Orpheus tore.
Hold Muse! thy maim'd, and worthless Verse forbear,
Lest thou a Fury, not a Muse appear;
And they another Torture suffer here.

Martial Book I. Epigram IX. The Poet asserts that Honour too be truly Valuable which is Consistent with Life.

IN that you so far Cato's Acts allow,
So far the Foot-steps Thraseas trod pursue,
As not their Pattern, but their Fate to shun;
My Decianus, You and I, are One.
That Wreath is but a Let to future Good,
Which fades, unless refresht with Showers of Blood.
Give me the Man whose Life and Fame keep pace,
While both his Trophies and his Years increase.

Epigram XIV. The Words of a Dying Wife to her Husband.

ARRIA the Sword, drawn from her Bowels, took;
And giving it to her Dear Poetus, spoke:
Trust me, I can this Stroke with ease sustain;
This gives the Wound, 'tis Yours will cause the Pain.

Epigram XXII. On Porsenna, and Mucius Scaevola.

WHen Mucius the deceitful Weapon drew,
Which not Porsenna, but his Noble slew;
Enrag'd he thrust his hand into the Flame,
That erring [...]and which so mistook his Aim.
The milder Tyrant bid him straight retire,
And snatch'd the living Fire-brand from the Fire.
Here hostile Pity does Self-love excel,
Grieving to see what he Rejoyc'd to feel.
Thave kill'd Porsenna had less Glory brought,
This has a Triumph o're a Triumph wrought.

Epigram XXVI. To Faustinus, A Modest Writer.

YOUR Thoughts, correctly in your Papers drest,
Lie hid, as when imperfect in your Breast.
How would your Writings please the Grecians! how
Ʋnknit our Criticks, tho' an aged Brow!
Why will you shut out Fame that knocks at Door?
Why will you when you may be Rich, be Poor?
You are too tedious, if you wait for Death,
Who will take Yours, to give your Poems breath.
No, let them rather with their Author thrive;
Of Life both worthy, both together Live.

Epigram XXXIV. On a Deceitful Mourner.

GEllia, alone, her Father's Death forbears
To Mourn; yet entertains her Guests with tears;
Who takes a pride in Grief, without it Lives
Who Grieves sincerely, he in Secret Grieves
Retir'd, as is the Grave, his Sorrow keeps;
Mute, as the Body therein Buried, weeps.

Epigram XXXVII. To Lucanus and Tullus, Two Loving Brothers.

DID You, so like the Starry Pair Above,
Share in their Fate, as you surpast their Love;
Your Pious Contest had their Fame out-gone;
Obscur'd their Lustre with a brighter Sun.
While each would with unwilling Glory rise;
Each with ambitious Hast forsake the Skies,
And he who first did to the Shades descend;
Would thus bespake his Brother, and his Friend;
Live out your Date; and when my Turn is due,
Supply his Life, who only lives in You.

Book IV. Epigram XVI. On a Boy Kill'd by the Dropping of an Iceickle.

THere is a Place they call Capena's Gate;
Sweating beneath the constant Waters weight.
A Beardless Youth as he was passing by,
Here unawares suck'd in his Destiny.
The liquid Weapon by the Heat it found,
Destroy'd it self, and him that felt the Wound.
Who ever could like cruel Fortune dare?
Who ever daring could succeed like Her?
At whose Command a pointed Drop does prove
As fatal, as a Deluge sent by Jove.

Epigram XLIV. A Description of the Mountain Vesuvius.

HEre pleasant Vines once cast a gloomy Shade,
Fit to conceal those Crimes their Juice had made.
Here once the Fat or'e-flow'd with Wine: this Grove,
Bacchus did far beyond his Nysa love.
Here Satyrs, when they could not Walk, by chance
Stagger'd and Reel'd themselves into a Dance.
Here Hercules, Here Venus chose to dwell,
Their Heaven in respect of this was Hell.
Now all to Flames, from Flames to Ashes turn;
And poor Alcides once again must Burn.
While the too late repenting Gods confess
They wish this Ruine, and their Power less.

Epigram LXXVIII. On Varus Derided for his Poor Entertainment.

VVHen Varus made me his Unhappy Guest,
Rich Preparations sham'd the scanty Feast.
The Table so incumber'd was with Gold,
As if he meant it should no Victuals hold.
While all things thus in ample Order lye,
They starve the Belly; only glutt the Eye.
Kind Varus, I design'd with thee to Night
To gratifie my Palate, not my Sight.
Prithee, or Feed me with substantial Meat;
Or Feed me not with Hopes of any Treat.

Book V. Epigram VII. To Vulcan, that he would Spare Rome, having already suffer'd by Fire.

THe Aged Phoenix finds in Death relief,
Destroy'd by Fire, that kindles into Life;
So Rome in Flames refin'd her ancient Rust,
So found prolifick Vertue in her Dust.
Her New-born looks all Glorious and Severe;
Proud, and Imperious as Domitian's are.
Vulcan forgive! forgive our Founder's wrong.
Tho' we from Mars; we too from Venus sprung.
Then may thy Wife so Chast and Gentle prove,
As to forget all Bonds but those of Love.

Epigram LXXV. On Pompey, and his Sons.

BOth Asia, Europe, and the Libyan Coast
Declare how Pompey, and his Sons are lost.
Learn to admire their Greatness by their Doom,
Whose very Ashes made the World their Tomb.

Book VI. Epigram XXVIII. An Epitaph.

HEre underneath this Marble Tomb
Lies, once the Pride, now Grief of Rome.
His Morals Chast; Severe his Meen;
For Vertues Ripe; for Vices Green.
Beauty was on his Body writ;
His Soul the Image bore of Wit.
Which, like the God of it, Deceas'd
After Twelve Years, its Twelve Signs pass'd.
May he, whose Tears lament this Boy,
Or never Weep, or weep for Joy.

Book VII. Epigram IV. To Caesar, desiring his speedy Return to Rome, having Overthrown his Enemies.

IF you regard the joint Request of Rome,
Answer their Pray'rs, excite their Joy, and come.
We envy our more happy Conquer'd Foe;
And think it Conquest to be Vanquish'd so.
None sure can their Captivity deplore,
Who see the God, whom we unseen Adore.
For while they with delight your awful Presence view,
Your Arms their Hands, and You their Hearts subdue.

Epigram XXI. A Petition to the Morning-Star, that by an Early Appearance it would hasten Domitian in his Journey to­wards Rome.

NO longer, Phosphorus, our Joys delay!
Caesar expects when you will lead the way,
And Usher in One Brighter than the Day.
So expects Rome. I fear the Northern Bear
Has suck'd you up into its Vortex there!
You move as Heavily as that, as Slow;
And in so doing seem as Savage too.
If you are Tir'd; that you may make more Speed,
Castor (for Caesar's sake) will lend his Fiery Steed.
Officious Phoebus does your Leisure wait,
His Horses wonder they set out so late.
Aurora lies awake, and fain would rise;
Yet still the Stars refuse to close their Eyes.
The chequer'd Sky with its fix'd Eyes does view,
Too many to be told; to look, too few.
The Moon, which hitherto had seen but One,
Stays longing to behold another Sun.
Well, since 'tis so; come Caesar, come in spight
Of Moon, and Stars; of Nature's Skreen, the Night.
Command your Coach-man to drive swiftly on;
Yours is to us the Chariot of the Sun.

Epigram XXXVI. On Domitian 's Stately Building.

CEase Egypt, cease thy Wonders to declare;
Thy Pyramids must yield to Larger here.
Memphis, struck Dumb with shame, in silence dwell;
Nor proudly with thy artificial Mountains swell.
How mean were these, were Caesar's House in view!
That greatest Miracle the World can shew.
Sev'n Turrets, high as Rome's Seven Hills, appear:
Pelion would seem a Valley, were it near.
The Bank the Giants cast against the Skies
Beneath the Nod of Caesar's Palace lies.
Whose Spires serene, as Heav'n they enter, show;
And look with Scorn on Thunder-Clouds below.
The Sun, Domitian, takes it as his due,
To see his Daughter Circe after you.
Yet tho' these Buildings may with Heav'n compare
For Bulk and Beauty; they, like Heaven, appear
Too mean, too little for the God that's there.

Epigram LIV. To CAESAR.

THo' large and frequent Blessings you bestow,
Conquering your self with Kindness, as with Arms your Foe;
'Tis not your Gifts your Person make approv'd,
But 'tis the Love of This makes those Belov'd.

Epigram LIX. On a Thief, who had lost One of His Eyes.

A Bold Face'd Thief had One Eye left alone;
Nor wept that One Eye for the other gone.
Venture him not, bereav'd of half his Light;
A Polypheme for Rapine, as in Sight.
Eye him at Dinner, He'll at Dinner steal;
At once his Belly, and his Pockets fill.
He ne're a Spoon or Plate behind him leaves,
Close as his Shirt, his Napkin to him cleaves.
He scruples not to take a Cloak, or so;
And tho' he brought but One, departs with Two.
If Sleep a Servant at his Labour seize,
His Candle's Light secures it not from Thieves.
But least he should (when Forreign Thefts are done)
Be soon, for want of Practice, useless grown
To steal his Neighbour's Goods; he steals his Own.

MARTIAL Lib. Spec. Epig. XIII.

KInd, Cruel Dart, that pierc'd a Teeming Sow,
Giving a Fertile, tho' a Fatal Blow;
Was it Diana's Hand miss-led thee right?
Diana Kills, Lucina brings to Light.
The Huntress does the Midwife's Office do;
Poor Brute! she saw her One; she felt her Two:
While gaping Wounds, that speak her parting Breath,
At once let out her Young, and let in Death.

MARTIAL Lib. Spec. Epig. XXV.

THE Reason why these Waters don't destroy
The Mimick, as those did the
Leander.
real Boy,
Is plain, they're Caesar's; and the Streams that flow
Can't but be gentle, when the Spring is so.
When bold Leander sought his lovely Dame,
And Waves oppos'd, but could not quench his Flame;
Thus trembling he bespoke the boist'rous Sea,
May I my Hero first, e're you have me!
As I return; Rage, Swell, and Foam again!
What now Obstructs me, will Oblige me then.

DAVID 's Unreasonable Grief for the Death of Absalom.

A Youth of sweet Deportment, lovely Meen,
All Beautiful without, all Foul within,
His Body being thus by Nature Drest
To shame that Pare which She Created best)
A Youth, too Delicate you'd think for War,
Careless of David, David's chiefest Care,
Conspir'd against the Peace of Israel's Crown,
Against that Life to which he ow'd his Own;
His Sword made Drunken in his Brother's Gore,
Grows Thirsty now again, and seeks for more:
A nobler Potion, and a richer Floud,
Than was the Second-run of Amnon's Bloud.
Villany, not by slow Degrees increas'd,
From the mix'd Stream the purer Fountain trac'd.
A tender Kid at first the Lyon gnaws;
The stronger Beast is for Experienc'd Paws.
And now bold Isr'el follows Absalon
Resolv'd to loose his Life, or win a Throne.
But David scorning to be thus Withstood,
Yet without Mercy to subdue, too Good,
Thus speaks to Joab, and in him, to All:
Pray spare my Son, but let his Army fall.
You may discern, (nor have I slightly shown)
The ardent Love I bear to Absalon.
At Amnon's Death with less Regret I bore
His than the Absence of his Murderer.
Whom then against my Will, I made Retire,
And with just Anger quell'd unjust Desire.
'Twas you our Reconcilement first begun,
The Favour you have sought, may still be won.
You my good Nature to Compliance wrought;
You to Jerusalem the Exile brought.
When Two long Years within my City spent,
He had endur'd a Second Banishment;
As being still debar'd from seeing Me,
Me, who thereby was punish'd worse than He;
How was I pleas'd to see thy Harvest burn;
And heaps of Ashes stand for Cocks of Corn?
Fit Emblem, as I thought, at once to prove
To thee the Heat of Rage; to Me, of Love.
Conquer, then succour the afflicted Prince:
Preserve his Life, suppress his Insolence;
And when in him my Youthful Self you see,
Think him my Son, and not mine Enemy.
He spoke; and Joab with a flatt'ring Bow
Seem'd ready to Obey, but meant not so.
While Absalom among the Thickets rod,
And in the Woods appear'd a Sylvan God:
Subduing Men with glitt'ring Sword and Spear;
Nymphs with the Tresses of his flowing Hair:
Ev'n Oaks which stubborn against Thunder stood,
Paid their Respects, and, as he pass'd, they Bow'à.
But One that was more Humble than the rest,
Stooping too low, its Duty o're-express'd.
For now the Prince its rising Branches held,
A mark for Joab's Dart: but David's Shield
Had soon prevented it, had he been there;
As King he'd punish; as a Father, spare.
Witness his Tears which at the News appear'd,
And looks more Pale than his, whose Death he heard:
Witness his trembling Limbs; the words he spoke;
When thus at last his troubled Silence broke.
O Absalom, my Son, my Dearest Son,
My Son, my Son; O Dearest Absalon!
Why was thy blooming Age like Flowers made!
To Spring so Beautiful, so soon to Fade.
As scar'd by Death, thy Lilly-white is fled;
Thy Rosy Crimson turns to Fading-Red,
Thy Hair which so beguil'd the Female Kind,
Has Thee deceiv'd. The Curled Fetters bind
My Living Image to the Royal Oak,
Unable to Resist, or ward the Stroke.
The Shafts that pierce thy Body, wound my Soul;
My Grief begins where thine has reach'd the Goal.
If Joab would a real Kindness shew,
He'd slay the Father, as the Son he slew.
What is my Kingdom, Life, and Victory?
'Tis all but Loss, when gain'd by loosing Thee.
For thee I wish thy Destiny my Own,
For thee my worst, my best beloved Son.
Oh might I but Capitulate with Death!
Might I but reinfuse thy absent Breath,
I'de think no Ransome for thy Life too dear;
I'de be thy Slave, if thou could'st Domineer.
Let Fate henceforth the Edge of Battle turn;
Let Israel rejoyce; let Judah mourn;
I would resign my Laurel to thy Brow,
Wishing thou wert the same, that I am now:
Depos'd I'de Triumph in my low Degree,
And think my Chain a badge of Liberty.
Vain is my Wish! I here am left alone,
My Life for ever, and thy End to moan.
Some hidden Rancour lurkt in Joab's Breast,
The late Affront was not as yet supprest.
Thus being over-sway'd by some Disgust,
He, mindful of Revenge, forgets his Trust.
But I'le forget Revenge. Base Joab, know
I spare the Life which you to Vengeance owe.
You Kill'd a Rebel; yet, at my Command,
You from a Rebel should withdraw your Hand.
The Guilt you punisht then return'd on you;
By Disobedience you a Rebel grew.
Think not they cannot Err, who Conquest bring;
Conquest destroying the Victorious King.
A Traytor could but do as you have done;
You stab'd my Person, when you slew my Son.
If other Sorrows, Time allays the smart;
But this is too far rooted in my Heart.
The only Balm to heal this Malady
Is the Dark entrance of Eternity.
Till then Farewel my Son, my Dearest Son!
Farewel till then my Dearest Absalon.
Thus he continued; till of Means bereft,
He left not speaking, but of Speech was left.
Sighs for a time express'd his doleful Cares;
And then Ensu'd an Epilogue of Tears.
Unhappy David, who Success Iaments;
And where Repentance is a Crime, Repents.
Instead of Thanks to Heav'n for Ills remov'd,
He grieves that Prayers so effectual prov'd,
As to remove them. Were it not too late,
He'd seek his Own, and not his Foes Defeat.
No Mimick Phrensy, no disguised Wit,
Its Power shews to feign the want of it;
In seeing David, now Men truly see,
What before Achish he but seem'd to be.
FINIS.

The TABLE.

  • A Dialogue between Apollo and Daphne. pag. 1
  • Caphalus 's Lamentation for his Wife Procris, being ig­norantly slain by him, as he was Hunting of Wild Beasts. pag. 5
  • Amor Fugitivus, or, The fled Love Paraphras'd, out of Moschus. Idyllium the First. pag. 7
  • Ʋpon a Bee Entomb'd in Amber. pag. 9
  • On a Beggar Insulting over a Rich-Man's Grave. pag. 18
  • On the Excellent translation of the First Book of Virgis's-Aeneis, By Mr. Thomas Fletcher, Fellow of New-College. pag. 20
  • Lent's Meditation. pag. 22
  • The Resurrection of Christ. pag. 38
  • To the late Bishop of Bath and Wells, on his Departure from that See. pag. 40
  • Ʋpon the Monthly Fast. pag. 42
  • The Final Dissolution. pag. 45
  • The New-Jerusalem. pag. 48
  • A Lamentation for Moses. pag. 52
  • Jonathan 's Complaint against Saul, Occasion'd by his Enjoyning an Ʋnseasonable Fast. pag. 54
  • A Dialogue between Dives and Lazarus. pag. 56
  • Orpheus 's Complaint. pag. 58
  • The Day of Pentecost. pag. 59
  • A Copy of Verses, Entituled, In Libellum Clarissimi Viri Thomae Hobbii, De Natura Hominis. And Com­pos'd by Rad. Bathurst, M. D. Made English? pag. 62
  • The Seventh Elegy of the Second Book of Tibullus. pag. 65
  • On the Death of the late Renown'd, Learn'd and Honour­able Mr. Robert Boyle. pag. 69
  • [Page] On the Death of Almiral Carter. pag. 72
  • Love Reigns Every-where. pag. 76
  • On the Barbarous Execution of Dr. William Land, sometime Lord Arch-Bishop of Canterbury. pag. 80
  • On the Power of Musick. pag. 83
  • Troas. Act the First. Where Hecuba complains of her Misfortunes. pag. 87
  • Ʋpon the unseasonable Heat and Drought in April, An. Dom. 1694. pag. 90
  • A Speech of Scaeva, who Commanded under Caesar, &c. pag. 96
  • On the Death of a Skilful, but Ʋnhappy Organist. pag. 97
  • Martial Book I. Epig. 9. The Poet asserts That Honour to be truly Valuable, which is Consistent with Life. pag. 99
  • Epig. 14. The words of a Dying Wife to her Husband. pag. 100
  • Epig. 22. On Porsenna, and Mucius Scaevola. Ib.
  • Epig. 26. To Faustinus, a Modest Writer. pag. 101
  • Epig. 34. On a Deceitful Mourner. Ib.
  • Epig. 37. To Lucanus and Tullus, &c. 102
  • Book IV. Epig. 16. On a Boy Kill'd, &c. Ib.
  • Epig. 44. A Description of the Mountain Vesuvius. pag. 103
  • Epig. 68. On Varus derided for his Poor Entertain­ment. pag. 104
  • Book V. Epig. 7. To Vulcan, that he would spare Rome, having already suffer'd by Fire. Ib.
  • Epig. 75. On Pompey, and his Sons. pag. 105
  • Book VI. Epig. 28. An Epitaph. Ib.
  • Book VII. Epig 4. To Caesar, &c. pag. 106
  • Epig. 21. A Petition to the Morning Star, &c. pag. 107
  • Epig. 36. On Domitian 's stately Building. pag. 108
  • Epig. 54. To Caesar. pag. 109
  • Epig. 59. On a Thief, who had lost one of his Eyes. Ib.
  • Martial Lib. Spec. Epig. 13. pag. 110
  • Martial Lib. Spec. Epig. 25. pag. 111
  • David 's unreasonable Grief for the Death of Absalom. Ib.

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