ELEGIES OF OLD AGE, MADE ENGLISH from the LATIN OF CN. CORNELIƲS GALLƲS.

Juven. Sat. 10.
—hoc pallidus optas;
Da spatium vitae, multos da Jupiter, Annos:
Sed quàm continuis, & quantis longa Senectus,
Plena malis!—

LONDON, Printed for B. CRAYLE, at the Peacock and Bible, at the West-end of St. Paul's. 1688.

Licensed,

Octob. 25. 1687.
Rob. Midgley.

To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT RIDGEWAY, BARONET; EARL of LONDON-DERRY, AND BARON of GALLEN-RIDGEWAY, &c.

My LORD,

WHile these Elegies of Cornelius Gallus remain'd in their na­tive dress, they were thereby secur'd from the Censures of all, as well the Learned, as Ʋnlearned: from these, because they could not either read or understand them; and from the others, because they acquiesc'd in the Reputa­tion which the Author had amongst [Page] the greatest of the Roman Wits. But since they are habited in the English Tongue, nor, 'tis likely, now so well a­dapted to every Mode of Expression in that Language, as they might have been by another Hand, I have pre­sum'd to shelter them under Your Lordship's Name for Protection; and this I am incourag'd to from the sence I have of the many undeserved Favours Your Lorship (when applied to) affords to any Distress; for such is every one, who in this Age adventures to write, by opposing himself thereby to the usual Assaults, at least, of the most rigid and the severest Criticks. But if this first Essay of mine in this Nature may at any time be thought worthy to enter­tain some few of Your Lordship's lea­sure [Page] Hours, and pass Your reading with any Approbation, I have my utmost end, and shall be altogether regardless of the ineffectual Criticisms of others, relying on Your Lordship's Judgment only, as a sufficient Defence for me against all the expected Machinations of the Wits, who, perhaps, may think it an Invasion upon the Particular Privilege of their Society, for any to write, who have not yet had the Fortune to be admitted a­mongst 'em.

And now, My Lord, were my Talent in Panegyrick, equivolent to what Your Worth requires, I should here take no­tice of (with all the advantageous Rhe­torick they merit) Your Lordship's ma­ny noble Qualifications, and how well your Mind is proportion'd to the Cha­racter [Page] you bear in the World, and that Your Lordship does not only inherit the Honours, but the Vertues of Your anci­ent Family, which are seldomer trans­mitted to Posterity from Ancestors then Estates. But since such a design in me would rather serve to injure then illu­strate Your Lordship's Fame, I believe it more my Duty to be silent, then offend by the ill management of so great a Task. And shall therefore only now beg Your Lordship's pardon for covet­ing to my self the Honour of subscri­bing me,

My LORD,
Your Lordship's most oblieged, and most devoted humble Servant, H. WALKER.

The PREFACE.

I Design not in this Preface either to un­dertake a Defence for my felf against the Criticks, or by any Insinuations to recom­mend my own endeavours to the World as valuable: Since none, no, not the best Au­thors could ever advantage themselves by At­tempts of that Nature, nor did the worst e­ver want some to esteem and read their Wri­tings. Thus the Great Dryden cannot escape Censure; nor is Withers himself without his Admirers. And therefore prepared by such Considerations, I am fortified against what­ever Fate may happen to these following Ver­ses; most of which (for Praestat otiosum esse quàm nihil agere) were the Effests of my idle hours at Sea, and the rest have been (for want of better) the imployment of some of my vacant time a Shoar.

If any shall think the fifth Elegy too loose, and for that reason be ready to reflect upon me, let them take that for my Apology which Martial makes in his own behalf to Caesar, in one of his Epigrams:

[Page]
Innocuos Censura potest permittere Lusus
Lascivia est nobis Pagina, Vita proba est.

But if that will not serve, and the squea­mish and nice will be offended, let them be angry with the Author, who in the Original takes greater liberty to himself in his Words then I have done in the Translation. And besides, I shall desire they would regard these Elegies, as they are design'd to expose the sor­did & inexcusable vices of lascivious old Men, in whom Lust is more odious than in the Young; for they being heated with the im­petuous sallies of their youthfull blood, are less culpable then those who have appetites, when Nature has scarce left them Health, or the pleasure of Tast. And Juvenal himself, when he lashes (in his tenth Satyr, the unrea­sonable Follies of those who wish to live to a great Age) lays no restraint upon his ex­pressions. And that Satyr has been made pub­lick in English more then once by several Hands. However I believe the Authority of the Author, Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius, Horace himself, and all the Epigrammatists may be e­nough [Page] to defend what I have done. And if not, sure the Examples of the Poets of our own Na­tion and Times will: For, can I name one scarce, who has not either upon the Stage re­presented, or otherwise writ, what is full as much, if not more licentious then any thing in this Book?

—Pictoribus, atque Poetis
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa Potestas.

And we see daily in Pictures those Parts of the Body lay'd open to the view, which are else conceal'd: And therefore Poetry, which is a speaking sort of Painting, spares not (when oc­casion offers) to give the liveliest Representati­ons of Nature or Vice; And this has been so cu­stomary in all Ages, that none will, sure, refuse the same privilege to those who write now.

I doubt not, but to stand excused before the Ladies, because the Famous Wits of that fair Sex have seldom deny'd their Pens the liberty to be as luxurious in this way of writing as the Men, nor have they thought it either in­jurious, or scandalous to them, to publish many things as lascivious as this. Nor indeed, though [Page] they ought to be so in their lives and conver­sations, it is not so very necessary that Poets should be reserv'd and chast in their Verses: and this is the Opinion of Catullus.

Nam Castum esse decet pium Poetam
Ipsum, Versiculos nihil necesse est.

For the Business of a Poet is either on the one hand to incite Men to Vertue, and to do this by rendering it amiable with the most sutable Descriptions, and most elegant and heighthen'd Praises; or else, on the other hand, to deter them from Vice, and then he must not scruple to paint it in the most deform'd shape, or fear to shew it in the worst colours, to all the disad­vantage imaginable. Now if these Arguments will not content some, who think it an Excel­lence to be too precisely rigid, I shall repeat to them the same words which Martial uses in his Epistle before the 1st Book of his Epigrams, Si quis tamen tam ambitiosè tristis est, ut apud il­lum in nullà paginà Latinè (or to adapt it more to the present purpose) Anglicè) loqui fas sit, po­test Epistolà, vel potius Titulo contentus esse. And so farewell.

THE LIFE OF CN. CORNELIƲS GALLƲS.

CN. Cornelius Gallus was thought to have been Born about that same Year, when M. Terentius Varro (one of the most learned Romans) dyed, he is supposed, as to his Country, to be a Forojuliensian, and to have been instruc­ted in the most necessary and usefull Arts, for he was a long time familiarly conversant with one Caecilius Epirata, the great Grammarian of his time. Yet who his Father was, remains unknown, nor is that, with his own Name, transmitted to Po­sterity; only 'tis generally held, that he was born to a very small Estate, though (not unlikely) of a Noble Family, as Propertius seems to imply.

Nec tibi Nobilitas poterit succurrere amanti,
Nescit Amor priscis cedere Imaginibus.

[Page] He was highly favour'd and esteem'd of Augustus Caesar, (to whom his great Parts and Wit recom­mended him) insomuch that he exalted him to very great Dignities, gave him the Governmnet of Aegypt, and he was the first that ever ruled that Kingdom after it was reduced to a Roman Province: Caesar, before he sent him to Aegypt, delighted so much in his Company and Conversa­tion, that he never went any where without him; and this gave occasion to Virgil in his second Ec­logue to lament himself, because Gallus being so much taken up with Caesar, could not afford him that full enjoyment he desired of his more fami­liar Friendship.

Delicias Domini nec quid speraret habebat.

The thing he so much coveted and wish'd for.

O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida Rura
Atque humiles habitare Casas—

For Gallus finding the Honours and Preferments he receiv'd from Caesar more sutable to his Ambi­tion then the humble Pleasures of a Country Life, could not be invited to quit the Splendour of the Roman Court, to take up with the more secure satisfaction of a Rural Retirement, though Virgil [Page] endeavour'd to draw him to it by all the encourage­ments and advantages he proposed would accrue to him thereby; and in Despair of success, conside­ring how disproportion'd his offers were to the immediate favours he receiv'd from Augustus, cries out at last,

Rusticus es Coridon, nec Munera curat Alexis,
Nec, si Muneribus certes, concedat Jolas.

Virgil, out of the great Friendship he had for Gallus, in Honour to him, had writ half the fourth Book of his Georgicks, which Caesar (after his dis­grace) commanded him to alter, and he turn'd it to the Fable of Aristaeus. But all the Poets that were his Cotemporaries had a very high value for him, unless some Criticks, who say that Horace was his Adversary, have happened to be in the right. However, such were his qualefications, that Pro­pertius could admire him, though he was his Ri­val in Cynthia, as he says in an Elegy writ up­on that particular occasion.

Sed pariter miseri focio cogemur amore,
Alter in alterius mutua flere sinu;
Quare, quid possit mea Cynthia, desine, Galle,
Quaerere, non impunè illa rogata venit.

[Page] Gallus was of a gay amorous temper, very fickle and changeable, as Propertius in another place tells him,

Dum tibi deceptis augetur Fama Puellis,
Certus, & in nullo quaeris Amore moram.

But he was also very passionate, and impatient of any unkind usage from those Women to whom he at any time addressed his Love, and them would of­ten come with his Complaints to Propertius,

Ah mea contemptus quoties ad lumina curres,
Quum tibi singulta fortia verba cadunt!

Yet at last he grew famous for the mighty love he had for one Cytharis, a free'd Woman of Volu­mina's, and a Whore, who forsook him (perhaps after he fell into disgrace,) and went away with one Antony to France; and it is not unlikely that Propertius means her, when he says,

Haec erit illarum contempti poena doloris,
Multarum miseras exigit una vices;
Haec tibi vulgares istos compescet amores,
Nec nova quaerendo, semper amicus eris.

And a little after that he describes so extrava­gant a Passion of Gallus, to which he was an eye­witness, that it may be very reasonable to believe [Page] in all that Elegy the Woman of whom he speaks to be Cytharis.

Vidi ego te tot vinctum languescere collo,
Et flere injectis Galle diu manibus,
Et cupere optatis animam deponere verbis,
Et quae deinde celat amice Pudor.
Non ego complexus potui deducere vestros;
Tantus erat demens inter utrusque furor.

However Gallus no more then others could be per­fectly happy; and though he had been the great and only Favourite of Augustus Caesar, yet after he was goue to Aegypt, those who envy'd him, gain'd their ends, and brought him more into Disgrace, and lower under the Emperour's Displeasure, then he was ever before rais'd in his Esteem. Whether he really deserv'd the mighty Misfortune that fell so heavy upon him, may be a question, since not always who merit best of Fortune are best used by her; and after Caesar was offended with him, he suffer'd none of his other Friends to venture at his justification, so fatal and dangerous is the Anger of an inraged Monarch; yet Virgil even then ad­ventured to mourn his hard fate in his tenth Ec­logue; and still lov'd him, though more secretly.

[Page]
Gallo cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas,
Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit alnus.

And though he design'd the Dedication to him of his Books of Bucolicks, and his Books of Geor­gicks, yet he afterwards durst not do it for fear of Caesar, and therefore they fell to Pollio and Maecenas.

Praetera duo nec tuta mihi valle reperti
Capreoli—
—Quos tibi servo.

The things that were alledged against him wa [...] his having been in a Plot against Caesar, and tha [...] he had ruin'd a City in Aegypt called Thebes, and several other Imputations. Ovid seems to imply, as if the freedom he used with his tongue, when heated with Wine, might be the reason of his losing Caesar's favour; for which he was banish­ed, as some think.

Non fuit opprobrio celetrasse Lycorida Gallo,
Sed linguam nimio non teneisse mero.

Nor is it unlikely that Ovid himself, giving th [...] same occasion in the same company, might hav [...] been partaker with him in equal sufferings.

[Page] How he dyed, is uncertain; some think Caesar caused him to be put to death; others believe, that being banished, and his ambitious Soul not able to brook the Disgrace, or else apprehensive of the Malice of his Enemies amongst the Nobility, kill'd himself, as Ovid intimates. ‘Sanguis, atque animae prodige Galle tuae.’ Others again believe his Mistriss Cytharis, whom he called Lycoris, forsaking him, he was more im­patient of the loss of her then his Government, and for that reason kill'd himself; and Virgil seems to lament him as having been a Victim to that unhappy Love of his.

Quae Nemora aut qui vos saltus habuere Puellae
Naiades, indigno cum Gallus amore periret.

Yet Propertius may give occasion to believe that he was slain in some Battel.

Gallum per medios ereptum Caesaris enses,
Effugere ignotas non potuisse manus.

But probably from both these expressions one may naturally gather, that Cytharis, to appease the jea­lousie of her new Lover, was a contriver of his Death, and hired some to kill him: He was re­puted [Page] an excellent Poet, and was particularly cu­rious in Elegies; in which way of writing he was not held to be inferiour to either Tibullus or Pro­pertius. We have an account that he writ six Books of Elegies, of which, perhaps, these six Ele­gies only are preserv'd to us; and he also transla­ted one Euphorion a Chalcidonian Poet, which Virgil confirms.

Ibo & Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu,
Carmina Pastoris Siculi modulabor avena.

He writ four Books of his Love to Cytharis, who he called Lycoris, but none of them are left; how­ever Ovid takes notice of them, and numbers him amongst the Catalogue of the most Famous Poets of the World, particularly for that very Poem.

Gallus & Hesperiis, & Gallus notus Eois,
[...]t sua cum Gallo, nota Lycoris erit.

And thus much of his Life; and if I have done him that justice I aim'd at in this Translation, I believe the Reader will not think his time lost in perusing it; and if I fail'd in it, I cannot help it now.

Farewell.

A Return of Thanks for the Transla­tion of the following Elegies.

WE thank you for your Verse, and hope to see
From Age, & Impotence our Loves set free;
Whilst ancient Fops read here their certain shame,
They'll wiser grow, nor tempt again their Fame;
Renounce their Amber, and the sacred Trust.
They plac'd in Drugs, to prop their feeble Lust.
Read this you Limberhams, who with delay,
And puther, keep some abler Spark away;
Who use your Mistriss Chamber as your home,
And set your Chariot up, where e'er you come▪
Play-time, and Park-time, at the Door it stays,
You make no Visits, 'tis your Dwelling-place.
Here, you may see, how great a Wretch is one,
Who strives to please, when all his power is gone.
Who can endure to see a Gallant thristy;
Old Ladies making Love, and Boys at fifty?
Let Nestor wast his Itch, in Tricks of State,
Or take it out, in rubbing of his Pate;
Nor when Desire grows impotently strong,
Beg some forbidden Sight, or luscious Song:
Let ev'ry one perform their proper Part;
Let Nature work, nor make it up with Art:
Let Youth make Love, ev'n Kisses call for Youth.
The palsy'd Head can never hit the Mouth.

CORINNA.

To the Ingenious TRANSLATOR OF CN. CORNELIƲS GALLƲS.

SAD Nightingales melodiously complain,
And pleasant Notes disclose their inward pain.
The ancient Swan (whom in his vigorous state,
Ev'n fancy'd Jove left Heav'n to imitate)
Viewing the Streams, where he was wont to play,
Warbles a Sigh, and sings his Life away.
Thus Gallus here the Dread of Grief destroys,
And sweetlier mourns, than others tell their Joys.
His Sorrows, Sir, are so well tun'd by You,
The Readers pitty, but they wonder too.
You snatch the Wretch from his depressing Fate,
And to the Envy of our Youth Translate.
Old Age [...]n him do's no defects impart,
But seems best suited to the charming Art;
While gentle Maids, with his soft Witchcraft caught,
Are fully pleas'd in a performing Thought.
Virgil, methinks, doats on his Friend anew;
Of Caesar once, but since more Proud of You.
In Fields below he beats his Reed again;
Despairs afresh, and fills the Elysian Plain,
With endless Pastorals of Gallus's Disdain.

J. D.

This ODE is thought to be writ by CN. CORNELIUS GALLUS, and in the Latin was added to the Six ensu­ing Elegies; Therefore it may not be very much amiss to insert it here in English.

I.
FAirest Lydia, my Delight,
More then Milk, and Lillies white;
Whose mix't Beauties do exceed
The Damask Roses, and the Red;
And seems more fair, and smooth to be,
Then Goddesses of Ivorie.
II.
Thy Locks, thy shining Locks unsold,
Brighter far then burnish't Gold.
Thy panting Breasts, my Dear, unclose,
Where Love delights to take Repose:
Of which, I would, to be possest,
Give all the Treasures of the East.
III.
Ope thy Planet-Eyes, my Dear,
For, oh, my Fate is written there;
Thence Love's pointed Arrows fly,
Swift as Stars shot through the Sky;
While above each Brow do's show,
Like a wanton Cupid's Bow.
Shew me, Maid, the blushing Red,
Which thy lovely Cheeks o'er-spread;
Thy lovely Cheeks, which can out-vie
The most luxurious Tyrian die.
IV.
With warm and Am'rous fury joyn,
Thy softest Coral Lips to mine:
Give me Kisses like a Dove,
Full of sweetness, full of Love.
But, oh, the Pleasure is so great,
My Soul crowds up, the Joy to meet▪
And at my Mouth would force a way,
Nor longer in the Body stay:
[Page] My Heart is pierc'd with every Kiss,
I cannot bear the mighty Bliss;
I pant, I languish, saint, and dye,
With the transporting Ecstasy.
V.
Gods! what mighty Power is here?
Thou drain'st my Veins of Life, my Dear.
Hide those Beauties from mine Eyes,
Eternal gazing won't suffize;
That tempting fragrant Bosome close,
Sweeter then the sweetest Rose;
More perfum'd, and richer sar,
Then all th' Arabian Spices are.
VI.
From ev'ry part of Thee arise
Such Delights, as would surprise
Jove himself, were he to be
But so near as I to thee;
And so revenge his Semile.
VII.
Hide, oh, hide those Hills of Snow,
Which engage, and wound me so;
Thy Beauty's Luxury is such,
I cannot gaze, I cannot touch;
The Pleasure is too exquisite,
And I'm glutted with Delight.
VIII.
Oh cruel, and inhumane Fair,
Wilt thou then regard my Care?
To see me languish, wilt thou stay;
Or kill me more, and go away?
Gods—but whither art thou flying?
Wilt thou leave me now I'm dying?
Oh, forsake, forsake me not,
Till I'm dead upon the spot.

ELEGIES ON Old Age.

ELEGY I.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy, under the representation of an Old Man, the Poet seems to repine at Fate for impo­sing Life on him too long, and aggravates the Mi­series of his Age, by giving a Character of him­self, as he was when young, by the remembrance of those happy Days past; after which he describes the several Diseases and inconvenienc [...]es attending him now Old, concluding the Elegy with a reflecti­on on the happiness of those who dye before their Age becomes a burthen to them.

WHy, envious Age, do'st with a ling'ring stay,
My wasting Life to growing Pains betray,
And the kind Stroak of welcome Death delay?
[Page 2] Why wilt thou not inlarge my Soul to Ease,
And the vext Pris'ner from his Jayl release?
To me 'tis worst of Punishments to live,
And Death alone a peacefull Rest can give.
Cold and Disease inhabit me all o'er,
And what I was in Youth, I'm now no more;
A trembling Faintness loosens ev'ry Limb,
And dizz'd Vertigoes through my Brains do swim:
Light, which to all the World do's Joy dispence,
To me, unhappy Mourner, gives Offence;
Ev'n Mirth but serves my Sorrows to inrage;
Mirth, which can Youthfull Griefs so well assuage,
Becomes th' Antiperistasis of Age.
But then to live of mere Necessity,
And wish for Death, is worse than 'tis to dye.
While gracefull Youth remain'd, & vig'rous sence,
The wond'ring World prais'd my fam'd Eloquence.
Oft with Success Poetick Lyes I feign'd,
And sure Renown by pleasant Fictions gain'd:
[Page 3] Oft the contended Lawrel was my own,
And the rich Bays around my Temples shone.
But all these Pleasures, all these Joys are past,
And a dead Numbness all my Vitals wast.
Ah! what an uncouth part of Life remains
To Aged Men, fill'd with Disease, and Pains.
But Nature to my Youth excessive kind,
With all these Gifts a gracefull Beauty joyn'd.
Beauty, which of it self has Power to move,
And claim from Men Respect, from Women Love.
But I had Vertue too, which do's out-shine
The brightest Gold dug out of Indian Mine,
And renders Wit more noble and divine.
If e'er invited by the op'ning Hound,
I did the Woods with eager Chase surround;
The frighted Game by me alone was slain,
And shunn'd the vigour of my Arms in vain;
[...] [...]
[Page 4] Or when with Youthfull heat and warmth inflam'd
I gave Pursuit to ruthfull Beasts untam'd.
Not without prais'd Success did I imploy
My deadly Arrows, certain to destroy.
Sometimes, when I beheld the brave Resort,
Where active Wrestlers strove in manly sport.
The bold Engagements I would often chuse,
And artfull strength, with sinewie Limbs could use:
Sometimes I have with practis'd Racers run,
And oft the Goal from fleetest Coursers won.
Buskin'd sometimes, in Sophoclean Verse,
I could a Noble Tragedy reherse.
While trading Players blush't to be out-done
In gracefull Action, and a moving Tone.
Nor did I lose the least degree of Praise,
Because my Skill was good so many ways;
But rather found it heighten'd my Desert,
As various Works shews most the Master's Art.
[Page 5] If in one Grace alone we Pleasure find,
When 'tis with other noble Vertues joyn'd,
Twill more exalt, and more affect the Mind.
But then a hardy Suff'rance there was found,
Which all my other manly Vertues crown'd;
A Suff'rance which invincible remain'd,
Against all Ills, and worst of Harms disdain'd;
For unconcern'd, from Injury secure,
With a bare Front all Storms I could endure.
Harmless as drops of Oyl around my Head,
The violent Rain was innocently shed;
Ev'n roughest Winds assaulted me in vain,
Like sturdy Oaks, I could their Rage sustain.
The Sun in Cancer, or in Capricorn,
By me unprejudic'd alike was born.
And Tybers colder Streams I durst invade
In hoary Frosts, fearless, and undismay'd:
Nor did the doubtfull Dangers of the Sea,
From Voyages deter, or frighten me.
To me short Sleeps could long Refreshments give,
And mod'rate Meals my Hunger could relieve.
Yet if a jolly drunken Friend I found,
Inclin'd to pass the moving Goblets round,
And spend the happy hours of some smooth day,
In chasing with brisk Wine, dull Cares away.
My stronger Brains could undisorder'd bear,
Of strongest Liquors, an unmeasur'd share.
My sturdiest Guest with Ease I overcame,
Though he, with others, gain'd a Victor's Fame.
Had Father Bacchus ventur'd in for one,
Not Father Bacchus had unconquer'd gon.
Thus 'tis no very easie thing to find,
Two Contrarieties within one Mind,
By the soft tye of Concord's bands confin'd.
And so 'tis fam'd, that the great Socrates,
Possessing opposite Varieties,
Was gayly Pleasant, and severely Wise.
[Page 7] That he was skill'd, and that he could excell,
As well in drinking, as in reas'ning well.
And Cato oft would rigid Thoughts decline,
To sate his Sences with delicious Wine;
Nought in it self is good, or bad, we know,
And Circumstances only make things so:
For what's perform'd with grace, with wit, and sence,
Cannot be call'd a vice by no Pretence;
'Tis that can only Ill and Vicious be,
That's slubber'd o'er, and acted slovenlie.
Unmov'd, and fearless, Fate's worst spite I bore,
And on my Brows no heavy Sorrows wore;
Pomp and Adversitie to me were one,
No Grief for this, no Joy for that was shewn.
A gen'rous Poverty I always lov'd,
And Avarice by full Content remov'd.
I all things had, because I nought desir'd,
Enjoy'd my own, my Neighbours ne'er requir'd.
[Page 8] Thou, dolefull Age, alone do'st me subdue,
Who conquers all things else, must yield to you.
To thee we run, all sading things are thine,
And with thy Evil last all things decline.
Thus in my Youth adorn'd Hetruria strove,
With her best Beauties for my Nuptial Love;
But Hymen's Fetters I unfit to bear,
Did Liberty to golden Bonds prefer.
When e'er I walk't the stately Streets of Rome,
Gay in my vernal Strength, and youthfull Bloom
Each longing Maid gaz'd with a wishing Eye,
To see my prom'sing Parts as I past by:
Blushing a Nymph, my Visits would receive,
Yet of her Joy many dear Tokens give;
And smiling, into some fly Corner run,
As if she would my gratefull Kindness shun;
Where, undiscover'd, long she could not be,
But laugh aloud to be found out by me;
[Page 9] More pleas'd with being caught, than close conceal'd,
And only hid, that she might be reveal'd.
So I to all seem'd pleasing, kind, and fair,
A Lover only, nor would more declare;
For kindly Nature had bestow'd on me
A modest, and a chast Severitie.
No Beauty of sufficient force could prove,
To make me with a wedded Life in love;
Nor any Nymph appear'd so fair to me,
That I should buy her with my Libertie:
Howe'er a Face might charming seem before,
The thoughts of Hymen made it so no more.
Thus while I was so nice in choice of one,
Exactly perfect, I remain'd alone.
The Short I lov'd not, and the Tall did hate;
The Lean disdain'd, and loath'd the fulsome Fat.
I only lik'd the Medium of all these;
The Middle still is best, and best do's please.
[Page 10] Soft Luxury do's there the Body grace,
And there do's Love his sacred Temple place.
I did i'th' Slender, not the Lean delight;
Flesh satiates best the fleshy Appetite.
As Body is by Body gently prest,
The height of Pleasure then must be confest,
When the kind Touch no meager Bones molest.
The Pale, and clear Complexion I abhorr'd,
Unless with Nature's Roses richly stor'd;
For Venus claims that Flower as her own,
Because in all her Votaries 'tis shewn.
The untry'd Virgin blushes forth a Rose,
And modestly a Shame for loving shews.
Experienc'd Lovers too this Flower bear,
And in their Cheeks after Joys tasted wear.
The golden Hair, and white declining Neck,
Denote a Wit, and claim a just Respect.
Black Brows, a Forehead large, and sparkling Eyes,
Would oft my Heart with Love, and Awe surprize.
[Page 11] I lov'd the Ruby, moist, and swelling Lip,
Where I could Kisses tast, and Nectar sip.
A long round Neck made Gold appear more sine,
And Jewels with a double Lustre shine.
But all these Pleasures, which to Youth were dear,
Offends distastfull Age, but ev'n to hear;
For diff'rent Things, oblige our diff'rent Years,
What once was decent, now a Crime appears.
The wanton Boy loves light Inconstancie,
And Age affects a settled Gravitie.
But gracefull Youth arriv'd to manly growth,
Remains the Golden Mean betwixt 'em both.
This heedfull Silence best becomes, and that
Delights in noisie Mirth, and empty Chat.
Time conquers all things, and we must submit
To all the cruel Tyrannies of it.
He suffers nought in certain Paths to range,
But with himself do's ev'ry Being change.
[Page 12] Now therefore since my Age do's burthen me,
And useless is, come Death and set me free;
But oh! in vain I beg for Libertie!
On what hard terms poor Mortals Life receive;
Who, when opprest, cannot themselves relieve,
By Death at Pleasure, but must tortur'd live!
'Tis to the Miserable sweet to dye,
But courted Death from them do's coyly fly,
And where unwelcome, there approaches nigh.
But I, while living, tread in Paths of Death,
And faintly draw a meer departing Breath:
For Age to me the Ʋse of Sence denies,
And grants but an imperfect Exercise,
Of all my Reasonable Faculties.
My Hearing fails me, and do's each day wast,
Nor can my Gust relish the best Repast,
With me ev'n balmy Kisses lose their tast.
My sunken Eyes can scarce discover day,
The Sun methinks shines with a glimm'ring Ray.
[Page 13] Now not the most transporting Bliss can be
By my unactive Touch convey'd to me.
No Pleasure more in gratefull scents I take,
For Smelling do's my frigid Nose forsake,
Me senceless thus, who'd not for Dead mistake!
No use have I of former Memorie,
Ev'n what I was is now forgot by me;
As if of Lethe I had drunk, each day
My Mind do's with my languid Corps decay.
No Verses now I sing, that Pleasure's done,
And my sweet tunefull Voice, alas, is gone.
Delicious Poems I no longer feign,
To please an Audience with my Commick Vein.
No more throng'd Theatres (while I complain)
Applaud my Numbers, and my Tragick strain;
But Avarice for Gold, and worldly Care,
Draw me to scold at the litigious Bar;
Which cruel Trouble makes me seem no more,
Than the faint Image of my self before;
[Page 14] For Death-like Paleness now takes up that Place,
Which White and Red before had in my Face;
Like gather'd Fruit my Age dries up my Skin,
And shrinks, and stiffens ev'ry Nerve within.
My Eyes, which heretofore with Love could smile,
And yielding Hearts of tender Maids beguile;
Now with continual flowing Rheums are sore,
And day and night in Tears, their Fate deplore:
Now brisly Woods for Brows impending grow,
Which did before like Summer Garlands show.
Strangely methinks, and most imperfectlie,
My Eyes, I know not how, in Torment see:
For being dim'd with moist Rheumatick Tears,
Each thing to me so frightfully appears;
As what past by without, is sadly seen
By melancholy, and despairing Men,
From the deep Cavern of a darksome Den.
Thus poor Old Men by their own Horrours fed,
Both to themselves, and others become dead;
For who'd not guess, when Reason's gon, Life fled?
[Page 15] If Books I take, with hopes in them to find,
Something to ease, or to delight my Mind.
'Tis still in vain, for my deceitfull Eyes
Shows ev'ry Letter in a doubling size,
And ev'ry Leaf grows dull, and magnifies.
The clearest Light through Clouds I only see,
For ev'n those very Clouds are made by me:
An obscure Dusk deprives me of the Day,
And takes it unassisted by the Night away.
Thus I amidst Tartarian Darkness dwell,
And ev'ry Object represents my Hell.
Who then would live such a curst Wretch to be,
Like me tormented to that vast Degree,
To hope Relief from a worse Miserie?
I'm now possest of ev'ry Ill Disease,
Feasts, and Delights of Epicure displease,
And that I still may live, to live I cease.
Me, whom no Hardship could abuse of old,
Want, or Excess of Food, of Heat, or Cold.
[Page 16] Now what should nourish me, do's cause my Pain,
And even Food becomes my certain Bane.
Would I be fill'd, eating creates my Grief;
Would I abstain, ev'n that gives no Relief.
The Dish that pleas'd my Palate just before,
Is now thrown by, and can delight no more.
No Pleasure more in gentle Love I find,
Though Venus self should offer to be kind;
Ev'n Wine for me has no more Charms in store,
Which can relieve the bad, inrich the Poor.
Sick Nature but remains weak, and opprest,
And with its own worst Evil is distrest.
Those Diet-drinks which cleans'd me heretofore,
And well-prov'd Physick, now can work no more.
All which, to others sick, some Ease can give,
Cannot the sad Disease of Age relieve:
For how should Physick in that Case prevail,
When even that do's with the Body fail;
And that same Cup from whence I Med'cines sip,
Receives Infection from my putrid Lip.
[Page 17] These ineffectual Props are rais'd in vain,
A fierce precipitating Ruin to sustain.
No Shows or Triumphs can obleige my sight,
I cannot now ev'n counterfeit Delight.
Beauty, the chiefest Magazene of Love,
And a good Dress, which Beauty can improve;
To Age becomes the object of his Rage,
But even Life offends capricious Age;
Nay Banquets, Singing, and gay Jests displease
Unhappy those, whose Pleasure is Disease!
What solid Bliss can unus'd Riches grant,
For much, though I possess, yet more I want.
To me 'tis Pain to touch my own Estate,
And hoarded Gold a Crime to violate.
So Tantalus do's in deep Water stand,
But for his Thirst cannot one drop command▪
I make my self but Custos of my own,
For others to enjoy when I am gon.
[Page 18] So was the Dragon in the Garden plac'd,
To watch the golden Fruit, but not to tast.
Thus I solicitous, with Care opprest,
To my teiz'd Mind refuse a needfull Rest;
Still coveting, and craving still for more,
I ne'er abate, if not increase my Store,
And maugre all, imagine I am poor.
Nor are these all the Plagues that wait on me,
For I become my own worst Enemie.
Doubtfull, and trembling, credulous of Ill,
And fearfull of my own best Actions still.
Yet in my Notions obstinately wise,
I praise the past, the present Age despise;
None learn'd but me, or skilfull I believe,
O [...] my own Prudence only positive,
By wilfull Doatage most my self deceive.
Much do I talk, and talk it o'er, and o'er,
And yet am troublesome by telling more.
[Page 19] I drivle out a slav'ring Speech so long,
You'd wish a present Palsie seiz'd my Tongue.
To Death y'are tired, yet unweary'd I
Persist to kill you with Garrulitie.
Oh miserable Age, which canst but give,
Strength to Mankind to become talkative!
In ev'ry Place my loud Complaints are heard;
They're heard indeed, but never gain Regard.
Nothing can please me, nothing can suffice;
Now this I covet, that anon despise.
Old-men to Infants we may well compare,
Whose changing Wills as fond, and peevish are.
When e'er I make my self a Witty Fool,
And my grave Tail is very ridicule.
If my tir'd Audience do's but laugh aloud,
I'm mightily oblieg'd, and mighty proud;
I smile with them, and flatt'ring my Conceit,
Heighten their Laugh with the same strains of Wit.
A pleasing Joy o'er-spreads my wrinkled Face,
And I am tickled with my own Disgrace.
Thus these are the First Fruits of Death, with these
Down to the Grave I march by slow degrees.
My Form, my Dress, my Colour, Shape, and Meen,
Are not the same, which heretofore they've been.
My Body now inclin'd, and awkward grown,
Lets my large Coat slide from my shoulders down;
And what was short before, seems now a Gown.
I so contracted, and decreas'd appear,
You'd think my very Bones deminish't were.
I'm no more privileg'd to look on high,
To contemplate the rich, and spacious Sky;
But prone to Earth, from whence I came, I tend
To shew where I began, there I must end.
Three Feet I use, but streight I shall use four,
And brought to Childhood, crawl upon the Floor.
To its first Principle each thing resolves,
What ris' from Nought, to Nought again devolves.
Hence 'tis that I, mould'ring to Dust am found,
With my old Staff poking the lazy Ground;
[Page 21] And my short steps, moving with weakly pace,
But slowly quitting the attractive Place;
Seem thus to mutter my Complaints, and pray
With belching Jaws to Earth against Delay.
Mother, receive thy Child, pitty his pain,
And in thy Bosome cherish me again,
For hardly can my Leggs their Load sustain.
My loathsome Figure now moves no Delight,
And my sad gastly Looks the Boys affright,
For fear they shun me, and abhor my Sight.
Why to thy Brood do'st shew such Crueltie,
To let me thus a common Bugbear be?
My bus'ness now with Mankind here is none,
The wretched Task of Life by me is done;
With all its various Trouble, various Toyl:
Receive me therefore to my proper Soil.
What Pleasure is't to see me undergo,
So many diff'rent Penalties of Wo?
Is it a Mother's part to use me so?
Scarce have I Strength thus even to complain,
And scarce my Staff my trembling Limbs sustain;
But with my Labour, and my Grief opprest,
Lolling upon my Couch, I seek for Rest.
Where stretch't along upon th' uneasie Bed,
I represent an Earthie Body dead;
Such as it is, when once the Soul is fled.
Thus when I loll, and stretch, who would believe
That I am sensible, at all, or live;
Though this indeed, what Life I have, do's give.
My Life is but one intire Punishment,
And all the World but one whole Discontent.
Heat burns my Body, Clouds offend my Sight;
Nor do's the cold, or clearer Air delight:
The Summer Dews are hurtfull to my Head,
And as Infections, April Showers I dread.
The chearfull Days of the gay blooming Spring,
Nor Autumn's jolly Vintage, nor any thing
To me the least reviving Joy can bring.
[Page 23] But, wretched I, with Scurf, and Scab o'er-run,
And with the Ptisick, and Chin-Cough undone;
My miserable Age it self bemoans,
With never-ceasing, and continual Groans.
And can you think those Creatures live, to whom
The Air, by which we breath, and Light become
Hatefull, and grievous, sad, and troublesome?
Ev'n Sleep, Death's gentle, gratefull Imagerie,
Which, for a Time, do's wretched Mortals free;
From the unquiet Thoughts of Miserie,
Still flies away, and shuns unhappy me.
And if he do's vouchsafe, though late, to close
My heavy Eyes, he troubles my Repose
With horrid frightfull Dreams, and dreadfull Sights,
Of fatal Specters, and of murther'd Sprights.
Down Beds, or Beds of Stone are much the same,
And seem to me to differ but in name.
Though softest Silks my thin light Cov'ring be,
Heavy they seem, and troublesome to me.
[Page 24] With many Inconveniencies opprest,
Often I rise to break imperfect Rest.
Thus urg'd by my weak Bodies sad Defect,
I do those very things I would neglect;
And striving many Evils to avoid,
My Health by many Evils is destroy'd.
Thus
Age coming on unheeded, and unsought,
With multitudes of heavy Mischiefs fraught,
Submission to its own sad Weight is taught.
Who therefore would a tedious Life desire,
And so by piece-meal painfully expire?
Then in the Flesh the Soul should bury'd lye;
And to live dying better once to dye.
Alas! I don't complain, because I'd give
A six't Prescription how long Man should live.
'Tis an unpardonable Crime, I know,
To circumscribe great Nature by my Law.
I only wish that I might meet my Fate,
E'er Age should all my Pleasures captivate.
[Page 25] E'er Time with his rank Ills my Life invade;
Time, which makes all things wear away, and fade.
The sturdy Bull by Time deficient grows,
Nor use of former noble Courage knows.
The proud, gay, mettled Horse, of late so good,
By Age becomes the Scandal of the Stud:
This can abate the furious Lyon's Rage,
And the fierce Tyger gentle grows with Age.
Antiquitie makes even Rocks decay,
And ev'ry thing, alas, to Time gives way.
Wherefore I rather would anticipate
My growing Miseries by swifter Fate,
And all my Punishment at once would feel,
Nor wait in painfull Expectation still.
But who can tell the Sorrows, and the Pain,
VVhich not themselves, but others do sustain?
Thus poor Old men increase their grievous Care,
By minding how much they unpitty'd are,
Of those, who cannot in their Suff'rings share.
Hence 'tis that Age, forsaken friendless Age,
Do's in so many scolding Broyls engage.
[Page 26] Meeting with such Contempts, such Detriments,
While none, in his behalf, his Harms resents.
The rogu'ish Boys, and wanton Girls agree,
Both to despise, abuse, and laugh at me;
For Master, me, they think 'tis shame to own,
Because with Age I'm despicable grown.
They flout my Gate, my Face, and trembling Head,
Whose angry Nod they heretofore would dread.
Though my dim'd sight small help to me do's give,
Yet I shall certainly my Shame perceive.
No rude affronts by me unseen can go,
But I must mark 'em to compleat my Woe.
Thrice happy, sure, is the deserving He,
Who leads his Life in calm Tranquillitie;
And e'er with Age his Strength is quite decay'd,
Is from the World by timely Death convey'd;
For to remember former Happiness,
Do's but increase the wretched Man's Distress.

ELEGY II.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy the Poet mourns the Inconstancy of his Mistriss, and seems to attribute the Cause of it to his being Old: nevertheless he endeavours, by se­veral Arguments, to perswade her to continue her Love to him still; but despairing of Success, he ends the Elegy with a Complaint.

BUT lo, Lycoris, my inconstant Fair,
To me too faithless, and to me too dear.
She whose Desires, whose Soul, and mine were one,
And long we undevided liv'd alone;
Secure, I thought, of such a lasting Love,
And Happiness, as nothing could remove.
But now by strange Infatuations led,
The stupify'd Ingrate avoids my Bed;
[Page 28] And from my aged, and enfeebl'd Arms,
To younger Lovers bears her sprightly Charms.
Of former Joys forgetfull all the while,
Do's me decrepid, old, unable stile;
Nor recollects those many Pleasures past,
Which she with vast Delight so oft would tast,
And my unhappy Age so much did hast:
Nay the ungratefull, the perfidious She,
To cast the odium of her Crime on me,
Feigns that my Faults caus'd her Inconstancie.
Perhaps hereafter, when she may espy
Me, weaken'd with my Age, as I pass by;
With Hood, or Fan, she'll seem to hide her Eyes,
And me, in these opprobrious terms, despise.
Bless me! did I e'er love this antick Thing?
Could his Embraces any Pleasure bring?
Those rivell'd Jaws, or Lips, did I e'er kiss,
Or kindly grant him the exalted Bliss?
[Page 29] She'll nauseate me, and in Contempt will seem,
To spew my Love up like a loathsome Flegme.
Alas! what Comforts can Old Age afford?
You see with what prime Blessings it is stor'd.
VVhat once could move Delight, and Love engage,
Becomes despis'd when sowr'd with crabbed Age.
VVas't not enough, that I had liv'd to be,
To the full growth of manly Decencie?
VVhen all I did was acted with a Grace,
Active my Mind, and beautifull my Face.
E'er I became offensive, and despis'd,
Sordid, unpleasing, hatefull, and unpris'd.
VVhat e'er I've liv'd before, is nothing now,
In all the Circumstances where, or how.
Time with himself has taken all away,
That was e'er chearfull, pleasant, brisk, or gay.
VVhite falling Hairs are now around my Head,
And my pale Face would seem to speak me dead.
[Page 30] Yet bright, and beautifull she still appears,
Nor grows less charming, tho' more grown in Years;
Which she but too well sees, and too well knows,
Therefore, with inward heat of Pride she glows.
And, I confess, she still retains the Grace
And Influence of her once dearer Face.
And in the Embers still the hidden Flame
Of Love, do's both conceal'd, and warm remain.
So that I see Age do's contrive to spare,
And favour too, as all things else, the Fair.
For all her Beauties are not quite decreast,
Sh' as still enough t' inflame the youngest Breast:
But Old Men feed on Reliques of their Love,
And former Action but in Thought can prove.
Unable to perform as heretofore,
They all past Joys to Memory restore;
Tickle with that, and grieve they can no more.
And after all, what can the wretched gain,
But the sad privilege, to entertain,
Their own Misfortunes, Misery, and Pain.
[Page 31] Thoughts of lost Happiness gives no Relief,
They only serve more to inrage the Grief.
But since of former Vigour I'm bereft,
Nor to give kind Embraces Strength have left.
Therefore my false Lycoris, must not we
Sometimes remember past Felicitie?
Must former Joys be vanishing, and vain,
Like tracks of Cattle in a sandy Plain?
Must we forget all that was done before,
And think of happy Pleasures past no more?
Why, even Brutes shun Pastures, new, and strange,
And Sheep in unknown Walks refuse to range:
The Bull his old frequented Shades do's love,
Nor will the Flocks from their known Folds remove:
Sweetest in wonted Brambles Philomel
Do's sing, and her sad mournfull Story tell.
But you alone experienc'd Friendship shun,
And to an untry'd Entertainment run.
[Page 32] Were it not better far that you confide
In Certainties, and things that you have try'd?
Various Events still Novelties attend,
As they begin, they very seldom end.
If you object my Age, remember too,
That creeping Age is stealing upon you.
Therefore let that instruct you to be wise,
And do not me, because I'm grey, despise.
Old Time will silver too thy golden Hair,
For he do's neither Sex nor Beauty spare.
We often find that parity of Years,
Two Minds by parity of Love endears.
What though I cannot act as once I could,
Let it suffice that I did well of old.
The Husbandman, whose Strength is lost in Years,
Still reverend to younger Swains appears.
The Young do's still the Courage, and the Fire,
Which in the elder Souldier was admire.
[Page 33] The Swain is griev'd to loose his expert Steer;
And, to the Trooper, his old Horse is dear.
But oh, alas, Love only can subsist,
And live, and act within a Youthfull Breast:
And sprightfull blooming Youth alone can prove,
The fittest Object for a perfect Love.
But yet sad Age has not quite plundred me,
Of all my Rhetorick, and Gayetie:
For still I can my dolefull Tale reherse,
In tunefull Numbers, and in flowing Verse.
Slight not mature, and solid Gravitie,
Nor venerable Age, but let it be
Esteem'd, and valu'd, as desir'd by thee.
Condemn not in another what so fain,
You for your self would willingly obtain.
Seems it not strange in one, and foolish too,
To slight that Voyage which themselves must go.
[Page 34] Call me your Brother, or your dearest Friend,
Or Father, either of 'em Love intend.
Let Lust to Honour yield, as now 'tis fit,
And to pure Piety let Love submit.
Thus I with tears lament my weak Old Age,
But that cannot my troubl'd Thoughts assuage;
For long discourse of Grief, do's Grief enrage.

ELEGY III.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy the Poet gives an account how he was very much in love, when but a Boy; and that the young Creature, with whom he was so Enamour'd, return'd his Passion to the full: yet after all, when with much toyl and difficulty it was so brought about that he had Liberty to enjoy her, he would not, but was then (by having that privilege granted him) cured of his Love.

BUT now perhaps it may in part Assuage,
The violent Griefs, of my tormented Age;
A while the mournfull Story to suspend,
Of Ills which do my present Days attend.
To recollect things past, and call to mind
Those Years, which Time has left so far behind;
[Page 36] Those tender Years wherein my Life was free
From all Disquiets, Love! but only thee!
For Aquilina did my Heart invade,
And I ador'd the Fair, the Beaut'ous Maid.
To that degree I burnt, that I became
Pale, mad, and melancholy with the Flame:
Yet even then my childish Innocence,
Preserv'd me free from Scandal, and Offence;
For Ignorant of Love, and quite unskill'd
In Venus Arts, yet with Desire fill'd:
Something I wish't, but innocent of what,
Did my own Miserie the more create.
Nor was the excellent, the charming She
Less griev'd, or less disturb'd with Love of me:
For though she conquer'd, yet she was o'er-come,
And could not carry perfect Triumphs home:
But heated with her Passion, and Desire,
In vain she strove to shun th' internal Fire:
[Page 37] Restless from place to place, for Ease she flew,
But with her, what she would avoid, she drew.
With Charms at distance we each other caught,
And lov'd unknowing what we either thought.
In Solitude we hop'd to find Redress,
And secret Love, in Secret to repress;
But that, alas! did but our Loves increase.
Then we sought out a more obleiging way,
To feed, and feast our Passions ev'ry day,
By the Exchange of kind, and gentle Words;
Words, which to Lover's Flames, Fuel affords;
Yet we could only cherish the dear Fire,
With fruitless wishing Looks, and vain Desire.
To me a cruel Pedagogue gave law,
And her a carefull Mother kept in awe;
Thus we both lov'd, but no Success foresaw.
Our very Eyes, our very Nods they watch't,
And at all little Circumstances catch't:
Each change of Colour with a carefull Eye,
They mark't, by that our Passions to descry.
With Industry, and with deceitfull Arts,
A while the growing Passions of our Hearts;
Ev'n from each other we kept unreveal'd,
And with much Pain our Sufferings conceal'd.
But then at last our Love so fierce became,
That we no longer could suppress the Flame.
We find it much too hard, and cruel too,
To hide a Light which so apparent grew;
For frequent Blushes, Sighs, and thousand things,
Declar'd our Wishes, and our Languishings.
But oh what Joys, what Ecstasies were shown,
When we to each durst our hid Passions own.
Then oft in private we together came,
And with Discourse blow'd up the pleasing Flame.
What cunning Plots we've us'd, what sly deceit,
To cheat our Spies, and undiscover'd meet.
Whole Nights in whisp'ring Murmurs, & soft Tread,
We've spent, while drowsie Watches snor'd in Bed.
[Page 39] And if we fail'd of such an Enterprize,
Too strictly guarded by our curious Spies,
We could, in spite, converse with speaking Eyes.
In vain they strove our Glances to constrain,
They spoke our mutual Wishes, & our mutual Pain.
Disorder'd thus, not long unmark't I liv'd,
For my observing Mother soon perceiv'd,
The sad, unusual, melancholy Care,
Which did in all my Words, and Acts appear;
And quickly guest the fatal Cause was Love,
Whom she design'd by Rigour to remove.
She thought my Passion with a Rod to quell,
But that provok't it, stubborn, to rebell▪
Her cruel Usage could effect no Cure,
For Love, alas! had taught me to endure.
All only serv'd more to inflame Desire,
Like added Fuel to increase the Fire.
Nothing could chase the Stranger from my Breast;
My Health decay'd, but still my Love increast.
[Page 40] This rough Experiment she try'd in vain,
For Love do's all Restraint, and Force disdain.
And I within was more severely vext,
Doubly with mingled Fear, and Love perplext.
Then with Maternal Tenderness, she strove,
By Sighs, and Tears my wilfull Mind to move;
Believing that her Sorrows might prevail,
On filial Duty to relate the Tale:
But even that soft Stratagem did fail.
At last, she thought, since nothing else could do,
To make pretence that she already knew;
And seeming pleas'd, and speaking smilingly,
Said, why do'st strive to keep ought hid from me?
Alas, canst thou believe that I am blind,
By all thy Words, and Actions not to find,
That secret Love distracts thy tender Mind.
For did not I but very lately see,
Some wanton Songs, and Verses made by thee.
Then be obedient, let thy Mother know,
Who cruel Pains for thee did undergo.
[Page 41] Acquaint me freely, lay aside your Fear,
Tell me the naked Truth of all, my Dear.
What then must I thus beg, and sue in vain,
And is this all the Purchase I shall gain?
For Blood diffus'd, and lost to bring thee forth,
And am I, and my Woes, of no more worth?
But if thou do'st preserve thy Chastitie,
Keeping thy self from guilty Action free.
All may be well, and innocent as yet,
And Time may wear away this fond Love-sit.
Thus was I daily plagu'd, but yet the Curse
Was, that I hop'd no Cure, but still grew worse.
Not daring to discover the hid Pain,
I lov'd, I languish'd, and I griev'd in vain.
Nor needed I at last a Tongue to tell,
What my consumptive Paleness did reveal,
And doz'd Stupidity declar'd so well.
Thou mighty Searcher of Mysterious things,
Whose certain Knowledge certain Succour brings.
Bobetius, you alone were truely kind,
Who div'd into the Secrets of my Mind,
And the hid Cause from dark Effects did find.
Well, I remember when you first perceiv'd,
How I was tortur'd, and how I was griev'd.
With gentle Words you prob'd the tender Wound,
And by soft soothing the sad secret found;
Urging me to declare my Griefs, and Pain,
As the best means my Temper to regain.
With Ease did you my closed Breast unlock,
When gently arguing, thus to me you spoke;
For an unknown Disease no Cure can be,
Conceal your Grief, and want a Remedie.
As Fire, when in a Cellar closely pent,
Rages the more for want of Air, and Vent:
So while your Passions you with Force constrain;
To burn in secret, you increase the Pain.
Then I half willing, but o'er-rul'd with shame,
Blush't the sad Cause of all my Griefs to name.
Darkly, at last, my trembling Tongue exprest,
The rowling Flames which warm'd my guilty Brest.
Enough, said you, I now enough have seen,
By these Effects to know the Cause within.
Be plain, and tell me all; lay by your Fear,
I cannot else a Remedy prepare.
Thus you prevail'd, I blush't, I wept, and sigh'd,
And nothing of the whole Intreigue could hide.
Down at your Feet to dye, I prostrate fall,
And in its native order told you all.
You ask't, would I possess the Beautious She?
No, I reply'd, 'twere an Impietie.
You laugh'd and cry'd; Oh, wonderfull Delight!
Had ever Venus such a worthy Wight?
What an unspeakable strange Prodigie,
In Love, alas! would you appear to be,
Striving to keep a needless Chastitie.
[Page 44] 'Twould be a most unmanly Sin, and base
To spare a longing Virgin in this Case.
Would you ridiculously strive to be
Pious herein, 'twere worst Impietie.
Though when perhaps you try to tast the Joy,
She may seem angry, and unkindly coy.
Be not discourag'd at the gratefull Fight,
For Opposition whets the Appetite;
Makes Love more fierce, and heightens the Delight.
Young tender Loves are fed with peevish Rage,
And inn'cent Quarrels more the Hearts ingage.
Virgins untry'd, half yielding, half afraid,
Are in their own Resistance best betray'd.
With secret Pleasure to soft Force they yield,
And seemingly displeas'd, give up the Field.
Melted at last, their striving is but weak,
And breathless, thus perhaps they faintly speak:
Ah, do not use a harmless Creature so,
Still in the midst of Rapture crying no;
And prithee let me, prithee let me go.
[Page 45] Thus when he had incourag'd me to hope,
I gave my Wishes an unbounded Scope.
In the mean time with Gifts and Gold he strove,
To bribe her Parents to allow my Love;
They easily consent; such strength do's lye,
In the prevailing Force of Alchimy.
Their natural Affection soon gave way
To the high Worship, which to Gold they pay.
Oh, sacred Metal! Oh, resistless Gold!
Who can thy strange betwitching Charms unfold.
'Tis thy unanswerable Eloquence,
Thy weighty Arguments, and mighty Sence,
Which can perswade poor Mortals to dispence,
With any Vice, or Villanous Offence.
So much thou didst her Parents move herein,
They did not barely suffer, but begin
To love, and so promote their Daughter's sin.
All privacies of Place, all proper Time,
We were allow'd to forward the sweet Crime;
[Page 46] They put us hand in hand, and all the day,
A thousand Am'rous toying Tricks we play;
Nay ev'n at last the very lushious Fact,
They gave us Opportunity to act:
But there I baulk't, for when to do an Ill,
I gain'd the Privilege, I lost the Will.
My hot Desire strait became cool within,
When once it was permitted me to sin.
That Lust which I before could not endure,
The very Power to fulfill did cure.
Then I, and not before began to find,
The miserable Sickness of my Mind.
The Laws of Love by me were disobey'd,
When near the wishing, blushing, yielding Maid,
I Languid, and unwillingly was laid.
But she with unexpected coldness us'd,
Blushing with Passion, and with shame confus'd,
Rose up incens'd to be so much abus'd.
And I (to salve the great affront I did)
Cry'd hail untouch't, and sacred Maidenhead.
[Page 47] Be thou preserv'd for ever pure by me,
And ever spotless, and unblemish't be,
For nought regains a lost Virginitie.
Thus when she saw all that young Virgins hold,
More dear, than Userers their ill-got Gold;
By me neglected, when I might enjoy,
And that my Love I did my self destroy.
Oh, mighty Youth, she cry'd, who hast the Pow'r,
Thy self to conquer thy own fierce Amour.
Take to thee all the Glory of the thing,
And be more great than a Triumphing King:
For since thou could'st thy own toil'd Passions quell,
Ev'n when they were incourag'd to rebell;
Let Venus Charms, and her Son Cupid's Bow,
And brave Minerva's Arms submit to you;
There's nothing now but what you can subdue.
Thus both displeas'd, and melancholy She
Parted, with an uninjur'd Chastitie.

ELEGY IV.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy the Poet gives an account of his loving a young Maid, very privately, in his Youth: but at last how in his Sleep he discover'd what so care­fully he conceal'd when awake; and concludes the Elegy with a Consideration of the Inconveniencies he lyes under by being Old.

ONE more Intreigue of Youth I will reherse,
And sate my Genius with my soothing Verse;
For empty Tales, and idle Poetrie,
Are a sit Task for doating Age, and me.
And as in circling Time Mankind is found,
With various Chances always turning round:
So to my far-spent Life no Joy appears,
Like the Remembrance of most distant Years.
A Virgin once there was, whom Heav'n design'd,
Both by the Graces of her Face, and Mind,
To be adapted so, that she became
By Nature Candid, as she was by Name.
Her pure white Hair, from her delicious Head,
In flowing Curls around her Shoulders plaid.
But ev'ry Part of her was bright, and fair,
And full as charming as her flaxen Hair.
The tunefull Lyre she touch't with such a Grace,
That it confirm'd the Conquests of her Face.
While from the trembling Strings soft Tunes did slow,
With Love, and Joy, my Heart did tremble too.
But if she utter'd some surprizing Song,
How many Cupids sate upon her Tongue!
Each moving Word, each Accent sent a Dart,
And ev'ry Note did melt my wounded Heart.
Then if she danc'd, her Motion, and her Air,
Made ev'ry Part appear more killing fair;
[Page 50] While I, with Pleasure, hug'd my golden Chain,
And silently indulg'd the gratefull Pain.
Thus one bright Maid, with many Beauties arm'd,
From whom none scap'd unconquer'd, or uncharm'd,
In various Parts storm'd my defenceless Mind,
Nor did one Dart the least Resistance find.
And when by Violence she was possest,
She ne'er for sook my entertaining Breast.
Once seen her beautious Form, still stay'd with me,
And day and night dwelt in my Memorie.
How oft has my Imagination brought,
Her absent Image present to my Thought.
Fix'd, and intent, how oft (though far remov'd)
Have I suppos'd I talk'd with her I lov'd.
How oft, with Pleasure, would my Fancy bring,
Those Songs to mind, which she was wont to sing;
And with delight my busie Voice, and Tongue,
Would imitate those Notes, and words she sung.
[Page 51] Thus I my self, against my self took part,
And, like a Cheat, play'd booty with my Heart.
How oft have I been thought with Madness seis'd?
How often has my Head been thought diseas'd,
While the wild Passions of my Breast encreas'd?
Nor can I think, that I was wholly void
Of Reason, or my Reason well enjoy'd.
But sure 'tis an intollerable pain,
To hide a stifled Passion, or restrain
The Rage, 'tis what no mortal Breast can bear,
For in the Countenance it will appear,
Though never so reserv'd, though never so severe.
The changing Colours show how we decay,
And ev'n the Silence of the Tongue betray.
Th' affected Face will the hid Thoughts declare;
Blushing bespeaks a Shame, and Paleness Fear.
But more my Dreams disclos'd my Privacie:
My Dreams unfaithfull to my Love, and me,
Did my surpress'd Anxieties reveal;
Nor could Death's Image, Sleep, my Cares conceal:
[Page 52] For when my Sences were inclin'd to Rest,
And by oblivious Slumbers all possest;
Ev'n then my Tongue unacted Guilt confest.
As on the Grass, sleeping I once was laid,
Close by the Father of my lovely Maid;
And while he thoughtless slumber'd by my Side,
Thus, in my Dreams disturb'd, aloud I cry'd,
Hast, hast, my Candida; hast, hast away,
Our secret Love is ruin'd if you stay:
For see, already peeps the prying Sun;
If w'are discover'd, we are both undone.
The envious Light will our stol'n Loves betray;
Hast, hast, my Candida, my Candida.
Awak'd at this, and in a strange surprize,
He started up, and scarce believ'd his Eyes:
But for his Daughter, search'd the place around,
While I was only sleeping on the Ground;
[Page 53] Gasping, and panting, there he saw me lye,
Transported from my self with Ecstasy.
With what vain Dreams, said he, art thou possest?
Or has a real Love usurp't thy Breast?
Some waking Objects rather, I conclude,
Upon thy gentler Slumbers may intrude,
And thus thy Wishes fleeting Forms delude.
Astonish't! he my broken Murmurs watch't,
And each imperfect unform'd Sentence catch't.
Gently his right hand on my Heart he lay'd,
And in soft Whispers, more inquiries made:
For so apply'd, the sly Inquirer' s Hand,
From sleeping Breasts can any thing command;
And the loos'd Tongue do's by that Charm impart,
The very choicest Secrets of the Heart.
Thus I, who had so long with Looks severe,
Kept from the prying Eye, and listning Ear,
The Cares of Love, grown by Concealment dear,
My treach'rous Tongue did, when I slept, declare.
Yet still had my whole wretched Life been free,
From impure Actions, and Impietie;
Not that so much I did those Crimes prevent,
By perfect Vertue, as by Accident.
But now I'm old, and want the Strength to sin,
It pleases me my Youth has guiltless been.
Tho' no just Praise, that they from Vice are free,
To superannuated Men can be,
Since 'tis not Choice, but meer Necessitie.
Strength only sleeps, their Inclinations wake;
And not they Vice, but Vice do's them forsake.
Pleasure deserts their unperforming Years,
And leaves them fill'd with painful Toils, & Cares,
And all their Good in want of Power appears.
'Tis worth our while, if we consider too,
What Penalties in Age we undergo;
How that, with it, a slow Repentance brings,
For all our Youthfull Faults, and Riotings;
[Page 55] How many Groans it pays! how many Tears,
For dear-bought Luxury of younger Years!
And though Mankind will often strive in vain,
Youth's boyling Heats, and Follies to restrain;
Oft'ner with Knowledge, and Contrivance, we
Persist in some deluding Villanie.
W'are oft industrious, studious, wise, and nice,
In the performance of some witty Vice.
Though Vice sometimes bears us by force away,
Yet we too oft its easie Call obey:
Oft, though we cannot compass what we will,
We are Well-wishers to some pleasing Ill.

ELEGY V.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy, the Poet shews the Folly and Weakness of Old Men's being in Love, who thereby do but discover their Impotence and Dotage, and can at best prove but unperforming Lechers, being inca­pacitated of imploying Love's chief Agent; the Praises of which, in its full Strength and Beauty, concludes the Elegy.

WHen to the East on Embassy I went,
With friendly Articles, by Caesar sent:
While I design'd for others Rest, and Ease,
And Nations did from me expect their Peace;
Lo, in my Breast, Tumults and Broils arose,
And cruel Wars troubled my own Repose:
Ev'n I, on whom Hetruria did rely,
And with such Aid her crafty Foes defy.
[Page 57] Whom she oppos'd to Publick Policie,
Could not from private Wiles, my self, keep free.
For one Greek Dame's insinuating Art,
Well-practis'd, to enslave the bravest Heart;
With such peculiar Vigour mine o'er-came,
It melted in the brisk assaulting Flame:
For while she feign'd that I had smitten her,
She seiz'd me first, and took me Prisoner.
Wakefull each morning, with the Dawn she rose,
Refusing to her Eyes a soft Repose;
And at my Windows, shining as the Sun,
Darted in Light before the Day begun.
And, Gods, I knew not what it was she sung,
While Grecian Tunes slow'd from her charming Tongue.
But such bewitching Force her Murmurs had,
That with Delight and Pleasure I was mad.
[Page 58] Nor was this half her Cunning, half her Art,
By which she conquer'd, and enslav'd my Heart:
But strange resistless Charms she us'd, far more
To ruin me, and to confirm her Power.
She wept, she sigh'd, look't pale, and so complain'd,
As none could e'er believe it to be feign'd:
She shew'd what would a Stoick' s Passion move,
Ev'n all the Signs of an unpractis'd Love;
So excellent she was in the dear Cheat,
That ev'n a Love was due for the Deceit.
Thus while I pitty'd her feign'd Miserie,
And thought her tortur'd with the Love of me;
The Miserable Object I became,
Of real Pity, by my real Flame.
But Heav'n ne'er fram'd a Creature more compact,
For she was to a Miracle exact.
Her shining Eyes and Face, (chearfull and gay,
Bright and serene as an unclouded Day.)
[Page 59] When e'er they did salute my wand'ring Eyes,
Mov'd me at once with Pleasure, and Surprize.
Nor was she less accomplish'd in her Mind,
But that with noble Arts was well resin'd:
She knew the Strength of conqu'ring Eloquence;
And when she talk't, could captivate each Sence.
Her Wit was like her Beauty, sweet, and clear,
As one the Eye, the other fix'd the Ear.
The mighty force of Poetry she knew,
And in that Art Apollo could out-doe:
Not Orpheus self was warm'd with nobler fire,
When his own Songs he sung to his own Lyre,
And Beasts, and Trees, did with new life inspire.
Than this bright Nymph, who with her Harp & Quill,
Out-did Apollo' s Verse, and Orpheus Skill.
Her Songs, like Syrens, moving vast delight,
Were quite as charming, and as harmfull quite:
For while I listned to her fatal Voice,
Ruin, or Safety, were not in my choice;
[Page 60] But wanting pow'r such Witchcrafts to avoid,
In that Surprize I yield to be destroy'd:
Upon those treach'rous Rocks I blindly run,
Whither Love led, nor could the mischief shun:
Not so of Old Ʋlysses fair'd, for he
Could miss those dangers, which he could foresee.
What need I mention her amazing gate;
Or how by practis'd steps she mov'd in state:
How swim along with such a sallying sweep,
Like well-trimm'd Sailers on the smooth-fac'd Deep.
How ev'ry step was set with heedfull care,
That she as easie did, and soft appear,
As Goddess cutting through the yielding Air.
Bless me! what Pow'r lay in her well-set Hair!
A trap was each white Lock, each Curl a snare.
Her two hard Breasts, so round, and rarely fram'd,
That they, with strong Desire, my Heart inflam'd;
Neither of which to greater bigness swell'd,
Than what might be within one hand compell'd.
[Page 61] But when I near, and nicely view'd each part,
What Joys unspeakable surpriz'd my Heart!
How did I feast, and how delight my Eyes,
With ev'ry part, which next adjacent lyes,
To Love's delicious nameless Paradise?
How to Embrace, how did I long to touch
Each Limb that charm'd, and melted me so much!
What mighty Ecstasies did I suppose,
Would quite transport me if I were more close!
I wish't, I ask't, and gain'd the Beautious She;
But, oh! what Witchcraft did Enervate me!
Lifeless I on that mass of Beauty lay,
Nor the due debts of Sacred Love could pay.
All vigorous warmth my languid Limbs forsook,
And left me cold, like an old sapless Oak.
My chief, yet basest Nerve, did then prove lank,
And, like a Coward, from the Battle shrank;
Shrivell'd, and dry, like a dead wither'd flow'r,
Depriv'd, and void of all vivifick pow'r.
[Page 62] No fertile Moisture, no prolisick Juice,
Could the enfeebled Instrument produce;
No unctious Substance, no kind Balm emit;
Balm, nourishing as Milk, as Honey sweet.
At last cry'd out the Disappointed Fair,
Thy dull unactive weight I cannot bear;
Thy heavy Limbs press me with joyless pain,
And all thy faint Endeavours are in vain.
Useless, I must confess, I then did lye,
O'er-come of Thuscan grave Simplicitie;
And in soft Graecian Dalliance unskill'd,
To Age's Impotence was forc'd to yield.
Those very Arts, those Stratagems of Love,
(Which did, of old, Troy's sad Destruction prove,
And, maugre Hector's Courage, could prevail,)
Us'd to one Old defective Man, did fail:
Nay, though a Beauty, ev'n as Hellen bright,
Did to the mighty Task of Love invite.
[Page 63] Yet in the vain performance did I tire,
Though giv'n up to th' Empire of Desire.
Nor need I blush to own, or be asham'd,
That I by such a Beauty was inflam'd;
For Jove himself, had he my Goddess seen,
Ev'n Jove himself her Captive must have been.
Yet ne'ertheless, such was my first sad Night,
That I could neither give nor take Delight.
But a base conscious shame possest each sence,
Nor left me pow'r to make the least defence,
Dash'd with the Guilt of my own Impotence.
But lo, the next ensuing Night came on,
And lo, my vig'rous heat again was gon;
Void of all warmth, and strength did I remain,
And as before was dull, and slow again.
But she much vex'd, that I would not fulfill
Her Expectation, but deceive her still:
Blam'd my neglectfull sloath, and angry too,
Claim'd the just Tribute which to Love was due;
[Page 64] And wond'ring why her Charms no more could move,
Said, Sluggard pay thy Debts to me, & Love.
But her just Anger, with me, nothing weigh'd,
Nothing her soothing Language could perswade.
In vain with either did she me assail,
'Gainst my unconquer'd Impotence both fail.
For what, alas, can those Defects supply,
Which weaken'd Nature do's to Age deny?
But then I blush't, and stupify'd became,
Much more debilitated by my Shame.
A conscious Terrour did possess my Mind,
And took away all pow'r of being kind.
Yet with her soft and active Hand she strove,
The frigid Member to adapt for Love:
But she the fainting thing did try in vain,
B'y inspiring touch to call to life again;
Nor answer'd it her Toil, nor my desire,
But cold remain'd i'th' midst of such a Fire:
So the starv'd Wretch in Northern Scythia sees,
Th' ungratefull Pot ev'n o'er the Fire to freeze.
What cruel Woman, thou unkind, said she,
Has snatch'd thy Love, my Due alone from me?
Where hast thou been ungrateful? and with whom?
From whose Embraces do'st thou tir'd come?
I swore 'twas her mistake, and did protest,
No other Passion could invade my Breast;
She, only She was of my Heart possest.
And that it was excess of Love and Care,
Dash't me with such a trembling Awe, and Fear;
As render'd me uncapable to give,
Those Acts of Kindness, which she should receive.
Yet maugre this, the bright expecting Dame,
Believ'd 'twas all but a pretended Sham.
Thou ly'st, the much-offended Fair One cry'd,
For thou some other Nymph do'st love beside,
And art with me alone unsatisfy'd.
Variety affects thy Appetite,
And thou do'st in a frequent Change delight,
Why else would you my tendred Kindness slight?
[Page 66] Do's Sorrow damp you? then try to remove
Such heavy Griefs by the brisk Joys of Love.
Be not o'er-come by any sad Excess,
But intermit such Cares as over-press;
For Burthens oft laid down become the less.
Then I uncover'd in the Naked Bed,
To the inquiring Nymph thus weeping said,
Alas, Fair Greek, I am constrain'd to own,
What I endeavour'd to have kept unknown;
And lest you might suspect it want of Love,
Am forc'd by sad Defects my Age to prove.
Unhappy I, whose Vigour is quite dead;
Alas, my Will and Wishes are not fled:
Unfortunate, that I am judg'd to be
Unkind, because of my Debilitie.
Lo, I have brought you Arms, with Shame I own,
By a long lazy Rest defective grown,
Yet Arms devoted to thy Use alone.
[Page 67] Do what thou canst, all thy Endeavours try,
To move me, I submit most willingly:
Yet still I fail'd the more, the more I strove,
Desire's excess did Impotence improve.
Streight she began, with many Graecian Art,
To give new Courage to the drooping Part:
But she, in vain, the cold dead thing, did strive,
With her gay Flames to quicken, and revive.
When she at last its Ruin did perceive,
And that the dear-lov'd Nerve no more could live;
But of its Resurrection all hopes lost,
On which she had bestow'd such pains, such cost.
Erected in the Bed, she mournfull sate,
Griev'd and tormented with her wretched state,
And thus deplor'd her miserable Fate.
Ah, fallen Member! who wert once to Me,
The best Improver of best Luxurie;
And at each sacred celebrated Feast,
My only Entertainment, only Guest;
[Page 68] My sweetest Darling, my Delight, my Health,
My dearest Honour, and my chiefest Wealth.
How thy dejected state shall I lament;
And in what Floods of Tears my sorrows vent?
Where shall I find equal, and worthy Verse,
Thy mighty Acts, and Prowess to reherse?
Oft, when inflam'd, with my too hot Desire,
Thou didst allay the raging of that Fire.
And oft didst thou (then when thou couldst be kind)
Charm the Diseases of my troubled Mind:
My dear Companion many tedious Nights,
Partaker of my Griefs, and my Delights;
To thee my choicest Secrets were disclos'd;
And with much Safety in thy trust repos'd.
Still wert thou watchfull, and wert still at hand,
To answer, and obey my least Command.
Whither! oh, whither is thy Fervour fled!
Why do'st thou hang thy cold, thy drooping Head?
[Page 69] What envious Power has depriv'd thee quite,
Of all that vigour, all that former spright,
Which made thee heretofore so bold in fight?
Frequent Engagements pleas'd thee heretofore,
But now thy Courage fails, and is no more;
For, lo, no more a lively chearfull Red,
Do's thee, as once it did, with warmth o'er-spread;
But pale and wan thou do'st dejected lye,
Nor dar'st look up to face thy Enemy;
The kindest, most endearing Words to thee,
Are lost, and altogether useless be.
The pow'rfull Charms of Verse, which can relieve
Sorrowfull Minds, to thee no life can give.
Thee therefore justly I as dead bewail,
Since in all active Motion thou do'st sail.
But as she still run on, I was constrain'd
To interrupt her, while she yet complain'd;
And of her sad impatience much asham'd,
Her needless Sorrows chiding thus, I blam'd.
[Page 70] Thus to bemoan my languid Member's Case,
Argues thy self vex'd by a worse Disease.
And whilst thou do'st lament his sad Defect,
I must accuse you of a worse Neglect.
Begone from miserable unperforming Me,
To some young Lover more deserving thee.
Go, happy Nymph, for happy Joys design'd;
Go where thy Love equal Returns may find;
Go where fresh Youth, & blooming Strength invites,
Thy springing Beauty to more fit Delights.
Make use of all thy Youth, while Youth thou hast,
And don't with me thy pretious Minutes wast;
For Time unseen goes by, and flies too fast
For Mortals ever to o'er-take when past.
But she inrag'd, said, Fool, thou do'st not know
The real Cause of all my real Woe;
And why such floods of Tears my Eyes o'er-flow.
Be not so fond and vain as to believe,
That thy peculiar Fate I only grieve:
[Page 71] No, this to my distracted Fancy, brings
The sad Estate of all Created things:
For if the gen'tive Pow'r were tane away,
How soon, alas, would this vast World decay?
And oh thou needfull Engine, without Thee,
All things that breath would quickly cease to be!
Mankind, Beast, Fish and Fowl, and all that live,
From Thee their first Beginnings must receive.
What Concord, or Agreement, could be made,
In diff'rent Sexes, if without thy Aid;
And if of thy most gratefull Favours void,
The chiefest Good of Marriage is destroy'd.
With such strong Leagues of Kindness thou canst bind,
That of two diff'rent, thou mak'st up one Mind.
So much thou do'st to Ʋnitie incline,
And separate Bodies can't so closely joyn,
That Two grow into One by Am'rous Twine.
Though to a Nymph Nature all Beauty grants,
She wants her chief Reward, if Thee she wants:
[Page 72] In Thee alone Valour and Vertue lyes,
And thou of Beauty art the only Prize:
Manhood by Thee alone is made compleat,
Which, without Thee, were but a sordid Cheat.
No sparkling Gems, nor yellow shining Gold,
Can to thy solid real Worth be told;
Not the most sordid Miser would, to be,
Master of all the Wealth sunk in the Sea,
Or yet on shore, sell or dispose of Thee.
In vain, as Ornaments, such Toys are worn,
If thou as well do'st not the Man adorn:
Unlike those empty Trisles very much,
Thy kind increases by productive Touch;
But they by using, still the more decay,
And with a frequent rubbing wear away.
With Thee is Credit, and Fidelitie,
And Secrets told are safely lodg'd in Thee.
Oh! only true Reward of perfect Love,
To which thou do'st both kind and fruitfull prove:
[Page 73] To Thee both great things, and sublime give way,
And all thy mighty Mandates must obey.
All yield, and all submit without a Grief,
From the sweet Bondage wishing no Relief.
Thy angry Wounds are not so terrible,
But such as ev'n thy Friends desire to feel:
Ev'n that same Wisdom, which the World do's guide,
Declares her self of thy more equal side;
And to thy Rule and Governance thinks fit,
That all its Force and Power should submit.
To Thee the trembling, conquer'd, yielding Maid,
Desiring that of which she seems afraid:
Prostrate falls down, just ready to receive
Those gratefull Wounds, which thou prepar'st to give.
And when broke up, she still, and silent lyes,
Sheds her glad Blood, and with the Pleasure dyes.
Mangled, some Tears she drops, but more do's smile,
And stronger Joys her weaker Griess begulle.
[Page 74] Pleas'd with the sweet Defeat, she clings more close,
And hugs the Conquerour that gives the murth'ring Blows.
Soft easie ways thou do'st not always chuse,
But sometimes acts of Force and Manhood use:
Thy toying Plays, and pretty gamesome Wiles,
Are sometimes mix't with more laborious Toils.
Oft Stratagems of Wit are your best course,
And sometimes you thrive best by down-right Force.
The cruel Hearts of Tyrants fierce, and wild,
Thou often canst convert to kind, and mild:
Ev'n thou the stubborn God of War canst move,
And melt, and soften into gentle Love.
Thou the enrag'd, and anger'd Jove canst charm,
And of his dreadfull Thunder quite disarm;
Nay, after the bold Gyant's overthrow,
Could'st clear his clouded, and incensed Brow.
The hungry Tyger, by thy strange Effects,
Grows tame, and the pursuit of Beasts neglects.
The humble Lover, courteous, meek, and mild,
By thee grows fierce, and, like a Lyon, wild.
[Page 75] Thy Vertue, and thy Patience wonders doe,
For all your Victims are belov'd by you;
And when you conquer, you are conquer'd too.
Triumphs you scorn, but love the active Fight,
And more in War than Conquest you delight.
O'ercome, you re-assume new Strength, new Life,
With double Courage to renew the Strife.
And then the Battle thus again renew'd,
You only fight to be again subd [...]'d.
Short is thy Rage, but Zeal do's longer live,
And Strength decay'd do's very oft revive.
And though thy Pow'r to doe and act is done,
Yet thy Good-will and Wishes are not gone.
Thus she (as if she mourn'd the Obsequies
Of some dead Friend, as dear as her own Eyes)
Ended her long Complaint, and rose from me,
Abandon'd o'er to Grief, and Miserie.

ELEGY VI.

The ARGUMENT.

This Elegy is nothing else but a Mournfull Conclusion of all the Five foregoing ones.

AT last, craz'd Age, thy babling Noise give o'er,
And leave to tamper with a fest'ring Sore:
In fruitless Plaints, fondly, you seek Redress;
The more you Mourn, the more your Griefs in­crease;
Nor is Repining the next way to Ease.
Prithee be wise for Modesty forbear,
In long Harangues more Vices to declare.
Let a slight Hint of thy great Shame suffice;
Sure now 'tis Time, if ever, to be Wise.
Crimes long insisted on, new Strength receive,
And do thereby into new Crimes revive.
[Page 77] Content thy self, that thou at length shalt have
A lasting Rest within thy quiet Grave:
For all vain Mortals must resign their Breath
To Time, when e'er he calls, and march to Death.
All must tread that inevitable Road,
Though Life and Death meets all in diff'rent Mode.
Though some to Want, and some to Plenty live;
Some soon grow Wealthy, some can never thrive.
So some in Trouble dye, and some in State;
Some dye too soon, some timely, some too late,
And none can shun, or be exempted Fate:
He none will either privilege or save,
But, undistinguish't, hurries all to th' Grave;
There Age and Infancy together come,
And there they meet with Youth at his long home.
The Rich and Poor are both made equal there,
And there, alike, the Prince and Peasant fare,
For Death, alas, is a meer Leveller.
[Page 78] Therefore 'tis best that Journey soon to take,
Which unavoidably we once must make:
Nor is it Prudence to defer that thing,
Which strong Necessity of Force will bring.
But I, alas, the most unfortunate,
And most severely us'd by rig'rous Fate;
My own sad Obsequies in vain would grieve,
Who still am dying, and am still alive.
FINIS.

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