1 For if who is not with his divident Names that mortals so affright, As turns the brightest day to night, And spoils of living the delight, With which so soon as life is tasted, This would the wretched with the rich confound: Lest we should too happy be, But I not call him poor does not abound, Even in our infancy, But him, who, snar'ù in bonds, and endless strife, Our joys are quash’d, our hopes are blasted; The comforts wants more than supports of life; For the first thing that we hear, Him, whose whole age is measur'd out by fears, (Us’d to still us when we cry) The nurse to keep the child in fear, Discreetly tells it, it must die, Be put into a bole, eaten with worms; Presenting death in thousand ugly forms, 'Tis in this sense that I am poor, Which tender minds so entertain, As ever after to retain, By which means we are cowards bred, Nurs'd with unnecessary dread, And ever dream of dying, 'till we're dead. Gbastly set forth the weak to awe; Begot by fear, increas'd by errour, Whom none but a sick fancy ever saw; Thou who art ouly fear'd By the illiterate and tim'rous herd, But by the wise Esteem'd the greatest of felicities : Why, sithence by an universal law, Entail'd upon mankind thou art, Should any dread, or seek t'avoid thy dart, When of the two, fear is the greatest smart? O senseless man, who vainly flies What Heaven has ordaip'd to be The remedy Of all thy mortal pains and miseries. Sorrow, want, sickness, injury, mischance, The happi'st man's certain inheritance, With all the various ills, Which the wide world with mourning ulls, Or by corruption, or disaster bred, Are for the living all, not for the dead. Do only beg for peace, and cannot have it. When life's sun sets, death is a bed Give me but that, ye bloody persecutors, With sable curtains spread, Where we lie down To rest the weary liv.bs, and careful head, And to the good, a bed of down. For Heav'n's sake, let me but be quiet, There, there no frightful tintamarre Of tumult in the many-headed beast, Nor all the loud artillery of war, Can fright us from that sweet, that happy rest, Wherewith the still and silent grave is blest; Will amply satisfy my pride; Nor all the rattle, that above they keep, [sleep. Break our repose, or rouse us from that everlasting The grave is privileg'd from noise and care, From tyranny, and wild oppression, Violence has so little power there, Ev'n worst oppressors let the dead alone : We're there secure from princes' frowns, The insolences of the great, From the rude hands of barb'rous clowns, And policies of those that speat, And that, alas, is all for which I humbly sue. The simple to betray, and cheat: Or if some one with sacrilegious hand Would persecute us after death, His want of power shall bis will withstand, And he shall only lose his breath ; For all that he by that shall gain Will be dishonour for his pain, And all the clutter he can keep Will only serve to rock us while we soundly sleep. a PINDARIC ODE. The dead no more converse with tears, No danger makes the dead man start, No loss of substance, parents, children, friends, And who would be a Stoic let him die, To which this short mortality of ours, We nothing, whilst we here remain, To woe and torment turn at last: Where we can sanctuary find, No man's a friend to sorrow and disgrace; But flying one, we other mischiefs meet; And keep our frailty, when we shift our feet. ON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE THOMAS EARL OF OSSORY. CARMEN IRREGULARE. ENOUGH! enough! I'll hear no more, And would to Heav'n I had been deaf before That fatal sound had struck my ear: Harsh rumour has not left so sad a note In her hoarse trumpet's brazen throat To move compassion, and inforce a tear. Methinks all nature should relent and droop, The centre shrink, and heaven stoop, A chaos with cold darkness overspread, When Death that fatal arrow drew, He met death in his greatest triumph, war, Through rattling shot, and pikes the slave he sought Knock'd at each cuirass for him, as he fought, The English infantry are orphans now, The Dutch may now have fishing free, And, whilst the consternation lasts, Show the full stature of their masts; No more shall the tall frigate dance Who to the capstain chain'd Mischance, To hear that Ossory could die. Ah, cruel fate, thou never struck'st a blow, Nor can 't be said who should lament him most, And yet we knew that he must one day die, By sword, or shot, or by infirmity; Or, if these fail'd, by age. But be, alas! too soon gave place To the successors of his noble race: We wish'd, and coveted to have him long, He was not old enough to die so soon, And they to finish what he had begun, As much too young: But time, that had no hand in his mischance, Is fitter to mature, and to advance Their early hopes to the inheritance Of titles, honours, riches, and command, Their glorious grandsire's merits have obtain'd, And which shines brighter than a ducal crown, Of their illustrious family's renown. Oh, may there never fail of that brave race, A man as great, as the great Ossory was, To serve his prince, and as successful prove In the same valour, loyalty, and love; Whilst his own virtues swell the cheeks of fame, And from his consecrated urn doth flame A glorious pyramid to Botcler's name. Now that the day's short and forlorn, To chimney-corners men translate, The clergy, and the third estate. Will live whilst there are men to read: But, what if they recorded be In memory's temple, boots it thee, When thou art gnawn by worms, and dead? Henceforth those fruitless studies spare, Let's rather drink until we stare Of this immortal juice of ours, Which does in excellence precede The beverage which Ganimede Into th' immortals' goblet pours. The juice that sparkles in this glass Makes tedious years like days to pass, Yet makes us younger still become, By this from lab'ring thoughts are chas'd The sorrow of those ills are past, And terrour of the ills to come. Let us drink brimmers then, time's fleet, Haling us with him to our urn, In vain we sue to it to stay, For years like rivers pass away, And never, never do return. When the spring comes attir'd in green, New tides do still supply the main : Time ne'er restores us that again. Death's laws are universal, and In princes' palaces command, As well as in the poorest hut, Whatever we most lasting make, The waters of oblivion's lake. EPISTLE TO SIR CLIFFORD CLIFTON, THEN SITTING IN PARLIAMENT. WHEN from thy kind hand, my dearest, dear brother, me: I start from my couch, where I lay dull and muddy, But by help of direction, I soon did arrive at So soon as got thither, I straight fell to calling, Some call it invoking, but mine was plain bawling: I call'd for my Muse, but no answer she made me, Nor could I conceive why the slut should evade me. I knew I there left her, and lock'd her so safe in, Disordering all things, which before had their places That who'd seen the confusion, and look'd on the ware, Would have thought he had been at Babylon fair. At last, when for lost I had wholly resign'd her, Where canst thou imagine, dear knight, I should find her? Faith, in an old drawer, I late had not been in, 'Twixt a coarse pair of sheets of the housewife's own spinning, A sonnet instead of a coif her head wrapping, I happily took her small ladyship napping. "Why, how now, minx," quoth I, "what's the matter I pray, That you are so hard to be spoke with to day? maid; One Prose, a slatternly ill-favour'd toad, And in such a case, what the fiend could one do? I disclaim'd and forswore my late new acquaintance. I caught her, and offered her money, a little, name: And told me in answer, that she could not glory at How much she herself stood oblig'd to the knight, write; And thereupon called, to make her amends, Thus then unto thee, my dear brother, and sweeting, Till thy little fat buttock e'en grow to the cushion. made for? But I grow monstrous weary, and how should I This galloping rhyme has quite jaded my Muse: And I swear, if thou look'st for more posting of hers, Little knight, thou must needs lend her one of thy His looks, than your brown, a little thought brighter, [whiter; Which grey bairs make every year whiter and In good sooth, he's a very unpromising bard: Are neither two mill-posts, nor yet are they trapThey bear him, when sober, bestir 'em and spare not, And who the devil can stand when they are not? Thus much for his person, now for his condition, That's sick enough full to require a physician : He always wants money, which makes him want ease, And he's always besieg'd, tho' himself of the peace, Vandals; But when he does sally, as sometimes he does, [it, And loves to be rhyming, but is the worst poet. STANZES DE MONSIEUR BERTAUD. WHILST wishing, Heaven, in his ire, Would punish with some judgement dire, This heart to love so obstinate; To say I love her is to lie, Though I do love t' extremity, Since thus to love her is to hate. And is unto my love ingrate; That 'tis to love her, thus to hate. I wish that milder love, or death, Thus wretchedly to love and hate. His grace, or rage in this estate; Thus senselessly to love and hate. Slic love and loath who is my fate ; That as I do, she love and hate. Which makes them upwards still to fly ; Till froin the utmost height of all, Painting in their endeavour, down they fall, And louer, than at first they were, at last do lie. a I then would know where lies the happiness Of being great, For which we blindly so much strive and press, PINDARIC ODE. Fawn, bribe, dissemble, toil, and sweat; Trou precious treasure the peaceful mind, Whilst the mind, tortur'd in the doubtful quest, Thou jewel of inestimable price, Is so solicitous to be at rest; Thou bravest soul's terrestrial paradise, Nay, when that grcatness is obtain'd, is yet Dearest contentment, thou best happiness More anxious how to keep, than 't was to get That man on Earth can know, Cnto that glorious height of tickle place, Thou greatest gift Hear'n can on man bestov, And most, when unto honour rais'd, suspects disAnd greater than man's language can express; grace. Where highest epithets would fall so low, Were men contented, they'd sit still, As only in our dearth of words to show Embrace, and hug their present state, A part of thy perfection ; a poor part Without contriving good or ill, Of what to us, what in thyseit thou art) and have no conflicts with the will, That still is prompting them to lore, to hate, Fear, envy, anger, and I can't tell what, All which, and more, do in the mind make war, Ah, whitherartthou tled! who can this treasure find! And all with contentation inconsistent are. No more on Earth now to be found, Aud he who says he is content, Thou art become a hollow sound, But hides ill-nature from mens' sight; The empty name of something that of old Nor can he long conceal it there, Naukiud was happy in, but now, Something will rent, Like a vain dream, or tale that's told, For all his cunning and his care, Art vanish'd hence, we know not how. That will disclose the hypocrite. Oh, fatal loss, for which we are A man may be contented for an hour In our own thoughts at endless war, Or two, or thrce; perhaps a night; And each one by himself is made a sufferer! But then his pleasure wanting power, Yet 't were worth seeking, if a man knew where, His taste goes with his appetite. Or could but guess of whom t'inquire : Frailty the peace of human life confounds; But 'tis not to be found on Earıh, I fear, Flesh does not know, reason obeys no bounds. And who can best direct will prove a liar, But 'tis ourselves that give this frailty sway, Or he himself the first deceiv'd, By our own promptness to obey Our lust, pride, envy, avarice; As to permit it lo controul The rational immortal soul, Whichi, whilst by these subjected and opprest, A few hours' observation will declare, Cannot enjoy itself, nor be at rest; But, or transorted is with ire, Puff'd up with vain and empty pride ; Biit oft creates a thirst of having more, {store. Or languishes with base desire, And inakes the iniser starve, and pine amidst liis Or pines with th' envy it would hide. And (the grave Stoic let me not displease) All men that we converse with here, Have some, or all of their disturbances, And rarely settled are, and clear. If ever any mortal then could boast So great a treasure, with that man 'tis lost; Still to supply a constant charity; And no one should, because uone truly can, Which still is discontent, whate'er the motive be. Though sometimes pleas'd, say, he's a contented When rais'd to that they did pretend, EPIGRAM. Fie, Delia, talk no more of love, It galls me to the heart; You threescore are, I doubt above, For all your plaist'ring art. And therefore spare your pains you may; For though you press me night and day, man. |