The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  And seeing ’twas in vain to vex, or fret,

  I patiently submitted to my fate.

  Strait he begins again: Sir, if you knew

  My worth but half so throughly as I do;

  I’m sure, you would not value any Friend,

  You have, like me: but that I won’t commend

  My self, and my own Talents; I might tell

  How many ways to wonder I excel.

  None has a greater gift in Poetry,

  Or writes more Verses with more ease than I:

  I’m grown the envy of the men of Wit,

  I kill’d ev’n Rochester with grief and spight:

  Next for the Dancing part I all surpass,

  St. André never mov’d with such a grace:

  And ’tis well known, when e’re I sing, or set,

  Humphreys, nor Blow could ever match me yet.

  Here I got room to interrupt: ‘Have you

  ‘A Mother, Sir, or Kindred living now?

  Not one: they are all dead. ‘Troth, so I guest:

  ‘The happier they (said I) who are at rest.

  ‘Poor I am only left unmurder’d yet:

  ‘Hast, I beseech you, and dispatch me quite:

  ‘For I am well convinc’d, my time is come:

  ‘When I was young, a Gypsie told my doom:

  This Lad (said she, and look’d upon my hand)

  Shall not by Sword, or Poison come to’s end,

  Nor by the Fever, Dropsie, Gout, or Stone,

  But he shall die by an eternal Tongue:

  Therefore, when he’s grown up, if he be wise,

  Let him avoid great Talkers, I advise.

  By this time we were got to Westminster,

  Where he by chance a Trial had to hear,

  And, if he were not there, his Cause must fall:

  Sir, if you love me, step into the Hall

  For one half hour. ‘The Devil take me now,

  ‘(Said I) if I know any thing of Law:

  ‘Besides I told you whither I’m to go.

  Hereat he made a stand, pull’d down his Hat

  Over his eyes, and mus’d in deep debate:

  I’m in a straight (said he) what I shall do:

  Whether forsake my business, Sir, or you.

  ‘Me by all means (say I). No (says my Sot)

  I fear you’l take it ill, if I should do’t:

  I’m sure, you will. ‘Not I, by all that’s good.

  ‘But I’ve more breeding, than to be so rude.

  ‘Pray, don’t neglect your own concerns for me:

  ‘Your Cause, good Sir! My Cause be damn’d (says he)

  I value’t less than your dear Company.

  With this he came up to me, and would lead

  The way; I sneaking after hung my head.

  JOHN DRYDEN from Absalom and Achitophel

  [Monmouth]

  In pious times, e’r Priest-craft did begin,

  Before Polygamy was made a sin;

  When man, on many, multiply’d his kind,

  E’r one to one was, cursedly, confind:

  When Nature prompted, and no law deny’d

  Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;

  Then, Israel’s Monarch, after Heaven’s own heart,

  His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart

  To Wives and Slaves: And, wide as his Command,

  Scatter’d his Maker’s Image through the Land.

  Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,

  A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller’s care:

  Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore

  To Godlike David, several Sons before.

  But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,

  No True Succession could their seed attend.

  Of all this Numerous Progeny was none

  So Beautifull, so brave as Absolon:

  Whether, inspir’d by some diviner Lust,

  His Father got him with a greater Gust;

  Or that his Conscious destiny made way

  By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.

  Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,

  With Kings and States ally’d to Israel’s Crown:

  In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,

  And seem’d as he were only born for love.

  What e’r he did was done with so much ease,

  In him alone, ’twas Natural to please.

  His motions all accompanied with grace;

  And Paradise was open’d in his face.

  With secret Joy, indulgent David view’d

  His Youthfull Image in his Son renew’d:

  To all his wishes Nothing he deny’d,

  And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.

  What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)

  His Father could not, or he would not see.

  Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,

  Were constru’d Youth that purg’d by boyling o’r:

  And Amnon’s Murther, by a specious Name,

  Was call’d a Just Revenge for injur’d Fame.

  Thus Prais’d, and Lov’d, the Noble Youth remain’d,

  While David, undisturb’d, in Sion raign’d.

  But Life can never be sincerely blest:

  Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.

  (… )

  [Shaftesbury]

  This Plot, which fail’d for want of common Sense,

  Had yet a deep and dangerous Consequence:

  For, as when raging Fevers boyl the Blood,

  The standing Lake soon floats into a Flood;

  And every hostile Humour, which before

  Slept quiet in its Channels, bubbles o’r:

  So, several Factions from this first Ferment,

  Work up to Foam, and threat the Government.

  Some by their Friends, more by themselves thought wise,

  Oppos’d the Power, to which they could not rise.

  Some had in Courts been Great, and thrown from thence,

  Like Feinds, were harden’d in Impenitence.

  Some by their Monarch’s fatal mercy grown,

  From Pardon’d Rebels, Kinsmen to the Throne;

  Were rais’d in Power and publick Office high:

  Strong Bands, if Bands ungratefull men could tye.

  Of these the false Achitophel was first:

  A Name to all succeeding Ages Curst.

  For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit;

  Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit:

  Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place;

  In Power unpleas’d, impatient of Disgrace.

  A fiery Soul, which working out its way,

  Fretted the Pigmy body to decay:

  And o’r inform’d the Tenement of Clay.

  A daring Pilot in extremity;

  Pleas’d with the Danger, when the Waves went high

  He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit,

  Would Steer too nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit.

  Great Wits are sure to Madness near ally’d;

  And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide:

  Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest,

  Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest?

  Punish a Body which he coud not please;

  Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of Ease?

  And all to leave, what with his Toyl he won,

  To that unfeather’d, two Leg’d thing, a Son:

  Got, while his Soul did hudled Notions try;

  And born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy.

  In Friendship False, Implacable in Hate:

  Resolv’d to Ruine or to Rule the State.

  To Compass this the Triple Bond he broke;

  The Pillars of the publick Safety shook:

  And fitted Israel for a Foreign Yoke.

  Then, seiz’d with Fear, yet still affecting Fame,

  Usurp’d a Patriott’s All-attoning Name.

  So easie still it proves in Fac
tious Times,

  With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes:

  How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill,

  Where none can sin against the Peoples Will:

  Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known,

  Since in anothers guilt they find their own.

  Yet, Fame deserv’d, no Enemy can grudge;

  The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge.

  In Israels Courts ne’r sat an Abbethdin

  With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean:

  Unbrib’d, unsought, the Wretched to redress;

  Swift of Dispatch, and easie of Access.

  Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown,

  With vertues only proper to the Gown;

  Or, had the rankness of the Soyl been freed

  From Cockle, that opprest the Noble seed:

  David, for him his tunefull Harp had strung,

  And Heaven had wanted one Immortal song.

  But wilde Ambition loves to slide, not stand;

  And Fortunes Ice prefers to Vertues Land:

  Achitophel, grown weary to possess

  A lawfull Fame, and lazy Happiness;

  Disdain’d the Golden fruit to gather free,

  And lent the Croud his Arm to shake the Tree.

  JOHN BUNYAN from The Pilgrims Progress 1684

  [Valiant-for-Truth’s Song]

  Who would true Valour see

  Let him come hither;

  One here will Constant be,

  Come Wind, come Weather.

  There’s no Discouragement

  Shall make him once Relent,

  His first avow’d Intent,

  To be a Pilgrim.

  Who so beset him round,

  With dismal Storys,

  Do but themselves Confound;

  His Strength the more is.

  No Lyon can him fright,

  He’l with a Gyant Fight,

  To be a Pilgrim.

  But he will have a right,

  Hobgoblin, nor foul Fiend,

  Can daunt his Spirit:

  He knows, he at the end,

  Shall Life Inherit.

  Then Fancies fly away,

  He’l fear not what men say,

  He’l labour Night and Day,

  To be a Pilgrim.

  JOHN DRYDEN To the Memory of Mr. Oldham

  Farewel, too little and too lately known,

  Whom I began to think and call my own;

  For sure our Souls were near ally’d; and thine

  Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine.

  One common Note on either Lyre did strike,

  And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr’d alike:

  To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,

  The last set out the soonest did arrive.

  Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

  While his young Friend perform’d and won the Race.

  O early ripe! to thy abundant store

  What could advancing Age have added more?

  It might (what Nature never gives the young)

  Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.

  But Satyr needs not those, and Wit will shine

  Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

  A noble Error, and but seldom made,

  When Poets are by too much force betray’d.

  Thy generous fruits, though gather’d ere their prime

  Still shew’d a quickness; and maturing time

  But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime.

  Once more, hail and farewel; farewel thou young,

  But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue;

  Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;

  But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around.

  1685

  JOHN DRYDEN Horat. Ode 29. Book 3 Paraphras’d in 1685 Pindarique Verse

  Descended of an ancient Line,

  That long the Tuscan Scepter sway’d,

  Make haste to meet the generous wine,

  Whose piercing is for thee delay’d:

  The rosie wreath is ready made;

  And artful hands prepare

  The fragrant Syrian Oyl, that shall perfume thy hair.

  When the Wine sparkles from a far,

  And the well-natur’d Friend cries, come away;

  Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care,

  No mortal int’rest can be worth thy stay.

  Leave for a while thy costly Country Seat;

  And, to be Great indeed, forget

  The nauseous pleasures of the Great:

  Make haste and come:

  Come and forsake thy cloying store;

  Thy Turret that surveys, from high,

  The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;

  And all the busie pageantry

  That wise men scorn, and fools adore:

  Come, give thy Soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.

  Sometimes ’tis grateful to the Rich, to try

  A short vicissitude, and fit of Poverty:

  A savoury Dish, a homely Treat,

  Where all is plain, where all is neat,

  Without the stately spacious Room,

  The Persian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom,

  Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the Great.

  The Sun is in the Lion mounted high;

  The Syrian Star

  Barks from a far;

  And with his sultry breath infects the Sky;

  The ground below is parch’d, the heav’ns above us fry.

  The Shepheard drives his fainting Flock,

  Beneath the covert of a Rock;

  And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh:

  The Sylvans to their shades retire,

  Those very shades and streams, new shades and streams require;

  And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the rageing fire.

  Thou, what befits the new Lord May’r,

  And what the City Faction dare,

  And what the Gallique Arms will do,

  And what the Quiver bearing Foe,

  Art anxiously inquisitive to know:

  But God has, wisely, hid from humane sight

  The dark decrees of future fate;

  And sown their seeds in depth of night;

  He laughs at all the giddy turns of State;

  When Mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

  Enjoy the present smiling hour;

  And put it out of Fortunes pow’r:

  The tide of bus’ness, like the running stream,

  Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

  A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,