by Paul Keegan
And the parch’d Desart floats in Streams unknown;
Wondring to drink of Waters not her own.
JOHN DRYDEN from The Secular Masque
Enter Janus.
JANUS
CHRONOS, Chronos, mend thy Pace,
An hundred times the rowling Sun
Around the Radiant Belt has run
In his revolving Race.
Behold, behold, the Goal in sight,
Spread thy Fans, and wing thy flight.
Enter Chronos, with a Scythe in his hand, and a great Globe on his Back, which he sets down at his entrance.
CHRONOS
Weary, weary of my weight,
Let me, let me drop my Freight,
And leave the World behind.
I could not bear
Another Year
The Load of Human-Kind.
(… )
JANUS
Then our Age was in it’s Prime,
CHRONOS
Free from Rage.
And free from Crime.
MOMUS
A very Merry, Dancing, Drinking,
Laughing, Quaffing, and unthinking Time.
CHORUS OF ALL
Then our Age was in it’s Prime,
Free from Rage, and free from Crime,
A very Merry, Dancing, Drinking,
Laughing, Quaffing, and unthinking Time.
(… )
CHRONOS
The World was then so light,
I scarcely felt the Weight;
Joy rul’d the Day, and Love the Night.
But since the Queen of Pleasure left the Ground,
I faint, I lag,
And feebly drag
The pond’rous Orb around.
MOMUS
All, all, of a piece throughout;
(Pointing to DIANA.)
Thy Chase had a Beast in View;
(to MARS.)
Thy Wars brought nothing about;
(to VENUS.)
Thy Lovers were all untrue.
JANUS
’Tis well an Old Age is out,
CHRONOS
And time to begin a New.
CHORUS OF ALL
All, all, of a piece throughout;
Thy Chase had a Beast in View;
Thy Wars brought nothing about;
Thy Lovers were all untrue.
’Tis well an Old Age is out,
And time to begin a New.
1701
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY Song
Phillis, let’s shun the common Fate,
And let our Love ne’r turn to Hate;
I’ll dote no longer than I can,
Without being call’d a faithless Man.
When we begin to want Discourse,
And Kindness seems to tast of Force,
As freely as we met, we’ll part,
Each one possest of their own Heart.
Thus whilst rash Fools themselves undo;
We’ll Game, and give off Savers too;
So equally the Match we’ll make,
Both shall be glad to draw the Stake.
A Smile of thine shall make my Bliss,
I will enjoy thee in a Kiss;
If from this Height our Kindness fall,
We’ll bravely scorn to Love at all:
If thy Affection first decay,
I will the Blame on Nature lay.
Alas, what Cordial can remove
The hasty Fate of dying Love?
Thus we will all the World excel
In Loving, and in Parting well.
ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA from The Spleen. A Pindaric Poem
O’er me alas! thou dost too much prevail:
I feel thy Force, whilst I against thee rail;
I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail.
Thro’ thy black Jaundice I all Objects see,
As Dark, and Terrible as Thee,
My Lines decry’d, and my Employment thought
An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault:
Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray,
Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret Springs
My Hand delights to trace unusual Things,
And deviates from the known, and common way;
Nor will in fading Silks compose
Faintly th’inimitable Rose,
Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass
The Sov’reign’s blurr’d and undistinguish’d Face,
The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass.
Patron thou art to ev’ry gross Abuse,
The sullen Husband’s feign’d Excuse,
When the ill Humour with his Wife he spends,
And bears recruited Wit, and Spirits to his Friends.
The Son of Bacchus pleads thy Pow’r,
As to the Glass he still repairs,
Pretends but to remove thy Cares,
Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and smiling Hour,
And drown thy Kingdom in a purple Show’r.
When the Coquette, whom ev’ry Fool admires,
Wou’d in Variety be Fair,
And, changing hastily the Scene
From Light, Impertinent, and Vain,
Assumes a soft, a melancholy Air,
And of her Eyes rebates the wand’ring Fires,
The careless Posture, and the Head reclin’d,
The thoughtful, and composed Face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent Mind,
Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze,
Who gently for the tender Cause inquires;
The Cause, indeed, is a Defect in Sense,
Yet is the Spleen alledg’d, and still the dull Pretence.
But these are thy fantastic Harms,
The Tricks of thy pernicious Stage,
Which do the weaker Sort engage;
Worse are the dire Effects of thy more pow’rful Charms.
By Thee Religion, all we know,
That shou’d enlighten here below,
Is veil’d in Darkness, and perplext
With anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vext,
And some Restraint imply’d from each perverted Text.
Whilst Touch not, Taste not, what is freely giv’n,
Is but thy niggard Voice, disgracing bounteous Heav’n,
From Speech restrain’d, by thy Deceits abus’d,
To Deserts banish’d, or in Cells reclus’d,
Mistaken Vot’ries to the Pow’rs Divine,
Whilst they a purer Sacrifice design,
Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy Shrine.
In vain to chase thee ev’ry Art we try,
In vain all Remedies apply,
In vain the Indian Leaf infuse,
Or the parch’d Eastern Berry bruise;
Some pass, in vain, those Bounds, and nobler Liquors use.
Now Harmony, in vain, we bring,
Inspire the Flute, and touch the String.
From Harmony no help is had;
Musick but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad,
And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad.
Tho’ the Physician greatest Gains,
Altho’ his growing Wealth he sees
Daily increas’d by Ladies Fees,
Yet dost thou baffle all his studious Pains.
Not skilful Lower thy Source cou’d find,
Or thro’ the well-dissected Body trace
The secret, the mysterious ways,
By which thou dost surprise, and prey upon the Mind.
Tho’ in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought,
With unsuccessful Toil he wrought,
‘Till thinking Thee to’ve catch’d, Himself by thee was caught,
Retain’d thy Pris’ner, thy acknowledg’d Slave,
And sunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave.
1704
WILLIAM CONGREVE Song
Pious Celinda goes to Pray’rs,
If I but ask the Favor;
And
yet the tender Fool’s in Tears,
When she believes I’ll leave her.
Wou’d I were free from this Restraint,
Or else had Hopes to win her;
Wou’d she cou’d make of me a Saint,
Or I of her a Sinner.
WILLIAM CONGREVE A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret
Fair Amoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her, ev’ry Lover;
I’ll tell the Signs, by which you may
The wand’ring Shepherdess discover.
Coquet and Coy at once her Air,
Both study’d, tho both seem neglected;
Careless she is with artful Care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With Skill her Eyes dart ev’ry Glance,
Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect ’em;
For she’d persuade they wound by Chance,
Tho’ certain Aim and Art direct ’em.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the Thing that she despises.
1706
ISAAC WATTS The Day of Judgement. An Ode. Attempted in English Sapphick
When the fierce North Wind with his airy Forces
Rears up the Baltick to a foaming Fury;
And the red Lightning, with a Storm of Hail comes
Rushing amain down.
How the poor Sailors stand amaz’d and tremble!
While the hoarse Thunder, like a bloody Trumpet,
Roars a loud Onset to the gaping Waters
Quick to devour them.
Such shall the Noise be, and the wild Disorder,
(If Things Eternal may be like these Earthly)
Such the dire Terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the Creation;
Tears the strong Pillars of the Vault of Heaven,
Breaks up old Marble, the Repose of Princes;
See the Graves open, and the Bones arising,
Flames all around em!
Hark, the shrill Outcries of the guilty Wretches!
Lively bright Horror, and amazing Anguish,
Stare thro their Eye-lids, while the living Worm lies
Gnawing within them.
Thoughts, like old Vultures, prey upon their Heart-strings,
And the Smart twinges, when the Eye beholds the
Lofty Judge frowning, and a Flood of Vengeance
Rolling afore him.
Hopeless Immortals! how they scream and shiver
While Devils push them to the Pit wide-yawning
Hideous and gloomy to receive them headlong
Down to the Centre.
Stop here, my Fancy: (all away, ye horrid
Doleful Ideas,) come, arise to JESUS,
How he sits God-like! and the Saints around him
Thron’d, yet adoring!
O may I sit there when he comes Triumphant,
Dooming the Nations! then ascend to Glory,
While our Hosannas all along the Passage
Shout the Redeemer.
1707
ISAAC WATTS Crucifixion to the World by the Cross of Christ Gal. vi.14
When I survey the wond’rous Cross
Where the young Prince of Glory dy’d,
My richest Gain I count but Loss,
And pour Contempt on all my Pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the Death of Christ my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his Blood.
See from his Head, his Hands, his Feet,
Sorrow and Love flow mingled down;
Did e’er such Love and Sorrow meet?
Or Thorns compose so rich a Crown?
His dying Crimson like a Robe
Spreads o’er his Body on the Tree,
Then am I dead to all the Globe,
And all the Globe is dead to me.
Were the whole Realm of Nature mine,
That were a Present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine
Demand my Soul, my Life, my All.
1709
ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA Adam Pos’d
Cou’d our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d Skin,
Cou’d he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen,
5
In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces,
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;
How had it pos’d that Skill, which late assign’d
Just Appellations to Each several Kind!
A right Idea of the Sight to frame;
10
T’have guest from what New Element she came;
T’have hit the wav’ring Form, or giv’n this Thing a Name.
MATTHEW PRIOR An Ode
The Merchant, to secure his Treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow’d Name:
EUPHELIA serves to grace my Measure;
But CLOE is my real Flame.
My softest Verse, my darling Lyre
Upon EUPHELIA’S Toylet lay;
When CLOE noted her Desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My Lyre I tune, my Voice I raise;
But with my Numbers mix my Sighs:
And whilst I sing EUPHELIA’S Praise,
I fix my Soul on CLOE’S Eyes.
Fair CLOE blush’d: EUPHELIA frown’d:
I sung and gaz’d: I play’d and trembl’d:
And VENUS to the LOVES around
Remark’d, how ill We all dissembl’d.
AMBROSE PHILLIPS A Winter-Piece
To the Earl of Dorset
Copenhagen, March 9, 1709
From Frozen Climes, and Endless Tracks of Snow,
From Streams that Northern Winds forbid to flow;
What Present shall the Muse to Dorset bring;
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary Winter here conceals from Sight
All pleasing Objects that to Verse invite.
The Hills and Dales, and the Delightful Woods,
The Flowry Plains, and Silver Streaming Floods,
By Snow disguis’d, in bright Confusion lye,