John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Far from so sad a Sight, the swooning Fair.

  ‘Twere Loss of Time her Sorrow to relate; 860

  Ill bears the Sex a youthful Lover’s Fate,

  When just approaching to the Nuptial State:

  But like a low-hung Cloud, it rains so fast,

  That all at once it falls, and cannot last.

  The Face of Things is chang’d, and Athens now. 865

  That laugh’d so late, becomes the Scene of Woe:

  Matrons and Maids, both Sexes, ev’ry State,

  With Tears lament the Knight’s untimely Fate.

  Not greater Grief in falling Troy was seen

  For Hector’s Death; but Hector was not then. 870

  Old Men with Dust deform’d their hoary Hair,

  The Women beat their Breasts, their Cheeks they tear.

  Why would’st thou go, with one consent they cry,

  When thou hadst Gold enough, and Emily!

  Theseus himself, who shou’d have cheer’d the Grief 875

  Of others, wanted now the same Relief.

  Old Egeus only could revive his Son,

  Who various Changes of the World had known,

  And strange Vicissitudes of Humane Fate,

  Still alt’ring, never in a steady State: 880

  Good after Ill and after Pain, Delight,

  Alternate, like the Scenes of Day and Night.

  Since ev’ry Man who lives is born to die,

  And none can boast sincere Felicity,

  With equal Mind, what happens, let us bear, 885

  Nor joy, nor grieve too much for Things beyond our Care.

  Like Pilgrims to th’ appointed Place we tend;

  The World’s an Inn, and Death the Journeys End.

  Ev’n Kings but play; and when their Part is done,

  Some other, worse or better, mount the Throne. 890

  With words like these the Crowd was satisfi’d;

  And so they would have been, had Theseus dy’d.

  But he, their King, was lab’ring in his Mind,

  A fitting Place for Fun’ral Pomps to find,

  Which were in Honour of the Dead design’d. 895

  And, after long Debate, at last he found

  (As Love it self had mark’d the Spot of Ground)

  That Grove for ever green, that conscious Lawnd,

  Where he with Palamon fought Hand to Hand:

  That where he fed his amorous Desires 900

  With soft Complaints, and felt his hottest Fires,

  There other Flames might waste his Earthly Part,

  And burn his Limbs, where Love had burn’d his Heart.

  This once resolv’d, the Peasants were enjoin’d

  Sere Wood, and Firs, and dodder’d Oaks to find. 905

  With sounding Axes to the Grove they go,

  Fell, split, and lay the Fewel on a Row,

  Vulcanian Food: A Bier is next prepar’d,

  On which the lifeless Body should be rear’d,

  Cover’d with Cloth of Gold, on which was laid 910

  The Corps of Arcite, in like Robes array’d.

  White Gloves were on his Hands, and on his Head

  A Wreath of Laurel, mix’d with Myrtle, spread.

  A Sword keen-edg’d within his Right he held,

  The warlike Emblem of the conquer’d Field: 915

  Bare was his manly Visage on the Bier;

  Menac’d his Countenance; ev’n in Death severe.

  Then to the Palace-Hall they bore the Knight,

  To lie in solemn State, a Publick Sight.

  Groans, Cries, and Howlings fill the Crowded Place, 920

  And unaffected Sorrow sat on ev’ry Face.

  Sad Palamon above the rest appears,

  In Sable Garments, dew’d with gushing Tears:

  His Aubourn Locks on either Shoulder flow’d,

  Which to the Fun’ral of his Friend he vow’d: 925

  But Emily, as Chief, was next his Side,

  A Virgin-Widow and a Mourning Bride.

  And that the Princely Obsequies might be

  Perform’d according to his high Degree,

  The Steed, that bore him living to the Fight, 930

  Was trapp’d with polish’d Steel, all shining bright,

  And cover’d with th’ Atchievements of the Knight.

  The Riders rode abreast, and one his Shield,

  His Lance of Cornel-wood another held;

  The third his Bow, and, glorious to behold, 935

  The costly Quiver, all of burnish’d Gold.

  The Noblest of the Grecians next appear,

  And weeping, on their Shoulders bore the Bier;

  With sober Pace they march’d, and often staid,

  And through the Master-Street the Corps convey’d. 940

  The Houses to their Tops with Black were spread,

  And ev’n the Pavements were with Mourning hid.

  The Right-side of the Pall old Egeus kept,

  And on the Left the Royal Theseus wept;

  Each bore a Golden Bowl of Work Divine, 945

  With Honey fill’d, and Milk, and mix’d with ruddy Wine.

  Then Palamon, the Kinsman of the Slain,

  And after him appear’d th’ Illustrious Train:

  To grace the Pomp came Emily the Bright,

  With cover’d Fire, the Fun’ral Pile to light. 950

  With high Devotion was the Service made

  And all the Rites of Pagan-Honour paid:

  So lofty was the Pile, a Parthian Bow,

  With Vigour drawn, must send the Shaft below.

  The Bottom was full twenty Fathom broad, 955

  With crackling Straw beneath in due Proportion strow’d.

  The Fabrick seem’d a Wood of rising Green,

  With Sulphur and Bitumen cast between,

  To feed the Flames: The Trees were unctuous Fir,

  And Mountain-Ash, the Mother of the Spear; 960

  The Mourner Eugh and Builder Oak were there:

  The Beech, the swimming Alder, and the Plane,

  Hard Box, and Linden of a softer Grain,

  And Laurels, which the Gods for Conqu’ring Chiefs ordain.

  How they were rank’d shall rest untold by me, 965

  With nameless Nymphs that lived in ev’ry Tree;

  Nor how the Dryads and the Woodland Train,

  Disherited, ran howling o’er the Plain:

  Nor how the Birds to Foreign Seats repair’d,

  Or Beasts that bolted out, and saw the Forest bar’d: 970

  Nor how the Ground now clear’d with gastly Fright

  Beheld the sudden Sun, a Stranger to the Light.

  The Straw, as first I said, was laid below:

  Of Chips and Sere-wood was the second Row;

  The third of Greens, and Timber newly fell’d; 975

  The Fourth high Stage the fragrant Odours held,

  And Pearls, and precious Stones, and rich Array:

  In midst of which, embalm’d, the Body lay.

  The Service sung, the Maid with mourning Eyes

  The Stubble fir’d; the smouldring Flames arise: 980

  This Office done, she sunk upon the Ground;

  But what she spoke, recover’d from her Swoond,

  I want the Wit in moving Words to dress;

  But by themselves the tender Sex may guess.

  While the devouring Fire was burning fast, 985

  Rich Jewels in the Flame the Wealthy cast;

  And some their Shields, and some their Lances threw,

  And gave the Warriour’s Ghost a Warriour’s Due.

  Full Bowls of Wine, of Honey, Milk and Blood

  Were pour’d upon the Pile of burning Wood, 990

  And hissing Flames receive, and hungry lick the Food.

  Then thrice the mounted Squadrons ride around

  The Fire, and Arcite’s Name they thrice resound:

  Hail, and Farewell, they shouted thrice amain,

  Thrice facing to the
Left, and thrice they turn’d again: 995

  Still, as they turn’d, they beat their clatt’ring Shields;

  The Women mix their Cries; and Clamour fills the Fields.

  The warlike Wakes continu’d all the Night,

  And Fun’ral Games were played at new-returning Light:

  Who naked wrestl’d best, besmear’d with Oil, 1000

  Or who with Gantlets gave or took the Foil,

  I will not tell you, nor wou’d you attend;

  But briefly haste to my long Stories End.

  I pass the rest; the Year was fully mourn’d,

  And Palamon long since to Thebes return’d: 1005

  When, by the Grecians general Consent,

  At Athens Theseus held his Parliament;

  Among the Laws that pass’d, it was decreed,

  That conquer’d Thebes from Bondage shou’d be freed;

  Reserving Homage to th’ Athenian throne, 1010

  To which the Sov’reign summon’d Palamon.

  Unknowing of the Cause, he took his Way,

  Mournful in Mind, and still in Black Array,

  The Monarch mounts the Throne, and, plac’d on high,

  Commands into the Court the beauteous Emily: 1015

  So call’d, she came; the Senate rose, and paid

  Becoming Rev’rence to the Royal Maid.

  And first, soft Whispers through th’ Assembly went;

  With silent Wonder then they watch’d th’ Event;

  All hush’d, the King arose with awful Grace; 1020

  Deep Thought was in his Breast, and Counsel in his Face.

  At length he sigh’d; and having first prepar’d

  Th’ attentive Audience, thus his Will declar’d.

  The Cause and Spring of Motion, from above

  Hung down on Earth the Golden Chain of Love: 1025

  Great was th’ Effect, and high was his Intent,

  When Peace among the jarring Seeds he sent;

  Fire, Flood, and Earth, and Air by this were bound,

  And Love, the common Link, the new Creation crown’d.

  The Chain still holds; for though the Forms decay, 1030

  Eternal Matter never wears away:

  The same First Mover certain Bounds has plac’d,

  How long those perishable Forms shall last;

  Nor can they last beyond the Time assign’d

  By that All-seeing and All-making Mind: 1035

  Shorten their Hours they may; for Will is free,

  But never pass th’ appointed Destiny.

  So Men oppress’d, when weary of their Breath,

  Throw off the Burden, and subborn their Death.

  Then, since those Forms begin, and have their End, 1040

  On some unalter’d Cause they sure depend:

  Parts of the Whole are we, but God the Whole,

  Who gives us Life, and animating Soul.

  For Nature cannot from a Part derive

  That Being, which the Whole can only give: 1045

  He perfect, stable; but imperfect We,

  Subject to Change, and diff’rent in Degree;

  Plants, Beasts, and Man; and, as our Organs are,

  We more or less of his Perfection share.

  But, by a long Descent, th’ Etherial Fire 1050

  Corrupts; and Forms, the mortal Part, expire.

  As he withdraws his Vertue, so they pass,

  And the same Matter makes another Mass:

  This Law th’ Omniscient Pow’r was pleas’d to give,

  That ev’ry Kind should by Succession live; 1055

  That Individuals die, his Will ordains;

  The propagated Species still remains.

  The Monarch Oak, the Patriarch of the Trees,

  Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow Degrees;

  Three Centuries he grows, and three he stays, 1060

  Supreme in State; and in three more decays:

  So wears the paving Pebble in the Street,

  And Towns and Tow’rs their fatal Period meet:

  So Rivers, rapid once, now naked lie,

  Forsaken of their Springs; and leave their Channels dry. 1065

  So Man, at first a Drop, dilates with Heat,

  Then form’d, the little Heart begins to beat;

  Secret he feeds, unknowing in the Cell;

  At length, for Hatching ripe, he breaks the Shell,

  And struggles into Breath, and cries for Aid; 1070

  Then, helpless, in his Mother’s Lap is laid.

  He creeps, he walks, and, issuing into Man,

  Grudges their Life from whence his own began:

  Retchless of Laws, affects to rule alone,

  Anxious to reign, and restless on the Throne; 1075

  First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last;

  Rich of Three Souls, and lives all three to waste.

  Some thus; but thousands more in Flow’r of Age:

  For few arrive to run the latter Stage.

  Sunk in the first, in Battel some are slain, 1080

  And others whelm’d beneath the stormy Main.

  What makes all this, but Jupiter the King,

  At whose Command we perish, and we spring?

  Then’ tis our best, since thus ordain’d to die,

  To make a Vertue of Necessity. 1085

  Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain;

  The Bad grows better, which we well sustain:

  And cou’d we chuse the Time, and chuse aright,

  Tis best to die, our Honour at the height.

  When we have done our Ancestors no Shame, 1090

  But serv’d our Friends, and well secur’d our Fame;

  Then should we wish our happy Life to close,

  And leave no more for Fortune to dispose:

  So should we make our Death a glad Relief

  From future Shame, from Sickness, and from Grief: 1095

  Enjoying while we live the present Hour,

  And dying in our Excellence, and Flow’r.

  Then round our Death-bed every Friend shou’d run,

  And joy us of our Conquest, early won;

  While the malicious World, with envious Tears, 1100

  Shou’d grudge our happy End, and wish it Theirs.

  Since then our Arcite is with Honour dead,

  Why shou’d we mourn, that he so soon is freed,

  Or call untimely, what the Gods decreed?

  With Grief as just a Friend may be deplor’d, 1105

  From a foul Prison to free Air restor’d.

  Ought he to thank his Kinsman, or his Wife,

  Cou’d Tears recall him into wretched Life!

  Their Sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost;

  And worse than both, offends his happy Ghost. 1110

  What then remains, but after past Annoy

  To take the good Vicissitude of Joy?

  To thank the gracious Gods for what they give,

  Possess our Souls, and, while we live, to live?

  Ordain we then two Sorrows to combine, 1115

  And in one Point th’ Extremes of Grief to join;

  That thence resulting Joy may be renewed,

  As jarring Notes in Harmony conclude.

  Then I propose that Palamon shall be

  In Marriage join’d with beauteous Emily; 1120

  For which already I have gained the Assent

  Of my free People in full Parliament.

  Long Love to her has borne the faithful Knight,

  And well deserv’d, had Fortune done him Right:

  ’Tis Time to mend her Fault; since Emily 1125

  By Arcite’s Death from former Vows is free:

  If you, Fair Sister, ratifie the Accord,

  And take him for your Husband, and your Lord.

  ’Tis no Dishonour to confer your Grace

  On one descended from a Royal Race: 1130

  And were he less, yet Years of Service past

  From grateful Souls exact Reward at last:


  Pity is Heav’n’s and yours; Nor can she find

  A Throne so soft as in a Womans Mind.

  He said; she blush’d; and as o’eraw’d by Might, 1135

  Seem’d to give Theseus what she gave the Knight.

  Then turning to the Theban, thus he said:

  Small Arguments are needful to persuade

  Your Temper to comply with my Command;

  And speaking thus, he gave Emilia’s Hand. 1140

  Smil’d Venus, to behold her own true Knight

  Obtain the Conquest, though he lost the Fight,

  And bless’d with Nuptial Bliss the sweet laborious Night.

  Eros, and Anteros, on either Side,

  One fir’d the Bridegroom, and one warm’d the Bride; 1145

  And long-attending Hymen from above

  Showr’d on the Bed the whole Idalian Grove.

  All of a Tenour was their After-Life,

  No Day discolour’d with Domestick Strife;

  No Jealousie, but mutual Truth believ’d, 1150

  Secure Repose, and Kindness undeceiv’d.

  Thus Heavn, beyond the Compass of his Thought,

  Sent him the Blessing he so dearly bought.

  So may the Queen of Love long Duty bless,

  And all true Lovers find the same Success.

  The End of the Third Book.

  The Cock and the Fox, or the Tale of the Nun’s Priest

  THERE liv’d, as Authors tell, in Days of Yore,

  A Widow, somewhat old, and very poor:

  Deep in a Cell her Cottage lonely stood,

  Well thatch’d, and under covert of a Wood.

  This Dowager, on whom my Tale I found, 5

  Since last she laid her Husband in the Ground,

  A simple sober Life in patience led,

  And had but just enough to buy her Bread:

  But Huswifing the little Heav’n had lent,

  She duly paid a Groat for Quarter-Rent; 10

  And pinch’d her Belly, with her Daughters two,

  To bring the Year about with much ado.

  The Cattel in her Homestead were three Sows,

  An Ewe called Mally, and three brinded Cows.

  Her Parlor-Window stuck with Herbs around 15

  Of sav’ry Smell; and Rushes strewed the Ground.

  A Maple-Dresser in her Hall she had,

  On which full many a slender Meal she made:

  For no delicious Morsel pass’d her Throat;

  According to her Cloth she cut her Coat: 20

  No paynant Sawce she knew, no costly Treat,

  Her Hunger gave a Relish to her Meat:

  A sparing Diet did her Health assure;

  Or sick, a Pepper-Posset was her Cure.

  Before the Day was done, her Work she sped, 25

  And never went by Candle-light to Bed;

  With Exercise she sweat ill Humors out;

  Her Dancing was not hinder’d by the Gout.