by John Dryden
I rave: nor canst thou Venus’ offspring be, 35
Love’s Mother could not bear a Son like thee.
From harden’d Oak, or from a Rocks cold Womb,
At least thou art from some fierce Tygress come;
Or, on rough Seas, from their Foundation torn,
Got by the Winds, and in a Tempest born: 40
Like that, which now thy trembling Sailors fear;
Like that, whose Rage should still detain thee here.
Behold how high the Foamy Billows ride!
The Winds and Waves are on the juster side.
To Winter Weather, and a stormy Sea 45
I’ll owe, what rather I wou’d owe to thee.
Death thou deserv’st from Heav’ns avenging Laws;
But I’m unwilling to become the Cause.
To shun my Love, if thou wilt seek thy Fate,
’Tis a dear Purchase, and a costly Hate. 50
Stay but a little, ‘till the Tempest cease,
And the loud Winds are lull’d into a Peace.
May all thy Rage, like theirs, unconstant prove!
And so it will, if there be Pow’r in Love.
Know’st thou not yet what dangers Ships sustain? 55
So often wrack’d, how dar’st thou tempt the Main?
Which were it smooth, were ev’ry Wave asleep,
Ten thousand forms of Death are in the Deep.
In that abyss the Gods their Vengeance store,
For broken Vows of those who falsely swore. 60
There winged Storms on Sea-born Venus wait,
To vindicate the Justice of her State.
Thus, I to thee the means of Safety show;
And, lost my self, would still preserve my Foe.
False as thou art, I not thy Death design: 65
O rather live, to be the Cause of mine!
Shou’d some avenging Storm thy Vessel tear,
(But Heav’n forbid my words shou’d Omen bear)
Then in thy Face thy perjur’d Vows would fly;
And my wrong’d Ghost be present to thy Eye. 70
With threatning looks think thou behold’st me stare,
Gasping my Mouth, and clotted all my Hair.
Then shou’d fork’d Lightning and red Thunder fall,
What cou’dst thou say, but, I deserv’d ‘em all.
Lest this shou’d happen, make not hast away; 75
To shun the Danger will be worth thy Stay.
Have pity on thy Son, if not on me:
My Death alone is Guilt enough for thee.
What has his Youth, what have thy Gods deserv’d,
To sink in Seas, who were from fires preserv’d? 80
But neither Gods nor Parent didst thou bear;
(Smooth stories all, to please a Womans ear,)
False was the tale of thy Romantick life;
Nor yet am I thy first deluded Wife.
Left to pursuing Foes Creüsa stai’d, 85
By thee, base Man, forsaken and betray’d.
This, when thou told’st me, struck my tender Heart,
That such Requital follow’d such Desert.
Nor doubt I but the Gods, for Crimes like these,
Sev’n Winters kept thee wandring on the Seas. 90
Thy starv’d Companions, cast ashore, I fed,
Thy self admitted to my Crown and Bed.
To harbour Strangers, succour the distrest,
Was kind enough; but oh too kind the rest!
Curst be the Cave which first my Ruin brought, 95
Where, from the Storm, we common shelter sought!
A dreadful howling eccho’d round the place:
The Mountain Nymphs, thought I, my Nuptials grace.
I thought so then, but now too late I know
The Furies yell’d my Funerals from below. 100
O Chastity and violated Fame,
Exact your dues to my dead Husband’s name!
By Death redeem my reputation lost,
And to his Arms restore my guilty Ghost.
Close by my Pallace, in a Gloomy Grove, 105
Is rais’d a Chappel to my Murder’d Love;
There, wreath’d with boughs and wool his Statue stands
The pious Monument of Artful hands.
Last Night, me thought, he call’d me from the dome
And thrice, with hollow Voice, cry’d, Dido, come. 110
She comes; thy Wife thy lawful Summons hears;
But comes more slowly, clogg’d with conscious Fears.
Forgive the wrong I offer’d to thy Bed;
Strong were his Charms, who my weak Faith misled.
His Goddess Mother, and his aged Sire, 115
Born on his Back, did to my Fall conspire.
Oh such he was, and is, that were he true,
without a Blush I might his Love pursue.
But cruel Stars my Birth day did attend;
And as my Fortune open’d, it must end. 120
My plighted Lord was at the Altar slain,
Whose Wealth was made my bloody Brothers gain.
Friendless, and follow’d by the Murd’rer’s Hate,
To forein Countreys I remov’d my Fate;
And here, a Suppliant, from the Natives hands 125
I bought the Ground on which my City stands,
With all the Coast that stretches to the Sea;
Ev’n to the friendly Port that sheltred Thee:
Then rais’d these Walls, which mount into the Air,
At once my Neighbours wonder, and their fear. 130
For now they Arm; and round me Leagues are made,
My scarce Establisht Empire to invade.
To Man my new built walls I must prepare,
An helpless Woman, and unskill’d in War.
Yet thousand Rivals to my Love pretend; 135
And for my Person, would my Crown defend:
Whose jarring Votes in one complaint agree,
That each unjustly is disdain’d for thee.
To proud Hyarbas give me up a prey;
(For that must follow, if thou go’st away:) 140
Or to my Husbands Murd’rer leave my life,
That to the Husband he may add the Wife.
Go then, since no Complaints can move thy Mind:
Go, perjur’d Man, but leave thy Gods behind.
Touch not those Gods, by whom thou art forsworn, 145
Who will in impious Hands no more be born.
Thy Sacrilegious worship they disdain,
And rather wou’d the Grecian fires sustain.
Perhaps my greatest Shame is still to come;
And part of thee lies hid within my Womb. 150
The Babe unborn must perish by thy Hate,
And perish guiltless in his Mothers Fate.
Some God, thou say’st, thy Voyage does command;
Wou’d the same God had barr’d thee from my Land!
The same, I doubt not, thy departure Steers, 155
Who kept thee out at Sea so many Years;
While thy long Labours were a Price so great,
As thou to purchase Troy wouldst not repeat.
But Tyber now thou seek’st; to be at best,
When there arriv’d, a poor precarious Ghest. 160
Yet it deludes thy Search: Perhaps it will
To thy Old Age lie undiscover’d still.
A ready Crown and Wealth in Dower I bring,
And, without Conqu’ring, here thou art a King.
Here thou to Carthage may’st transfer thy Troy: 165
Here young Ascanius may his Arms imploy;
And, while we live secure in soft Repose,
Bring many Laurells home from Conquer’d Foes.
By Cupids Arrows, I adjure thee stay;
By all the Gods, Companions of thy way. 170
So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive
Live still, and with no future Fortune strive;
So may thy Youthful Son old Age attain,
As thou hast Pity on unhappy me, 175
Who knew no Crime, but too much Love of thee.
I am not born from fierce Achilles Line,
Nor did my Parents against Troy combine.
To be thy Wife if I unworthy prove,
By some inferiour Name admit my Love. 180
To be secur’d of still possessing thee,
What wou’d I do, and what wou’d I not be!
Our Lybian Coasts their certain Seasons know,
When free from Tempests Passengers may go:
But now with Northern Blasts the Billows roar, 185
And drive the floating Sea-weed to the Shore.
Leave to my care the time to Sail away;
When safe, I will not suffer thee to stay.
Thy weary Men wou’d be with ease content;
Their Sails are tatter’d, and their Masts are spent. 190
If by no Merit I thy Mind can move,
What thou deny’st my Merit, give my Love.
Stay, till I learn my Loss to undergo;
And give me time to struggle with my Woe.
If not; Know this, I will not suffer long; 195
My Life’s too loathsome, and my Love too strong.
Death holds my Pen, and dictates what I say,
While cross my Lap Thy Trojan Sword I lay.
My Tears flow down; the sharp Edge cuts their Flood,
And drinks my Sorrows, that must drink my bloud. 200
How well thy Gift does with my Fate agree!
My Funeral Pomp is cheaply made by thee.
To no new Wounds my Bosom I display:
The Sword but enters where Love made the way.
But thou, dear Sister, and yet dearer friend, 205
Shalt my cold Ashes to their Urn attend.
Sichæus Wife let not the Marble boast,
I lost that Title, when my Fame I lost.
This short Inscription only let it bear:
Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here. 210
The cause of death, & Sword by which she dy’d,
Æneas gave: the rest her arm supply’d.
The First Book of Ovid’s Art of Love
IN Cupid’s school whoe’er wou’d take Degree,
Must learn his Rudiments, by reading me.
Seamen with sailing Arts their Vessels move;
Art guides the Chariot; Art instructs to Love.
Of Ships and Chariots others know the Rule; 5
But I am Master in Love’s mighty School.
Cupid indeed is obstinate and wild,
A stubborn God; but yet the God’s a Child:
Easy to govern in his tender Age,
Like fierce Achilles in his Pupillage, 10
That Heroe, born for Conquest, trembling stood
Before the Centaur, and receiv’d the Rod.
As Chyron mollify’d his cruel Mind
With Art; and taught his Warlike Hands to wind
The Silver Strings of his melodious Lyre: 15
So Love’s fair Goddess does my Soul inspire,
To teach her softer Arts; to soothe the Mind,
And smooth the rugged Breasts of Human Kind.
Yet Cupid and Achilles, each with Scorn
And Rage were fill’d; and both were Goddess-born. 20
The Bull, reclaim’d and yok’d, the Burden draws:
The Horse receives the Bit within his Jaws;
And stubborn Love shall bend beneath my Sway,
Tho struggling oft he strives to disobey.
He shakes his Torch, he wounds me with his Darts; 25
But vain his Force, and vainer are his Arts.
The more he burns my Soul, or wounds my Sight,
The more he teaches to revenge the Spight.
I boast no Aid the Delphian God affords,
Nor Auspice from the flight of chattering Birds; 30
Nor Clio, nor her Sisters have I seen;
As Hesiod saw them on the shady Green:
Experience makes my Work a Truth so try’d,
You may believe; and Venus be my Guide.
Far hence, ye Vestals, be, who bind your Hair; 35
And Wives, who Gowns below your Ankles wear.
I sing the Brothels loose and unconfin’d,
Th’ unpunishable Pleasures of the Kind;
Which all a-like, for Love, or Mony find.
You, who in Cupid’s Rolls inscribe your Name, 40
First seek an Object worthy of your Flame;
Then strive, with Art, your Lady’s Mind to gain:
And, last, provide your Love may long remain.
On these three Precepts all my Work shall move:
These are the Rules and Principles of Love. 45
Before your Youth with Marriage is opprest,
Make choice of one who suits your Humour best:
And such a Damsel drops not from the Sky;
She must be sought for with a curious Eye.
The wary Angler, in the winding Brook, 50
Knows what the Fish, and where to bait his Hook.
The Fowler and the Hunts-man know by Name
The certain Haunts and Harbour of their Game.
So must the Lover beat the likeliest Grounds;
Th’ Assemblies where his quarry most abounds. 55
Nor shall my Novice wander far astray;
These Rules shall put him in the ready Way.
Thou shalt not sail around the Continent,
As far as Perseus, or as Paris went:
For Rome alone affords thee such a Store, 60
As all the World can hardly shew thee more.
The Face of Heav’n with fewer Stars is crown’d,
Than Beauties in the Roman Sphere are found.
Whether thy Love is bent on blooming Youth,
On dawning Sweetness, in unartful Truth; 65
Or courts the juicy Joys of riper Growth;
Here mayst thou find thy full Desires in both.
Or if Autumnal Beauties please thy Sight
(An Age that knows to give, and take Delight;)
Millions of Matrons of the graver Sort, 70
In common Prudence, will not balk the Sport.
In Summer Heats thou needst but only go
To Pompey’s cool and shady Portico;
Or Concord’s Fane; or that Proud Edifice,
Whose Turrets near the bawdy Suburb rise: 75
Or to that other Portico, where stands
The cruel Father, urging his Commands,
And fifty Daughters wait the Time of Rest,
To plunge their Ponyards in the Bridegroom’s Breast:
Or Venus Temple; where, on Annual Nights, 80
They mourn Adonis with Assyrian Rites.
Nor shun the Jewish Walk, where the foul drove,
On Sabbaths, rest from every thing but Love.
Nor Isis Temple; for that sacred Whore
Makes others, what to Jove she was before. 85
And if the Hall itself be not bely’d,
Ev’n there the Cause of Love is often try’d;
Near it at least, or in the Palace Yard,
From whence the noisy Combatants are heard.
The crafty Counsellors, in formal Gown, 90
There gain another’s Cause, but lose their own.
There Eloquence is nonplust in the Sute;
And Lawyers, who had Words at Will, are mute.
Venus, from her adjoyning Temple, smiles,
To see them caught in their litigious Wiles. 95
Grave Senators lead home the Youthful Dame,
Returning Clients, when they Patrons came.
But above all, the Play-House is the Place;
There’s Choice of Quarry in that narrow Chace.
There take thy Stand, and sharply looking out, 100
Soon mayst thou find a Mistress in the Rout,
For Length of Time, or for a single Bout.
The
Theatres are Berries for the Fair:
Like Ants on Mole-hills, thither they repair;
Like Bees to Hives, so numerously they throng, 105
It may be said, they to that Place belong.
Thither they swarm, who have the publick Voice:
There choose, if Plenty not distracts thy Choice.
To see and to be seen, in Heaps they run;
Some to undo, and some to be undone. 110
From Romulus the Rise of Plays began,
To his new Subjects a commodious Man;
Who, his unmarried Soldiers to supply,
Took care the Common-Wealth should multiply:
Providing Sabine Women for his Braves, 115
Like a true King, to get a Race of Slaves.
His Play-House not of Parian Marble made,
Nor was it spread with purple Sayls for shade.
The Stage with Rushes, or with Leaves they strewd:
No Scenes in Prospect, no machining God. 120
On Rows of homely Turf they sate to see,
Crown’d with the Wreaths of every common Tree.
There, while they sat in rustick Majesty,
Each Lover had his Mistress in his Eye;
And whom he saw most suiting to his Mind, 125
For Joys of matrimonial Rape design’d.
Scarce cou’d they wait the Plaudit in their Haste;
But, e’re the Dances and the Song were past,
The Monarch gave the Signal from his Throne;
And rising, bad his merry Men fall on. 130
The Martial Crew, like Soldiers ready prest,
Just at the Word (the Word too was the Best)
With joyful Cries each other animate;
Some choose, and some at Hazzard seize their Mate.
As Doves from Eagles, or from Wolves the Lambs, 135
So from their lawless Lovers fly the Dames.
Their Fear was one, but not one Face of Fear;
Some rend the lovely Tresses of their Hair;
Some shreik, and some are struck with dumb Despair.
Her absent Mother one invokes in vain; 140
One stands amaz’d, not daring to complain;
The nimbler trust their Feet, the slow remain.
But nought availing, all are Captives led,
Trembling and Blushing to the Genial Bed.
She who too long resisted, or deny’d, 145
The lusty Lover made by Force a Bride;
And, with superiour Strength, compell’d her to his Side.
Then sooth’d her thus! — My Soul’s far better Part,
Cease weeping, nor afflict thy tender Heart:
For what thy Father to thy Mother was, 150
That Faith to thee, that solemn Vow I pass!
Thus Romulus became so popular;
This was the Way to thrive in Peace and War;
To pay his Army, and fresh Whores to bring: