Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  And own Auspicious Omens from his Reign.

  Set at long distance his Contracted Foes

  Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose;

  Draw shame or mean despair in all their Eyes,

  And terrour lest th’Avenging Hand should rise.

  But where his Smiles extend draw beauteous Peace,

  The Poor Man’s chearfull Toils, the Rich Man’s Ease.

  Here, Shepherds Piping to their feeding Sheep,

  Or stretcht at length in their warm Hutts asleep;

  There jolly Hinds spread through the sultry Fields,

  Reaping such Harvests as their Tillage yields;

  Or sheltr’d from the scorchings of the Sun,

  Their Labours ended, and repast begun;

  Rang’d on Green Banks which they themselves did raise,

  Singing their own Content, and Rulers Praise.

  Draw beauteous Meadows, Gardens, Groves and Bowers,

  Where Contemplation best may pass her Hours;

  Fill’d with Chast Lovers plighting Constant Hearts,

  Rejoycing Muses, and encourag’d Arts.

  Draw ev’ry thing like this that Thought can frame,

  Best suiting with thy Theam, Great Iames his Fame.

  Known for the Man who from his Youthfull years,

  By mighty Deeds has earn’d the Crown he wears,

  Whose Conq’ring Arm far envied wonders wrought,

  When an ungratefull Peoples Cause he Fought;

  When for their Rights he his brave Sword employ’d

  Who in Return would have his Rights destroy’d:

  But Heav’n such Injur’d merit did regard,

  (As Heav’n in time true Vertue will regard)

  So to a Throne by Providence he rose,

  And all who e’er were his, were Providence’s Foes.

  FINIS.

  EPISTLES, TRANSLATIONS, PROLOGUES, AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

  EPISTLES, &c.

  THE minor poems of Otway are not entitled, by their individual merit, to distinct analysis. Whether it be, that an habitual application of thought to one mode of writing, restrains the fancy in other casual excursions; or that the mind, by long familiarity with subjects of superior rank, forgets how to descend with ease and grace to those of a subordinate nature; it is remarkable, that the genius of our chief dramatic authors is seldom exerted with felicity or splendour in their occasional productions. Dryden is an illustrious exception to the remark; whose versatility of talent prompted him to essay almost every species of composition, and to excel in each. Of the following pieces, the “Epistle to Mr. Duke,” affords the best specimen of Otway’s poetical powers. It discovers some liveliness of fancy; but a bright thought is sometimes concealed or obscured, as in the other poems, by lame and unskilful numbers. The pastoral, which was probably interrupted by his death, (for it does not appear to have been published by him, or on his account,) is a very indifferent attempt in a kind of poetry debased by being the perpetual vehicle of puerile and insipid sentiments. All the smaller poems of Otway are here, for the first time, collected together: no edition of his works having hitherto contained the whole of them.

  EPISTLE TO MR. DUKE.

  [This epistle first appeared in Tonson’s “Miscellany Poems; containing a new translation of Virgil’s Eclogues, Ovid’s Elegies, Odes of Horace, &c.” 8vo. 1684. It was entitled “An Epistle to R. D.” There is an answer to it among Duke’s poems.]

  MY much-lov’d friend, when thou art from my eyes,

  How do I loath the day, and light despise!

  Night, kinder night’s the much more welcome guest,

  For tho’ it bring small ease, it hides at least;

  Or if e’er slumbers and my eyes agree,

  ’Tis when they’re crown’d with pleasing dreams of thee.

  Last night methought (heav’n make the next as kind)

  Free as first innocence, and unconfin’d

  As our first parents in their Eden were,

  Ere yet condemn’d to eat their bread with care;

  We two together wander’d thro’ a grove,

  ’Twas green beneath us, and all shade above,

  Mild as our friendship, springing as our love;

  Hundreds of cheerful birds fill’d ev’ry tree,

  And sung their joyful songs of liberty;

  While thro’ the gladsome choir well-pleas’d we walk’d,

  And of our present valu’d state thus talk’d:

  How happy are we in this sweet retreat!

  Thus humbly blest, who’d labour to be great?

  Who for preferments at a court would wait,

  Where ev’ry gudgeon’s nibbling at the bait?

  What fish of sense would on that shallow lie,

  Amongst the little starving wriggling fry,

  That throng and crowd each other for a taste

  Of the deceitful, painted, poison’d paste;

  When the wide river he behind him sees,

  Where he may launch to liberty and ease?

  No cares or business here disturb our hours,

  While underneath these shady, peaceful bowers,

  In cool delight and innocence we stray,

  And midst a thousand pleasures waste the day:

  Sometimes upon a rivers bank we lie,

  Where skimming swallows o’er the surface fly;

  Just as the sun declining, with his beams,

  Kisses, and gently warms the gliding streams;

  Amidst whose current rising fishes play,

  And roll in wanton liberty away.

  Perhaps hard by there grows a little bush,

  On which the linnet, nightingale and thrush,

  Nightly their solemn orgies meeting keep,

  And sing their vespers ere they go to sleep:

  There we two lie, between us may be’s spread

  Some book few understand, tho’ many read.

  Sometimes we Virgil’s sacred leaves turn o’er,

  Still wond’ring, and still finding cause for more.

  How Juno’s rage did good Æneas vex,

  Then how he had revenge upon her sex

  In Dido’s state, whom bravely he enjoy’d,

  And quitted her as bravely too when cloy’d:

  He knew the fatal danger of her charms,

  And scorn’d to melt his virtue in her anus.

  Next Nisus and Euryalus we admire,

  Their gentle friendship, and their martial fire;

  We praise their valour, ‘cause yet match’d by none;

  And love their friendship, so muck like our own.

  But when to give our minds a feast indeed,

  Horace, best known and lov’d by thee, we read,

  Who can our transports, or our longings tell,

  To taste of pleasures, prais’d by him so well?

  With thoughts of love, and wine, by him we’re fir’d,

  Two things in sweet retirement much desir’d;

  A gen’rous bottle and a lovesome she,

  Are the only joys in nature next to thee:

  To which retiring quietly at night,

  If (as that only can) to add delight,

  When to our little cottage we repair,

  We find a friend or two we’d wish for there,

  Dear B — ly, kind as parting lovers’ tears,

  Adderly, honest as the sword he wears,

  Wilson, professing friendship, yet a friend,

  Or — Short, beyond what numbers can commend.

  Finch, full of kindness, gen’rous as his blood,

  [Note: This was Dr. Thomas Short, one of the physicians to Charles the Second, and who attended him during his last illness. An opinion he expressed of poison having been administered to the king, produced a great deal of noise and controversy at the time; especially as the Doctor did not long survive him. Burnet thus relates the affair: “Short, another physician, who was a papist, but after a form of his Own, did very much suspect foul dealing: and he
had talked more freely of it, than any of the protestants durst do at that time. But he was not long after taken suddenly ill, upon a large draught of wormwood wine which he had drunk in the house of a popish patient, that lived near the Tower, who had sent for him, of which he died. And, as he said to Lower, Millington, and some other physicians, he believed that he himself was poisoned for his having spoken so freely of the king’s death.” Hist, of his own Times, book 3. — Short was the mutual friend of Otway and Duke: the latter has inscribed to him a translation of one of the Idyls of Theocritus.]

  Watchful to do to modest merit good;

  Who have forsook the wild tumultuous town,

  And for a taste of life to us come down:

  With eager arms how closely then we embrace,

  What joy’s in ev’ry heart, and ev’ry face!

  The moderate table’s quickly cover’d o’er

  With choicest meats at least, tho’ not with store:

  Of bottles next succeeds a goodly train,

  Full of what cheers the heart, and fires the brain.

  Each waited on by a bright virgin glass,

  Clean, sound and shining like it’s drinker’s lass.

  Then down we sit, while ev’ry genius tries

  T’ improve, till he deserves his sacrifice.

  No saucy hour presumes to stint delight,

  We laugh, love, drink, and when that’s done ’tis night:

  Well warm’d and pleas’d, as we think fit we part,

  Each takes th’ obedient treasure of his heart,

  And leads her willing to his silent bed,

  Where no vexatious cares come near his head,

  But ev’ry sense with perfect pleasure’s fed;

  Till in full joy dissolv’d each falls asleep,

  With twining limbs, that still love’s posture keep,

  At dawn of morning to renew delight;

  So quiet craving love till the next night:

  Then we the drowsy cells of sleep forsake,

  And to our books our earliest visit make;

  Or else our thoughts to their attendance call,

  And there, methinks, Fancy sits queen of all;

  While the poor under-faculties resort,

  And to her sickly majesty make court;

  The Understanding first comes plainly clad,

  But usefully; no ent’rance to be had.

  Next comes the Will, that bully of the mind,

  Follies wait on him in a troop behind;

  He meets reception from the antic queen,

  Who thinks her majesty’s most honour’d, when

  Attended by those fine-drest gentlemen.

  Reason, the honest counsellor, this knows,

  And into court with res’lute Virtue goes:

  Lets Fancy see her loose irregular sway:

  Then how the flatt’ring follies sneak away!

  This image when it came, too fiercely shook

  My brain, which it’s soft quiet straight forsook;

  When waking as I cast my eyes around,

  Nothing but old loath’d vanities I found;

  No grove, no freedom, and what’s worse to me,

  No friend; for I have none compar’d with thee.

  Soon then my thoughts with their old tyrant Care

  Were seiz’d; which to divert I fram’d this pray’r.

  Gods! life’s your gift, then season’t with such fate,

  That what ye meant a blessing prove no weight.

  Let me to the remotest part be whirl’d,

  Of this your play-thing made in haste, the world;

  But grant me quiet, liberty, and peace,

  By day what’s needful, and at night soft ease;

  The mend I trust in, and the she I love,

  Then fix me; and if e’er I wish remove,

  Make me as great (that’s wretched) as ye can,

  Set me in power, the woeful’st state of man;

  To be by fools misled, to knaves a prey:

  But make life what I ask, or take’t away.

  TO MR. CREECH, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

  [Creech’s translation of Lucretius has this epistle prefixed to it.]

  SIR,

  WHEN your book the first time came abroad,

  I must confess I stood amaz’d and aw’d;

  For, as to some good-nature I pretend,

  I fear’d to read, lest I should not commend.

  Lucretius English’d! ’twas a work might shake

  The pow’r of English verse to undertake.

  This all men thought; but you are born, we find,

  T’ out-do the expectations of mankind;

  Since you’ve so well the noble task perform’d,

  Envy’s appeas’d, and Prejudice disarm’d:

  For when the rich original we peruse,

  And by it try the metal you produce;

  Tho’ there indeed the purest ore we find,

  Yet still in you it something seems refin’d:

  Thus when the great Lucretius gives a loose,

  And lashes to her speed his fiery muse;

  Still with him you maintain an equal pace,

  And bear full stretch upon him all the race;

  But when in rugged way we find him rein

  His verse, and not so smooth a stroke maintain;

  There the advantage he receives is found,

  By you taught temper, and to choose his ground.

  Next, his philosophy you’ve so exprest

  In genuine terms, so plain, yet neatly drest,

  Those murd’rers that now mangle it all day

  In schools, may learn from you the easy way

  To let us know what they would mean and say:

  If Aristotle’s friends will shew the grace

  To wave for once their statute in that case.

  Go on then, sir, and since you could aspire,

  And reach this height, aim yet at laurels higher;

  Secure great injur’d Maro from the wrong.

  He unredeem’d has labour’d with so long

  In Hoi born rhyme, and lest the book should fail,

  Expos’d with pictures to promote the sale:

  [John Ogilby’s translation of Virgil, (to which this refers) it mentioned by Winstanley as being “done to the life, with excellent sculptures.” These cuts were highly esteemed; and served for a Latin edition of the same author. Dryden’s translation (which superseded Ogilby’s) bore tome of the tame engravings.]

  So tapsters set out signs for muddy ale.

  You’re only able to retrieve his doom,

  And make him here as fam’d as once at Home:

  For sure when Julius first this isle subdu’d,

  Your ancestors then mix’d with Roman blood;

  Some near allied to that whence Ovid came,

  Virgil and Horace, those three sons of fame;

  Since to their memory it is so true,

  And shews their poetry so much in you.

  Go on, in pity to this wretched isle,

  Which ignorant poetasters do defile

  With lousy madrigals for lyric verse;

  Instead of comedy, with nasty farce.

  Would Plautus, Terence e’er have been so lewd,

  T’ have drest Jack-pudding up to catch the crowd?

  Or Sophocles five tedious acts have made,

  To shew a whining fool in love betray’d

  By some false friend, or slipp’ry chambermaid;

  Then, ere he hangs himself, bemoan his fall

  In a dull speech, and that fine language call?

  No, since we live in such a fulsome age,

  When nonsense loads the press, and chokes the stage;

  When blockheads will claim wit in Nature’s spite,

  And ev’ry dunce that starves, presumes to write;

  Exert yourself, defend the muses’ cause,

  Proclaim their right, and to maintain their laws

  Make the dead ancients speak the British t
ongue;

  That so each chattering daw who aims at song,

  In his own mother-tongue may humbly read

  What engines yet are wanting in his head,

  To make him equal to the mighty dead:

  For of all nature’s works we most should scorn

  The thing who thinks himself a poet born:

  Unbred, untaught, he rhymes, yet hardly spells,

  And senselessly, as squirrels jangle bells.

  Such things, sir, here abound; may therefore you

  Be ever to your friends, the muses, true;

  May our defects be by your pow’rs supplied,

  Till, as our envy now, you grow our pride:

  Till by your pen restor’d, in triumph borne,

  The majesty of poetry return.

  London, Jan. 10, 82.

  PHÆDRA TO HIPPOLYTUS.

  TRANSLATED OUT OF OVID.

  [This appeared in a collection of Ovid’s Epistles, translated by Dryden and others, 8vo. 1680.]

  THE ARGUMENT. Theseus, the son of Ægeus, having slain the Minotaur, promised to Ariadne, the daughter of Minos and Pasiphae, for the assistance which she gave him, to carry her home with him, and make her his wife; so, together with her sister Phædra, they went on board, and sailed to Chios, where, being warned by Bacchus, he left Ariadne, and married her sister Phædra; who afterwards, in Theseus her husband’s absence, fell in love with Hippolytus, her son-in-law, who had vowed celibacy, and was a hunter; wherefore, since she could not conveniently otherwise, she chose by this epistle to give him an account of her passion.

  IF thou’rt unkind I ne’er shall health enjoy,

  Yet much I wish to thee, my lovely boy:

  Read this, and reading how my soul is seiz’d,

  Rather than not, be with my ruin pleas’d:

  Thus secrets safe to farthest shores may move;

  By letters foes converse, and learn to love.

  Thrice my sad tale, as I to tell it tried,

  Upon my fault’ring tongue abortive died;

  Long shame prevail’d, nor could be conquer’d quite,

  But what I blush’d to speak, Love made me write.

  ’Tis dang’rous to resist the pow’r of Love,

  The gods obey him, and he’s king above;

  He clear’d the doubts that did my mind confound,

  And promis’d me to bring thee hither bound.

  Oh! may he come, and in that breast of thine

  Fix a kind dart, and make it flame like mine!

  Yet of my wedlock vows I’ll lose no care,