The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. CHORUS: And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy, etc. VII Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; GRAND CHORUS At last divine Cecilia came, The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; MILTON THREE poets, in three distant ages born, WILLIAM CONGREVE [1670-1729] AMORET FAIR Amoret is gone astray; Coquet and coy at once her air, Both studied, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected. With skill her eyes dart every glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct 'em. She likes herself, yet others hates LADY WINCHILSEA [1661-1720] TO THE NIGHTINGALE EXERT thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. She begins! Let all be still! Muse, thy promise now fulfil! Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! Can thy words such accents fit? Canst thou syllables refine, Melt a sense that shall retain Still some spirit of the brain, Till with sounds like these it join? Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune, That's transcendent to our own, MATTHEW PRIOR [1664-1721] TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; For, while she makes her silk-worms beds She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends; She'll give me leave to write, I fear, For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it. CUPID MISTAKEN As, after noon, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart: I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak; I took you for your likeness, Chloe. THE DYING ADRIAN TO HIS SOUL POOR, little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lies all neglected, all forgot: And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. |