Sidor som bilder




the Great.

[By Mr. S A UN D E R S, 1681.)

Commends to you the fortune of his play.
A woman wit has often grac'd the stage;
But he's the first boy-poet of our age.
Early as is the year his fancies blow,
Like young Narcissus peeping thro' the snow.
Thus Cowley blossom'd soon, yet flourish'd long;
This is as forward, and may prove as strong.
Youth with the fair should always favour find,
Or we are damn'd diffemblers of our kind.
What's all this love they put into our parts?
'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts.
Should hag and grey-beard make such tender moan,
Faith, you'd e'en trust them to themselves alone,
And cry, Let's go, here's nothing to be done.
Since Love's our business, as 'tis your delight,

young, who best can practise, beft can write.
What tho' he be not come to his full power,
He's mending and improving every hour.
You fly fhe-jockies of the box and pit,
Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken wit:
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old batter'd jade;
Faint and unnery'd he runs into a sweat,
And always fails you at the second heat.


[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]


HE fam'd Italian muse, whose rhimes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of

Records, that, when our wit and sense is flown,
'Tis lodg’d within the circle of the moon,
In earthen jars, which one, who thither soard,
Set to his nose, snuff’d up, and was restor’d.
Whate'er the story be, the moral's true;
The wit we lost in town, we find in you.
Our poets their fed parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with fober sense.
When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
Here busy senates, to th' old cause inclin'd,
May snuff the votes their fellows left behind :
Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,
May come, and find their last provision here:
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,
Who neither carry'd back, nor brought one cross.
We look'd what representatives would bring;
But they help'd us, juit as they did the king.
Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth
The Sibyls books to those who know their worth;
And tho' the first was facrific'd before,
These volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prescription you are kind.
He, whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,
Has never fpar'd the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his fatire into praise.


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors][merged small]

Upon his first Appearance at the Duke's Theatre after his Return from Scotland,


N those cold regions which no summers chear,

Where brooding darkness covers half the year
To hollow ċaves the fiv'ring natives go;
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow :
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at th' approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;
Happy who firit can see the glimmering sun :
The surly favage offspring disappear,
And curse the bright successor of the year.
Yet, tho'rough bears in covert seek defence,
White foxes stay, with seeming innocence:
That crafty kind with day-light can dispense:
Still we are throng'd fo full with Reynard's race,
That loyal subjects scarce can find a place :
Thus modest truth is cait behind the croud:
Truth speaks too low; hypocrisy too loud.
Let them be first to flatter in success;
Duty can stay, but guilt has need to press.
Once, when true zeal the sons of God did call,
To make their solemn few at heaven's Whitehall,
'The fawning devil appear'd among the rest,
And made as good a courtier as the best.



[ocr errors][ocr errors]

The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,


in hand when he had three times more.
Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;
Kings can forgive, if rebels can but fue :
A tyrant's power in rigour is expreft;
The father yearns in the true prince's breast.
We grant, an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend;
But most are babes, that know not they offend.
The croud, to restless motion still inclin'd,
Are clouds, that tack according to the wind.
Driven by their chiefs they storms of hailstones pour ;
Then mourn, and soften to a filent shower.
O welcome to this much-offending land,
The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
Thus angels on glad messages appear :
Their first falute commands us not to fear:
Thus heaven, that could conitrain us to obey,
(With rev'rence if we might presume to say)
Seems to relax the rights of fov'reign sway:
Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
And makes us happy by our own free-will.


[ocr errors][merged small]


To the EARL of ESSEX.


[By Mr. J. B A N K S, 1682.]

Spoken to the King and the QUE E N at

their coming to the House.


HEN first the ark was landed on the shore,
And heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no

more ;
When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw;
The dove was sent to view the waves decrease,
And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the royal dove,
Still innocent as harbinger of love:
The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye powers, why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true ?
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food ?
Must England ftill the scene of changes be,
Toft and tempestuous, like our ambient sea ?
Must still our weather and our wills agree ?
Without our blood our liberties we have:
Who that is free would fight to be a llave ?




« FöregåendeFortsätt »