Part 4

Why do I love? go ask the glorious sun Why every day it round the world doth run: Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow: Ask damask roses why in June they blow: Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold: Decaying beauties, why they will grow old: They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move, Inforces them to this, and me to love. There is no reason for our love or hate, ’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate; ’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see, That is not good, though doated on by me: Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won, For that at least is equalled by my own: His carriage can to none obliging be, ’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity: Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind, Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d: His temper could not have so great a power, ’Tis mutable, and changes every hour: Those vigorous years that women so adore Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more; And yet I love this false, this worthless man, With all the passion that a woman can; Doat on his imperfections, though I spy Nothing to love; I love, and know not why. Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate, That I should love, and he should be ingrate.

_28. Mocked in Anger_

Farewell, ungrateful man, sail to some land, Where treachery and ingratitude command; There meet with all the plagues that man can bear, And be as wretched as I’m happy here. ’Twere vain to wish that Heav’n would punish thee, ’Twere vain to invocate the wind and sea, To fright thee with rude storms, for surely Fate Without a wish, will punish the ingrate. Its justice and thy crimes Heav’n so well knows, That all its creatures it will make thy foes (If they’re not so already), but none can Love such a worthless, such a sordid man; And though we’ve now no public enemies, And you’re too strong for private piracies, Yet is the vessel in more danger far, Than when with all our neighbours we had war: For all that know what guest it doth contain, Will strive to fire or sink it in the main. Plagued for thy sake, they all will reckon thee The Achan, or accursèd thing to be.

_29. Fortune Mistaken_

Though Fortune have so far from me removed All that I wish, or all I ever loved, And robbed our Europe of its chief delight, To bless the Africk world with Strephon’s sight: There with a lady beauteous, rich and young, Kind, witty, virtuous, the best born among The Africk maids, presents this happy swain, Not to oblige him, but to give me pain: Then to my ears, by tattling fame, conveys The tale with large additions; and to raise My anger higher, tells me ’tis designed That Hymen’s rites their hands and hearts must bind. Now she believes my business done, and I At the dire news would fetch a sigh and die: But she’s deceived, I in my Strephon grow, And if he’s happy, I must needs be so: Or if Fate could our interests disjoin, At his good fortune I should ne’er repine, Though ’twere my ruin; but I exult to hear, Insulting Mopsa I no more shall fear; No more he’ll smile upon that ugly Witch: In that one thought I’m happy, great and rich. And blind dame Fortune, meaning to destroy, Has filled my soul with extasies of joy: To him I love she’s given a happy fate, And quite destroyed and ruined her I hate.

_30. To Phylocles, inviting him to Friendship_

Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can Dwell in the bosom of inconstant man, As cold and clear as ice, as snow unstained, With Love’s loose crimes unsullied, unprofaned,

Or you a woman with that name dare trust, And think to friendship’s ties we can be just, In a strict league together we’ll combine, And [ ] friendship’s bright example shine.

We will forget the difference of sex, Nor shall the world’s rude censure us perplex Think me all man: my soul is masculine, And capable of as great things as thine.

I can be generous, just and brave, Secret and silent as the grave, And if I cannot yield relief, I’ll sympathise in all thy grief.

I will not have a thought from thee I’ll hide, In all my actions thou shalt be my guide; In every joy of mine thou shalt have share, And I will bear a part in all thy care.

Why do I vainly talk of what we’ll do? We’ll mix our souls, you shall be me, I you; And both so one it shall be hard to say Which is Phylocles, which Ephelia.

Our ties shall be as strong as the chains of Fate, Conquerors and kings our joys shall emulate; Forgotten friendship, held at first divine, To its native purity we will refine.

_31. My Fate_

Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be? When satisfied with tormenting me? What have I e’er designed, but thou hast crost? All that I wished to gain by thee, I’ve lost: From my first infancy, thy spite thou’st shown And from my cradle, I’ve thy malice known; Thou snatch’st my parents in their tender age, Made me a victim to the furious rage Of cruel fortune, as severe as thee; Yet I resolved to brave my destiny, And did, with more than female constancy. Not all thy malice could extort a tear, Nor all thy rage could ever teach me fear: Still as thy power diminished my estate My fortitude did my desires abate, In every state I did my mind content And nicely did thy cross designs prevent; Seeing thy plots did unsuccessful prove, As a sure torment next, thou taught’st me love: But here thou wert deceived too, for my swain, As soon as he perceived, pitied my pain: He met my passion with an equal fire, Both sweetly languished in a soft desire: Clasped in each other’s arms we sat all day, Each smile I gave he’d with a kiss repay: In every hour an age’s bliss we reaped, And lavish favours on each other heaped. Now sure (thought I) destiny doth relent, And her insatiate tyranny repent: But how mistaken! how deceived was I! Alas! she only raised my hopes thus high, To cast me down with greater violence; For midst our joys, she snatched my shepherd hence To Africa: yet though I was neglected, I bore it better than could be expected: Without regret I let him cross the sea, When I was told it for his good would be, But when I heard the nuptial knot he’d tied, And made an Africk nymph his happy bride: My temper then I could no longer hold, I cursed my fate, I cursed the power of gold, I cursed the easiness believed at first, And (Heaven forgive me) Him I almost cursed. Hearing my loss, to him was mighty gain; I checked my rage, and soon grew calm again: Malicious Fate, seeing this would not do, Made Strephon wretched, to make me so too. Of all her plagues, this was the weightiest stroke, This blow my resolved heart hath almost broke: Yet, spite of Fate, this comfort I’ve in store, She’s no room left for any ill thing more.

MARY MOLLINEUX

c. 1648-1695

_32. On the Sight of a Skull_

Behold, ambitious lump of clay refined, Thy epilogue; see, see to what design’d! So soon as thou wert born, so soon as air Affords thee breath, thy vitals to repair, So soon as thy small feeble embrion breast Is of an active power, unknown, possess’d; So soon thou may’st expect the dreadful day, When thou once more must be reduc’d to clay, And the whole fabrick of thy body must Again be brought to its first nothing, dust: Then shall those eyes, those crystal eyes of thine, Which now like sparkling diamonds do shine, Their little chambers circular forsake, And them to essence more obscure betake; The tender funnel of thy nose must thence Corroded be, and lose its smelling Sense; And all the volume of thy face will be So chang’d, none may thereby remember thee.

_33. To Her Lord_

Alas, how hard a Thing It is to bring Into a true Subjection Flesh and Blood, Quietly to entertain (And not complain) Those Exercises that attend for Good!

My Life, my Joy, my Love, If thus thou please to prove And exercise my poor perplexèd Mind, Teach me to wait in Fear, That I may learn to hear What Trials may attend, of any Kind:

And, guarded by thy Ray, Walk in the Way, That leads directly to the Throne of Grace; Where in Humility, Poor I may be Admitted to sit down i’ th’ heav’nly Place.

And there to thee discharge My griefs at large, As to a Bosom-Friend, that bears with me, And often passes by Faults of Infirmity: Alas, I cannot bear too much for thee!

ANNE KILLIGREW

1661 (?)-1685

_34. On a Picture painted by Herself, representing Two Nymphs of Diana_

We are Diana’s virgin train, Descended of no mortal strain; Our bows and arrows are our goods, Our pallaces, the lofty woods, The hills and dales, at early morn, Resound and eccho with our horn; We chase the hind and fallow deer, The wolf and boar both dread our spear, In swiftness we outstrip the wind, An eye and thought we leave behind; We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe, To sylvan pow’rs we give the law: Whatever does provoke our hate, Our javelins strike, as sure as fate; We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil, Contracted by our eager toil; In which we shine like glittering beams Or christal in the christal streams; Though Venus we transcend in form, No wanton flames our bosomes warm! If you ask where such wights do dwell, In what bless’t clime, that so excel? The poets onely that can tell.

_35. Upon the Saying that My Verses were made by Another_

Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse! I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse. O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire, And warm my soul with thy poetic fire, No love of gold shall share with thee my heart, Or yet ambition in my breast have part, More rich, more noble I will ever hold The Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold. An undivided sacrifice I’ll lay Upon thine altar, soul and body pay; Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be, My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee. The deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend. I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen: Could any doubt ensuing glory then? What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense, How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence! And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sight Didst glories represent so near and bright! By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant tree Apollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be; And every fresher branch, and every bough Appear’d as garlands to empale my brow. The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome joy; At first he to the cheated lover’s sight Nought represents but rapture and delight, Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bind Their hearts, than when they more assurance find. Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit (By some few hands) my most unlucky wit. But ah, the sad effects that from it came! What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame! Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all, Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call: Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore, And, as they thought, unto the owner bore. My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d, My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d: Another’s brow that had so rich a store Of sacred wreaths that circled it before; Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ran Into a vast, and boundless ocean) Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d, And that abyss yet no accession found. Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace) Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face; It was her radiant soul that shone within, Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin; That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye, Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye. Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame, But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name; What she did write, not only all allow’d, But every laurel to her laurel bow’d! The envious age, only to me alone, Will not allow what I do write my own; But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire, So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyre Do ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by thee Inspir’d divinely, and possest may be; I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate, To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.

_36. Epitaph on Herself_

When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse, And for a monument I leave my verse.

MRS. TAYLOR

c. 1685

_37. Song_

Strephon hath fashion, wit, and youth, With all things else that please; He nothing wants but Love and Truth To ruin me with ease.

But he is flint, and bears the art To kindle fierce desire, Whose pow’r enflames another’s heart, And he ne’re feels the fire.

O how it does my soul perplex, When I his charms recall, To think he shou’d despise our sex; Or, what’s worse love ’em all.

So that my heart, like Noah’s dove, In vain has sought for rest, Finding no hope to fix my love, Returns into my breast.

MARY, LADY CHUDLEIGH

1656-1710

_38. Solitude_

When all alone in some belov’d retreat, Remote from noise, from bus’ness and from strife, Those constant curst attendants of the great, I freely can with my own thoughts converse, And cloath them in ignoble verse, ’Tis then I tast the most delicious feast of life; There, uncontroul’d, I can my self survey, And from observers free, My intellectual pow’rs display, And all th’ opening scenes of beauteous Nature see: Form bright ideas, and enrich my mind, Enlarge my knowledge, and each error find; Inspect each action, ev’ry word dissect, And on the failure of my life reflect: Then from my self, to books, I turn my sight, And there, with silent wonder and delight, Gaze on th’ instructive venerable dead, Those that in vertue’s school were early bred, And since by rules of honour always led; Who its strict laws with nicest care obey’d, And were by calm unbyass’d reason sway’d: Their great examples elevate my mind, And I the force of all their precepts find; By them inspir’d, above dull earth I soar, And scorn those trifles which I priz’d before.

_39. Song_

Why, Damon, why, why, why so pressing? The heart you beg’s not worth possessing: Each look, each word, each smile’s affected, And inward charms are quite neglected; Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish swain, And sigh no more, no more, in vain;

Beauty’s worthless, fading, flying; Who would for trifles think of dying? Who for a face, a shape, would languish, And tell the brooks and groves his anguish, Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him, And all, and all beside despise him?

ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA

1660-1720

_40. The Soldier’s Death_

Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum, March in a slow procession from afar, Ye silent, ye dejected men of war! Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb! Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner; For see! where on the bier before ye lies The pale, the fall’n, the untimely sacrifice To your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.

_41. The Sensual Man_

When to the Under-world despis’d he goes, A pamper’d carcase on the worms bestows, Who, rioting on the unusual chear, As good a life enjoy, as he could boast of here.

_42. A Nocturnal Reverie_

In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confin’d; And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; Or from some tree, fam’d for the owl’s delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rers right: In such a night, when passing clouds give place, Or thinly vail the Heav’ns mysterious face; When in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; When freshen’d grass now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d grows; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet checquers still with red the dusky brakes: When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine, Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine; Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light, In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright: When odours, which declin’d repelling day, Thro’ temperate air uninterrupted stray; When darken’d groves their softest shadows wear And falling waters we distinctly hear; When thro’ the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabrick, awful in repose, While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal, And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale: When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining meads, Whose stealing pace, and lengthen’d shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear: When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine rechew the cud; When curlews cry beneath the village walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep, Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep: When a sedate consent the spirit feels, And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something, too high for syllables to speak; Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d, Finding the elements of rage disarm’d, O’er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own: In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks, and all’s confus’d again; Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew’d, Or pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pursu’d.

_43. A Wish for Her Retreat_

Give me there (since Heaven has shown It was not good to be alone) A partner suited to my mind, Solitary, pleas’d and kind; Who, partially, may something see Preferr’d to all the world in me; Slighting, by my humble side, Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride. When but two the Earth possest, ’Twas then happiest days, and best; They by bus’ness, nor by wars, They by no domestick cares, From each other e’er were drawn, But in some grove, or flow’ry lawn, Spent the swiftly flying time, Spent their own and Nature’s prime, In Love; that only passion given To perfect Man, whilst friends with Heaven.

_44. Adam Pos’d_

Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough, Thorns in his path, and labour on his brow, Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d skin, Cou’d he a vain fantastick nymph have seen, In all her airs, in all her antick graces, Her various fashions, and more various faces; How had it pos’d that skill, which late assign’d Just appellations to each several kind! A right idea of the sight to frame; T’ have guest from what new element she came; T’ have hit the wav’ring form, and giv’n this Thing a name.

_45. The Wit and the Beau_

Strephon, whose person ev’ry grace Was careful to adorn; Thought, by the beauties of his face, In Silvia’s love to find a place, And wonder’d at her scorn.

With bows, and smiles he did his part; But Oh! ’twas all in vain: A youth less fine, a youth of Art, Had talk’d himself into her heart And wou’d not out again.

Strephon with change of habits press’d, And urg’d her to admire; His love alone the other dress’d, As verse or prose became it best, And mov’d her soft desire.

This found, his courtship Strephon ends, Or makes it to his glass; There in himself now seeks amends, Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends, A Beau is but an ass.

_46. The Critick and the Writer of Fables_

Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way, Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray; To Fable I descend with soft delight, Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite: Whilst aery fictions hastily repair To fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care, As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart, And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.

But here, the critick bids me check this vein. Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain, But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain. Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails, Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales.

Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies, The easily persuaded poet cries, Since meaner works you men of taste despise. The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage, Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage. The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ arts Shall boast such language, to adorn their parts, As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow, Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow. Amidst her towers, the dedicated horse Shall be receiv’d, big with destructive force; Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down, ‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’

Is this the way to please the Men of Taste, The interrupter cries, this old Bombast? I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright, When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite, As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.

To shades and springs shall we awhile repair, The Muse demands, and in that milder air Describe some gentle swain’s unhappy smart Whose folded arms still press upon his heart, And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart? Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns, The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains; Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods, And softens all the murmurs of the floods.

Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams, Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streams Which still, he cries, their even measures keep, Till both the writers, and their readers sleep. But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts, To shew us private, or the publick faults. Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke; We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke, And warmly sympathizing with the spite Apply to thousands what of one you write. Then, must that single stream the town supply, The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply, And all the rest of Helicon be dry? And when so many choice productions swarm, Must only Satire keep your fancies warm? Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve, As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve, Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve. Happy the men, whom we divert with ease, Whom Operas and Panegyrics please.

_47. To Death_