Abbildungen der Seite


THE GARDEN. Fain would my muse the flowery treasure sing, And humble glories of the youthful spring : Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse, And soft carnations shower their balmy dews; Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white, The thin undress of superficial light, And varied tulips shew so dazzling gay, Blushing in bright diversities of day. Each painted floweret in the lake below Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain Transformed, gazes on himself again. Here aged trees cathedral walks compose, And mount the hill in venerable rows; There the green infants in their beds are laid, The garden's hope, and its expected shade. Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine, And vernal honours to their autumn join; Exceed their promise in their ripen'd store, Yet in the rising blossom promise more. There in bright drops the crystal fountains play, By laurels shielded from the piercing day; Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid, Still from Apollo vindicates her shade, Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam, Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream; The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, At once a shelter from her boughs receives, Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.

While Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes :
The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise :
And thus through mists we see the sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretel the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft showers we view,

And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare vur doom is drawing nigh.
The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,
That heaven, the threaten'd world to spare,

Thought fit to drown him in her tears :
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire
To set, like him, heaven too on fire.


ON SILENCE. SILENCE ! coeval with eternity,

Thou wert, ere nature's self began to be; 'Twas one vast nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee. Thine was the sway, ere heaven was form'd, or

earth, Ere fruitful thought conceived creation's birth, Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

Then various elements against thee join'd,

In one more various animal combined, And framed the clamorous race of busy human-kind.

The tongue moved gently first, and speech was low,

Till wrangling science taught it noise and show, And wicked wit arose, thy most abusive foe.'

But rebel wit deserts thee oft in vain;

Lost in the maze of words he turns again, And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

Afflicted sense thou kindly dost set free,

Oppress’d with argumental tyranny,
And routed reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

With thee in private modest dulness lies,

And in thy bosom lurks in thought's disguise ; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise !

Yet thy indulgence is by both confess'd;

Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,
And 'tis in thee at last that wisdom seeks for rest.

Silence, the knave's repute, the whore's good name,

The only honour of the wishing dame; Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame. But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are

free, How church and state should be obliged to thee; At senate, and at bar, how welcome wouldst thou be!

Yet speech e'en there submissively withdraws,

From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause: Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,

What favourites gain, and what the nation owes, Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose,

The country wit, religion of the town,

The courtier's learning, policy of the gown, Are best by thee express'd; and shine in thee alone.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,

Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee, All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.


THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits ;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke!
Yet in some things methinks she fails;
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness, and so much pride,

Are oddly join'd by fate :
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;

All white and black beside:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.
So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,

Majestically stalk;
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

All flutter, pride, and talk.


PHRYNE had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfined,

Like some free port of trade;
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state

Here first their entry made.
Her learning and good-breeding such,
Whether th’ Italian or the Dutch,

Spaniards or French came to her ; To all obliging she'd appear: 'Twas ‘Si Signior,' 'twas • Yaw Mynbeer,'

'Twas ' S'il vous plait, Monsieur.' Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes, Still changing names, religion, climes,

At length she turns a bride:
In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,

And flutters in her pride.
So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)

Still vary shapes and dyes; Still gain new titles with new forms; First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms, Then painted butterflies.


Parson, these things in thy possessing,
Are better than the bishop's blessing:
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there's need:
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe pig, and mortuary guinea:
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd ;
A large Concordance, bound long since ;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince:
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth-thy band in:
The Polyglot-three parts—my text,
Howbeit,-likewise—now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint--and Paul,
To sum the whole,-the close of-all.

He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays-if he will;
Toast church and queen, explain the news,
Talk with churchwardens about pews;
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Sw**t.



To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbrohe.

THE DESIGN. HAVING proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and bosoms,' I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in the abstract, his nature, and his state: since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

« ZurückWeiter »