For while she makes her silk-worms beds,
With all the tender things, I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame,
For tho' the strictest prudes shou'd know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For as our diff'rent ages move,
'Tis so ordained, wou'd fate but mend it,
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
Attempted in English Sapphick
WHEN the fierce North-wind with his Airy Forces
Rears up the Baltick to a foaming Fury;
And the red Lightning with a Storm of Hail comes
Rushing amain down,
How the poor Sailers stand amaz'd and tremble !
While the hoarse Thunder like a bloody Trumpet
Roars a loud Onset to the gaping Waters
Such shall the Noise be, and the wild Disorder,
(If things Eternal may be like these Earthly),
Such the dire Terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the Creation;
Tears the strong Pillars of the Vault of Heaven,
Breaks up old Marble, the Repose of Princes;
Sees the Graves open, and the Bones arising,
Flames all around 'em.
Hark the shrill Outcries of the Guilty Wretches!
Lively bright Horror, and amazing Anguish,
Stare thro' their Eye-lids, while the living Worm lies
Gnawing within them.
Thoughts like old Vultures, prey upon their Heartstrings,
And the smart twinges, when their Eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a Flood of Vengeance Rolling afore him.
Hopeless Immortals! how they scream and shiver
While Devils push them to the Pit wide Yawning
Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong
Down to the Centre.
Stop here, my Fancy: (all away, ye horrid
Doleful Ideas!) come arise to Jesus,
How he sits God-like! and the Saints around him
Thron'd, and adoring !
O may I sit there when he comes Triumphant,
Dooming the Nations: Then ascend to Glory,
While our Hosannas all along the Passage
Shout the Redeemer.
BY CAPTAIN STEEL
ME Cupid made a Happy Slave,
A merry wretched Man,
I slight the Nymphs I cannot have,
Nor Doat on those I can.
This constant Maxim still I hold,
To baffle all Despair;
The Absent Ugly are and Old,
The Present Young and Fair.
DISTRACTED with Care,
For Phillis the Fair;
Since nothing cou'd move her,
Poor Damon, her Lover,
Resolves in Despair
No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much Anguish ;
But, mad with his Love,
To a Precipice goes;
Where, a Leap from above
Wou'd soon finish his Woes.
When in Rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The Sides did appear,
And the Bottom how deep;
His Torments projecting,
And sadly reflecting,
That a Lover forsaken
A new Love may get ;
But a Neck when once broken,
Can never be set;
And, that he cou'd die
Whenever he wou'd ;
But, that he cou'd live
But as long as he cou'd :
How grievous soever
The Torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour
To finish it so.
But Bold, Unconcern'd
At Thoughts of the Pain,
He calmly return'd
To his Cottage again.
Of all the Torments, all the Cares,
With which our Lives are curst;
Of all the Plagues a Lover bears,
Sure, Rivals are the worst!
By Partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow ;
In Love alone, we hate to find
Companions of our Woe.
Sylvia, for all the Pangs you see,
Are lab'ring in my Breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great so'ere your Rigours are:
With them alone, I'll cope;
I can endure my own Despair,
But not another's Hope.
WILLIAM Walsh.
IN IMITATION OF ANACREON
LET 'em Censure, what care I?
The Herd of Criticks I defie.
Let the Wretches know I write
Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no, the Fair, the Gay, the Young,
Govern the Numbers of my Song;
All that They approve is sweet,
And all is Sense that They repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire; Venus! String thy Servant's Lyre:
Love shall be my endless Theme;
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And, when these Maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy Fate be mine :
May I grasp at empty Praise ;
And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.
THE Merchant, to secure his Treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd Name:
Euphelia serves to grace my Measure;
But Cloe is my real Flame.
My softest Verse, my darling Lyre,
Upon Euphelia's Toylet lay;
When Cloe noted her Desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My Lyre I tune, my Voice I raise,
But with my Numbers mix my Sighs :
And, whilst I sing Euphelia's Praise,
I fix my Soul on Cloe's Eyes.
Fair Cloe blush'd, Euphelia frown'd;
I sung and gaz'd, I play'd and trembl'd:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd, how ill we all dissembl'd.
SIGHT THRO' A GLASS, AND FACE TO FACE
I LOVE the Windows of thy Grace
Thro' which my Lord is seen,
And long to meet my Saviour's Face
Without a Glass between.
O that the happy Hour were come,
To change my Faith to Sight!
I shall behold my Lord at Home
In a diviner Light.
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