With a just trim of Virtue her Soul was endu'd,
Not affectedly Pious nor secretly lewd
She cut even between the Cocquet and the Prude.
Her Will with her Duty so equally stood
That seldom oppos'd She was commonly good,
And did pritty well, doing just what she wou'd.
Declining all Pow'r she found means to perswade,
Was then most regarded when most she Obey'd,
The Mistress in truth when she seem'd but the Maid.
Such care of her own proper Actions She took
That on other folks lives She had no time to look,
So Censure and Praise were struck out of her Book.
Her thought stil confin'd to its own little Sphere,
She minded not who did Excell or did Err
But just as the matter related to her.
Then too when her Private Tribunal was rear'd
Her Mercy so mix'd with her judgment appear'd
That her Foes were condemn'd and her friends always clear'd.
Her Religion so well with her learning did suite
That in Practice sincere, and in Controverse Mute,
She shew'd She knew better to live than dispute.
Some parts of the Bible by heart She recited,
And much in historical Chapters delighted,
But in points about Faith She was something short sighted ;
So Notions and modes She refer'd to the Schools,
And in matters of Conscience adher'd to Two Rules,
To advise with no Biggots, and jest with no Fools.
And scrupling but little, enough she believ'd,
By Charity ample smal sins She retriev'd,
And when she had New Cloaths She always receiv'd.
Thus stil whilst her Morning unseen fled away
In ord❜ring the Linnen and making the Tea
That she scarce cou'd have time for the Psalms of the Day;
And while after Dinner the Night came so soon
That half she propos'd very seldom was done;
With twenty God bless Me's how this day is gone;
While she read and accounted and payd and abated,
Eat and drank, play'd and work't, laught and cry'd, lov'd and hated,
As answer'd the end of her being Created:
In the midst of her Age came a cruel Desease
Which neither her Julips nor recepts cou'd appease;
So down dropt her Clay, may her Soul be at peace.
Retire from this Sepulchre all the Prophane,
You that love for Debauch, or that marry for gain,
Retire least Ye trouble the Manes of J
But Thou that know'st Love above Intrest or Lust,
Strew the Myrtle and Rose on this once belov'd Dust,
And shed one pious tear upon Jinny the Just.
Tread soft on her Grave, and do right to her honor,
Let neither rude hand nor ill Tongue light upon her,
Do all the smal Favors that now can be done her.
And when what Thou lik't shal return to her Clay,
For so I'm perswaded she must do one Day
What ever fantastic J.... Asgil may say,
When as I have done now, thou shalt set up a Stone
For something however distinguisht or known,
May some Pious Friend the Misfortune bemoan,
And make thy Concern by reflexion his own.
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.
The Muses Mercury, February 1707
JOSEPH ADDISON
Italy and Britain
OW has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy Land,
But what avail her unexhausted Stores,
Her blooming Mountains and her sunny Shores,
With all the Gifts that Heav'n and Earth impart,
The Smiles of Nature, and the Charms of Art,
While proud Oppression in her Vallies reigns,
And Tyranny usurps her happy Plains?
poor Inhabitant beholds in vain
The red'ning Orange and the swelling Grain:
Joyless he sees the growing Oils and Wines,
And in the Myrtle's fragrant Shade repines:
Starves in the midst of Nature's Bounty curst,
And in the loaden Vine-yard dies for Thirst.
Oh Liberty, thou Goddess Heav'nly bright,
Profuse of Bliss, and pregnant with Delight,
Eternal Pleasures in thy Presence reign,
And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton Train!
Eas'd of her load Subjection grows more light,
And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak'st the gloomy Face of Nature gay,
Giv'st Beauty to the Sun, and Pleasure to the Day.
Thee, Goddess, Thee, Britannia's Isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her Stores,
How oft in Fields of Death thy Presence sought?
Nor thinks the mighty Prize too dearly bought:
On Foreign Mountains may the Sun refine
The Grape's soft Juice, and mellow it to Wine,
With Citron Groves adorn a distant Soil,
And the fat Olive swell with floods of Oil:
We envy not the warmer Clime that lies
In ten Degrees of more indulgent Skies,
Nor at the Courseness of our Heav'n repine,
Tho' o're our Heads the frozen Pleiads shine:
'Tis Liberty that Crowns Britannia's Isle,
And makes her barren Rocks and her bleak Mountains smile. A Letter from Italy, 1701
O, my Muse, what Numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious Troops in Battel join'd!
Methinks I hear the Drum's tumultuous Sound
The Victor's Shouts and Dying Groans confound,
The dreadful Burst of Cannon rend the Skies,
And all the Thunder of the Battel rise.
'Twas then Great MARLBRO's mighty Soul was prov'd,
That, in the Shock of Charging Hosts unmov'd,
Amidst Confusion, Horror, and Despair,
Examin'd all the Dreadful Scenes of war;
In peaceful Thought the Field of Death survey'd,
To fainting Squadrons sent the timely Aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd Battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful Battel where to rage.
So when an Angel by Divine Command
With rising Tempests shakes a guilty Land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and Serene he drives the furious Blast;
And, pleas'd th' Almighty's Orders to perform,
Rides in the Whirl-wind, and directs the Storm.
But see the haughty Houshold-Troops advance!
The Dread of Europe, and the Pride of France.
The War's whole Art each private Soldier knows,
And with a Gen'ral's Love of Conquest glows;
Proudly He Marches on, and void of Fear
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:
Vain Insolence! with Native Freedom brave
The meanest Briton scorns the highest Slave;
Contempt and Fury fire their Souls by turns,
Each Nation's Glory in each Warriour burns,
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