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Of heav'n, that though the world hath done his worst That set thee there to testify their right;
And art become a traitor to their name, z aut it out by discords most unkind,
That trusted thee with all the best they might;
Thou shalt stand still bely'd and slandered,
The only gazing-stock of ignorance,
And by thy guile the wise admonished, The inheritance of fame you must possess :
I tramover more desire such hopes t'advance,
Consid’ring tirno glory with the dead You that have built you by your great deserts And yet lie safe (as fresh as their fame to chance. (Out of small means) a far more exquisite
All those great worthies of antiquity, And glorious dwelling for your
Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive; Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. Who stronger tombs found for eternity,
Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive. DESCRIPTION OF STONE-HENGE.
Where they remain these trifles to upbraid,
Out of the reach of spoil, and And whereto serves that wondrous trophy now
Though time with all his pow'r of years hath laid That on the goodly plain near Walton stands?
Long batt’ry, back'd with undermining age; That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how, Yet they make head only with their own aid, Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands, And war with his all-conqu’ring forces wage; Nor for whose glory-it was set to shew,
Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free,
And have a grant t' endure as long as he.
LOVE IN INFANCY.
Ah! I remember well (and how can I Inquires and asks his fellow traveller
But evermore remember well) when first What he had heard, and his opinion.
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was And he knows nothing. Then he turns again, The flame we felt; whenas we sat and sigh'd And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh, And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd And in himself with sorrow doth complain
Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; The misery of dark forgetfulness:
And yet were well, and yet we were not well, Angry with time that nothing should remain, And what was our disease we could not tell. Our greatest wonders' wonder to express.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse, In that first garden of our simpleness Robbing fair art and cunning of their right,
We spent our childhood: But when years began Tells how those stones were by the devil's force To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;
Would she with graver looks, and sweet stern brow, And thence to Brittany, by magic course,
Check my presumption and my forwardness; From giants' hands redeem'd by Merlin's sleight. Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show And then near Ambri plac'd, in memory
What she would have me, yet not have me know. Of all those noble Britons murder'd there, By Hengist and his Saxon treachery, Coming to parley, in peace at unaware.
THE STORY OF ISULLA. With this old legend then credulity
- There was sometime a nymph, Holds her content, and closes up her care.
Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, But is antiquity so great a liar?
Whose mother dying left her very young Or do her younger sons her age abuse ;
Unto her father's charge, who carefully Seeing after-comers still so apt t’ admire
Did breed her up until she came to years The grave authority that she doth use,
Of womanhood, and then provides a match That rev'rence and respect dares not require
Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse ?
But she, who to another shepherd had, Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far
Call's Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one Upon our early credit and delight;
Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, For once found false, they straight became to mar
Could not by all her father's means be wrought Our faith, and their own reputation quite;
To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. That now her truths hardly believed are; [right.
This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, And though she avouch the right, she scarce bath
Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame,
As inmates both together, walking forth That standst corrupted so with time's despite,
With other maids to fish upon the shore ; And giv’st false evidence against their fame
Estrays apart, and leaves her company,
To entertain herself with her own thoughts: Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
With safeguard of her body at her will.
The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph, By pirates, who lay lurking underneath
All crying to him in this piteous sort,
His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears;
And some beholders stood not with dry eyes; Into their ship, which in a little creek
Such passion wrought the passion of their prize. Hard by at anchor lay,
Never was there pardon, that did take
Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd,
And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Within the ship, which in few days arrives Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;
At Alexandria, whence these pirates were; The most distressed soul that ever breath’d;
And there this woeful maid for two years' space And save me from the hands of those fierce men. Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife, Let me not be defild and made unclean,
(Who would not lose the benefit of her Dear woman, now, and I will be to you
Attendance, for her profit otherwise) The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv'd; But daring not in such a place as that Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd To do whatever you command, than I.
That she might be apparel'd like a boy ; No toil will I refuse; so that I may
And so she was, and as a boy she serv'd. Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, At two years' end her mistress sends her forth Which is all I will ever seek. For know
Unto the port for some commodities, It is not fear of death lays me thus low,
Which whilst she sought for, going up and down, But of that stain will make my death to blush.” She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk, All this would nothing move the woman's heart, Who spake that language the Arcadians did, Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought; And were next neighbours of one continent. “O woman, by that infant at your breast,
To them, all rapt with passion, down she kneels, And by the pains it cost you at the birth,
Tells them she was a poor distressed boy, Save me, as ever you desire to have
Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took, Your babe to joy and prosper in the world:
And made a slave in Egypt: and besought Which will the better prosper sure, if you
Them, as they fathers were of children, or Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!” Did hold their native country dear, they would Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too
Take pity on her, and relieve her youth The infant's feet; and “ Oh, sweet babe,” (said she)
From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd: “ Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me, For which she hoped that she had friends alive And crave her to have pity on my case,
Would thank them one day, and reward them too; Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do. Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak.” The merchants mov'd with pity of her case, The infant, whether by her touching it,
Being ready to depart, took her with them, Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,
And landed her upon her country coast : Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks
Where, when she found herself, she prostrate falls, L'pon the mother, then on her again,
Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, And then it cries, and then on either looks:
Thanks them who had been her deliverers, Which she perceiving;“ blessed child,” said she) And on she trudges through the desart woods, * Although thou can’st not speak, yet dost thou cry Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, Dear mother, it's for me it cries,
Sustained only by the force of love; It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries, Until she came unto her native plains, Sare me at his request from being defild:
Unto the fields where first she drew her breath. Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child." There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air, The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude, Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all: Yet having veins of nature, could not be
And," Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she, But pierceable, did feel at length the point “ Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,
I am, the same I ever was to thee; a pure, (Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought
A chaste, and spotless maid."
During these troubles in the court was hid
BALLAD ON A WEDDING. One that Apollo soon miss'd, little Cid;
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, And having spy'd him, call'd him out of the throng,
Where I the rarest things have seen: And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong.
Oh things without compare !
Such sights again cannot be found Murrey was summon’d, but 'twas urg'd, that he In any place on English ground, Was chief already of another company.
Be it at wake, or fair. Hales set by himself most gravely did smile
At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, To see them about nothing keep such a coil;
There is a house with stairs; Apollo had spy'd him, but knowing his mind
And there did I see coming down Past by, and call’d Falkland, that sate just behind:
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Though to say the truth, and Apollo did know it, (His beard no bigger though than thine) He might have been both his priest and his poet.
Walk'd on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him: At length who but an Alderman did appear,
The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him, At which Will Davenant began to swear;
Shou'd he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
By all the maids i’ th' town: He openly declar'd, that the best sign
Though lusty Roger there had been, Of good store of wit's to have good store of coin, Or little George upon the green, And without a syllable more or less said,
Or Vincent of the crown. He put the laurel on the Alderman's head.
But wot you what? the youth was going At this all the wits were in such amaze
To make an end of all his wooing; That, for a good while, they did nothing but gaze
The parson for him staid: One upon another; not a man in the place
Yet by his leave, for all his haste, But had discontent writ at large in his face.
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance) as did the maid. Only the small poets cheer'd up again,
The maid--and thereby hangs a tale
Could ever yet produce : When he lends to any poet about the town.
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
Nor half so full of juice.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
By this time all were stol'n aside, No daizy makes comparison,
To counsel and undress the bride; (Who sees them is undone)
But that he must not know: For streaks of red were mingled there,
But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind, Such as are on a Katherine pear,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.