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_
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway
All that have life, must certainly obey,
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.
My name is on thy roll, and sure I must
Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.
My soul at this no apprehension feels,
But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;
Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;
At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads
Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.
Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;
My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill.
Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,
And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.
LADY GRISEL BAILLIE
1665-1746
_48. Werena my Heart’s licht_
There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men;
She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen;
But now she cries, Dool, and a well-a-day!
Come doun the green gait and come here away!
When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
He had a wee titty that loe’d na me,
Because I was twice as bonny as she;
She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his mother
That werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
The day it was set, and the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;
She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain,
Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.
His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said—What had he do wi’ the likes of me?
Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
They said I had neither cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o’ drink ring through the draff,
Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill e’e—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
His titty she was baith wylie and slee:
She spied me as I cam owre the lea;
And then she ran in, and made a loud din—
Believe your ain e’en, and ye trow not me.
His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,
His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new
But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.
And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes,
And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes:
The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,
We should hae been gallopin’ doun on yon green,
And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea—
And wow, gin I were but young for thee!
_49. The Ewe-Buchtin’s Bonnie_
The ewe-buchtin’s bonnie, baith e’enin’ and morn,
When owr blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we’re milking, they’re lilting, baith pleasant and clear;
But my heart’s fit to break when I think on my dear.
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks o’ sheep soon in the morn;
On the bonnie green banks they feed pleasand and free,
But alas, my dear heart, all my sighing’s for thee!
HON. MARY MONK
?-1715
_50. On a Favourite Dog_
Press gently on him, earth, and all around
Ye flowers spring up, and deck th’ enamelled ground,
Breathe forth your choicest odours, and perfume
With all your fragrant sweets his little tomb.
_51. Epitaph on a Gallant Lady_
O’er this marble drop a tear
Here lies fair Rosalind:
All mankind was pleased with her
And she with all mankind.
_52. Verses, written on her Death-bed at Bath to her Husband in London_
Thou who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy,
Thou tenderest husband and thou dearest friend,
To thee this first, this last adieu I send!
At length the conqueror death asserts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy sight;
He wooes me to him with a cheerful grace,
And not one terror clouds his meagre face;
He promises a lasting rest from pain,
And shews that all life’s fleeting joys are vain;
Th’ eternal scenes of heaven he sets in view,
And tells me that no other joys are true.
But love, fond love, would yet resist his power,
Woud fain awhile defer the parting hour;
He brings thy mourning image to my eyes,
And would obstruct my journey to the skies.
But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend!
Say, should’st thou grieve to see my sorrows end?
Thou know’st a painful pilgrimage I’ve past;
And should’st thou grieve that rest is come at last?
Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,
And die as I have liv’d, thy faithful wife.
ELIZABETH (SINGER) ROWE
1674-1737
_53. From Her Elegy on Her Husband, who died Young_
Lost in despair, distracted and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate’er to such superior worth was due,
Whate’er excess the fondest passion knew,
I felt for thee, dear youth; my joys, my care,
My prayers themselves were thine, and only where
Thou wast concern’d, my virtue was sincere.
Whene’er I begg’d for blessings on thy head,
Nothing was cold or formal that I said.
My warmest vows to Heav’n were made for thee,
And love still mingled with my piety.
O! thou wast all my glory, all my pride;
Thro’ life’s uncertain paths my constant guide.
Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise
Was all that could my just ambition raise.
...
List’ning to him, my cares were charm’d to rest,
And love and silent rapture fill’d my breast,
Unheeded, the gay moments took their flight,
And time was only measur’d by delight.
I hear the lov’d, the melting accent still,
And still the warm, the tender transport feel:
Again I see the sprightly passions rise,
And life and pleasure kindle in his eyes.
My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace,
But ah! the dear resemblance mocks my fond embrace,
The flatt’ring vision takes its hasty flight,
And scenes of horror swim before my sight;
Grief and despair in all their terrors rise;
A dying lover pale and gasping lies.
Each dismal circumstance appears in view,
The fatal object is for ever new,
...
Why did they tear me from thy breathless clay?
I should have stay’d and wept my life away.
Yet, gentle shade! whether thou now dost rove,
Thro’ some blest vale, or ever-verdant grove,
One moment listen to my grief, and take
The softest vows that ever love can make.
For thee, all thoughts of pleasure I forgo,
For thee my tears shall never cease to flow;
For thee at once I from the world retire,
To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire.
My bosom all thy image shall retain,
The full impression there shall still remain:
As thou hast taught my kinder heart to prove
The noblest height, and elegance of love;
That sacred passion I to thee confine,
My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.
_54. To a Friend who Persuades me to Leave the Muse_
Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite
Of your ill-natur’d prophecy I’ll write;
And for the future paint my thoughts at large,
I waste no paper at the Hundred’s charge:
I rob no neighb’ring geese of quills, nor slink,
For a collection, to the church for ink:
Beside, my Muse is the most gentle thing
That ever yet made an attempt to sing:
I call no lady punk, nor gallants fops,
Nor set the married world an edge for ropes;
Yet I’m so nat’rally inclin’d to rhyming,
That undesign’d, my thoughts burst out a-chiming;
My active genius will by no means sleep,
Pray let it then its proper channel keep.
I’ve told you, and you may believe me too,
That I must this, or greater mischief do;
And let the world think me inspir’d or mad,
I’ll surely write whilst paper’s to be had.
CATHARINE COCKBURN
1679-1749
_55. Song—The Vain Advice_
Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear
That soft enchanting voice to hear:
Not looks of basilisks give surer death,
Nor syrens sing with more destructive breath.
Fly, if thy freedom thou’dst maintain;
Alas! I feel, th’ advice is vain!
A heart, whose safety but in flight does lie,
Is too far lost to have the power to fly.
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU
1689-1762
_56. Verses addressed to the Imitator[2] of the First Satire of the
Second Book of Horace_
In two large columns on thy motley page,
Where Roman wit is strip’d with English rage;
Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence;
And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense:
Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought;
And on the other how he never wrote:
Who can believe, who view the bad and good,
That the dull copyist better understood
That Spirit, he pretends to imitate,
Than heretofore that Greek he did translate?
Thine is just such an image of _his_ pen,
As thou thyself art of the sons of men:
Where our own species in burlesque we trace,
A sign-post likeness of the human race,
That is at once resemblance and disgrace.
If _he_ has thorns, they all on roses grow;
Thine like rude thistles, and mean brambles show,
With this exception, that tho’ rank the soil,
Weeds as they are they seem produc’d by toil.
Satire should, like a polish’d razor keen,
Wound with a touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen.
Thine is an oyster-knife that hacks and hews;
The rage but not the talent to abuse;
And is in _hate_, what _love_ is in the stews.
’Tis the gross _lust_ of hate, that still annoys,
Without distinction, as gross love enjoys:
Neither to folly, nor to vice confin’d;
The object of thy spleen is human kind:
It preys on all, who yield or who resist;
To thee ’tis provocation to exist....
If none do yet return th’ intended blow,
You all your safety to your dullness owe:
But whilst that armour thy poor corps defends,
’Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends;
Those, who thy nature loath’d, yet lov’d thy art,
Who lik’d thy head, and yet abhorr’d thy heart;
Chose thee, to read, but never to converse,
And scorn’d in prose, him whom they priz’d in verse;
Even they shall now their partial error see,
Shall shun thy writings, like thy company,
And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more,
Than to thy person they wou’d do their door.
FOOTNOTES
[2] Pope, who had libelled her.
_57. An Answer to a Love-Letter_