Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day- 20 With a fa, la, la, la, la!
The King with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old;
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs.— With a fa, la, la, la, la!
And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let's hear of no inconstancy
We have too much of that at seaWith a fa, la, la, la, la!
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY (1639?-1701)
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play; But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you
With a fa, la, la, la, la!
But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away, Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play, Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan With a fa, la, la, la, la!
When any mournful tune you hear That dies in every note,
As if it sigh'd with each man's care
Some angry wind in cruel sport
Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all those tunes were play'd— With a fa, la, la, la, la !
In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,
For what he else had never got by sense. On Butler who can think without just rage, The glory, and the scandal of the age? Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to town, Met, ev'ry where, with welcomes of renown, Courted, caress'd by all, with wonder read, And promises of princely favour fed; But what reward for all had he at last, After a life in dull expectance pass'd? The wretch, at summing up his misspent days, Found nothing left, but poverty, and praise? Of all his gains by verse he could not save Enough to purchase flannel, and a grave: Reduc'd to want, he, in due time, fell sick, Was fain to die, and be interr'd on tick; And well might bless the fever that was sent, To rid him hence, and his worse fate prevent. 190 You've seen what fortune other poets share; View next the factors of the theatre: That constant mart, which all the year does hold, Where staple wit is barter'd, bought, and sold. Here trading scriblers for their maintenance, And livelihood, trust to a lott'ry-chance. But who his parts would in the service spend, Where all his hopes on vulgar breath depend? Where ev'ry sot, for paying half a crown, Has the prerogative to cry him down. Sedley indeed may be content with fame, Nor care, should an ill-judging audience damn; But Settle, and the rest, that write for pence, Whose whole estate's an ounce or two of brains, Should a thin house on the third day appear, Must starve, or live in tatters all the year. And what can wè expect that's brave and great, From a poor needy wretch, that writes to eat? Who the success of the next play must wait 209 For lodging, food, and clothes, and whose chief care Is how to spunge for the next meal, and where?
SIR SAMUEL GARTH (1661-1719)
Speak, Goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; And why physicians were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to the Elysian plain, Peace triumphed, and old time returned again. Not far from that most celebrated place Where angry Justice shews her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems to the distant sight a gilded pill; This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as noble as its frame; Nor did the learn'd Society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes, Nature's face they viewed, And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. 20 Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies, Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.
Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degrees to harden into bone;
While the more loose flow from the vital urn, 30 And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run;
How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man;
Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find How body acts upon impassive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the passions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will; With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie.
LADY WINCHILSEA (1661-1720)
THE PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT
Give me, O indulgent Fate! Give me yet, before I die,
A sweet, but absolute retreat, 'Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high, That the world may ne'er invade, Through such windings and such shade, My unshaken liberty.
No intruders thither come, Who visit, but to be from home; None who their vain moments pass, Only studious of their glass. News, that charm to listning ears, That false alarm to hopes and fears, That common theme for every fop, From the statesman to the shop, In those coverts ne'er be spread. Of who's deceas'd, or who's to wed, Be no tidings thither brought, But silent, as a midnight thought, Where the world may ne'er invade, Be those windings, and that shade!
For my garments, let them be What may with the time agree; Warm, when Phoebus does retire, And is ill-supplied by fire; But when he renews the year And verdant all the fields appear, Beauty every thing resumes,
Birds have dropt their winter-plumes; When the lily full displayed Stands in purer white arrayed Than that vest which heretofore The luxurious monarch wore
When from Salem's gates he drove
To the soft retreat of love, Lebanon's all burnish'd house, And the dear Egyptian spouse, Clothe me, Fate, tho' not so gay, Clothe me light, and fresh as May. In the fountains let me view All my habit cheap and new, Such as, when sweet zephyrs fly, With their motions may comply, Gently waving, to express Unaffected carelessness.
No perfumes have there a part, Borrow'd from the chymist's art; But such as rise from flow'ry beds, Or the falling jasmin sheds! 'Twas the odour of the field
Esau's rural coat did yield That inspir'd his Father's prayer For blessings of the earth and air. Of gums or powders had it smelt, The supplanter, then unfelt, Easily had been descry'd
For one that did in tents abide,
For some beauteous handmaid's joy And his mother's darling boy.
Let me then no fragrance wear
But what the winds from gardens bear
In such kind, surprising gales As gather'd from Fidentia's vales All the flowers that in them grew; Which intermixing, as they flew, In wreathen garlands dropt again On Lucullus, and his men, Who, cheer'd by the victorious sight Trebled numbers put to flight.
Let me, when I must be fine, In such natural colours shine; Wove, and painted by the sun, Whose resplendent rays to shun, When they do too fiercely beat, Let me find some close retreat Where they have no passage made Thro' those windings, and that shade.
Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! This moment is thy time to sing, This moment I attend to praise,
And set my numbers to thy lays. Free as thine shall be my song; As thy music, short, or long. Poets, wild as thee, were born,
Pleasing best when unconfin'd, When to please is least design'd, Soothing but their cares to rest;
Cares do still their thoughts molest, And still th' unhappy poet's breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a
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