The Works of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland

Whether the North-ftar's influence
With both does hold intelligence?
(For red-hot ir'n, held tow'rd the pole,
Turns of itfelf to 't when 'tis cool :)
Or whether male and female fcrews
In th' iron and tone th' effe&t produce?
What makes the body of the fun,
That fuch a rapid courfe does run,
To draw no tail behind through th' air,
As comets do, when they appear;
Which other planets cannot do,
Because they do not burn, but glow?
Whether the Moon be fea or land,
Or charcoal, or a quench'd firebrand;
Or if the dark holes that appear,
Are only pores, not cities there?
Whether the atmosphere turn round,
And keep a juít pace with the ground,
Or loiter lazily behind,

And clog the air with gufts of wind?
Or whether crefcents in the wane
(For fo an author has it plain)
Do burn quite out, or wear away
Their fnuifs upon the edge of day?
Whether the fea increnfe, or waite,
And, if it do, how long 'twill last?
Or, if the fun approaches near
The earth, how foon it will be there?

There were their learned fpeculations,
And all their conftant occupations,
To measure wind, and weigh the air,
And turn a circle to a fquare;
To make a powder of the fun,

By which all doctors fhould b' undone;
To find the north-weft paffage out,
Although the faitheit way about;
If chemifts from a rofe's afhes

Can raife the rofe itself in glaffes?
Whether the line of incidence
Rife from the object or the fenfe?
To stew th' elixir in a bath
Of hope, credulity, and faith;
To explicate, by fubtle hints,
The grain of diamonds and flints,
And in the braying of an afs
Find out the treble and the base;
If mares neigh alto, and a cow
A double diapafon lowe-

At once his paffion was both falfe and true, And the more falfe, the more in earnest grew. He fancy'd that he heard thofe amorous charms 15 70 That us'd to fummon him to foft alarms, To which he always brought an equal flame, To fight a rival, or to court a dame; And, as in dreams love's raptures are more taking Than all their actual enjoyments waking, His amorous paflion grew to that extreme, His dream itfelf awak'd him from his dream. Thought he, What place is this! or whither art Thou vanifh'd from me, Miftrefs of my heart? But now I had her in this very place

80 Here, faft imprifon'd in my glad embrace, And, while my joys beyond themselves were rapt, I know not how, nor whither, thou 'rt efcap'd; Stay, and I'll follow thee-With that he leapt Up from the lazy couch on which he flept, 30 And, wing'd with paffion, through his known purlien,

Swift as an arrow from a bow, he flew,
Nor ftopp'd, until his fire had him convey'd
Where many an affignation he 'ad enjoy'd; 34
Where finding, what he fought, a mutual flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd before he came,
Impatient of delay, without one word,
To lofe no further time, he fell aboard,
But grip'd fo hard, he wounded what he lov'd,
While the, ip anger, thus his heat reprov'd.
C. Forbear, foul ravither, this rude addrefs;
Canft thou, at once, both injure and carefs?
P. Thou haft bewitch'd me with thy powerful
charms,

And, I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms. C. He that does love would fet his heart a-tilt, Ere one drop of his lady's fhould be fpilt. 46 P. Your wounds are but without, and mine

within;

You blame th' effect, of which you are the cause.

REPARTEES BETWEEN CAT AND PUSS, C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade,

AT A CATERWAULING.

In the modern Heroic way.

T was about the middle age of night,

Had it not firft been by your own betray'd?. Hence 'tis my greatest crime has only been (Not in mine eyes, but yours) in being feen.

When half the earth ftood in the other's light, at the time our Author lived; the dialogues of

Repartees.] This poem is a fatirical banter upon thofe heroic plays which were fo much in vogue

which, having what they c lled Heroic Love for their fubject, are carried-on exactly in this ftrain, as any one may perceive that will confult the dramatic pieces of Dryden, Settle, and others.

P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt,
C. That's worfe than making cruelty a sport.
P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That fets it off to a more noble height.
C. He buys his pleature at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.

P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis paít.
C. But grows intolerable if it last.

P. Love is too full of honour to regard
What it enjoys, but fuffers as reward.

What Knight durft ever own a lover's name, 65
That had not been half murther'd by his flame,
Or lady, that had never lain at stake,
To death, or force of rivals, for his fake?
C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Difdain 's the only medicine for difdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleas'd, and in difpleafing you.

C. Prepofterous way of pleature and of love,
That contrary to its own end would move!
'Tis rather hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's bufinefs is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As flames destroy that which they feed upon,
C. He never lov'd at any generous rate,
That in th' enjoyment found his flame abate, 80
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirit more violent it pretends to flake,
So fhould fruition do the lover's fire,
Inftead of leffening, inflame defire.

P. What greater proof that paffion does tranfport,
When what I would die for I'm forc'd to hurt?
C. Death among lovers is a thing defpis'd,
And far below a fullen humour priz'd,
That is more fcorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are cross'd in love, or fall at odds: 90
But fince you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P. Paffion begins indifferent to prove,
When love confiders any thing but love.
C. The darts of love, like lightning wound within,
And, though they pierce it, never hurt the skin;
They leave no marks behind them where they fly,
Though through the tendereft part of all, the eye;
But your fharp claws have left enough to fhew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleafure is pain; for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could with for was but to b' allay'd.
C. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P. What you like beft, you always difapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love, will not be nice, 105
T' excufe the wrong he does, to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent,
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourfelf the pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve;
But 'tis your want of paffion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty,
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For, while you ftifle and infiame defire,
You burn and ftarve nte in the felf-fame fire,

115

C. It is not I, but you, that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accufe me for 't;120
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt fun and fun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.

TO THE HONOURABLE

EDWARD HOWARD, Esq.

UPON HI INCOMPARABLE POEM OF

THE BRITISH PRINCES*.

SIR,

OU have obliged the British nation more Than all their hards could ever do before, And, at your own charge, monuments more hard Than brafs or marble to their fame have rear'd: For, as all warlike nations take delight S To hear how brave their ancestors could fight, You have advanc'd to wonder their renown, And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own: For 'twill be doubted whether you do write, Or they have acted, at a nobler height. You of their ancient princes have retriev'd More than the ages knew in which they liv'd; Defcrib'd their customs and their rites anew, Better than all their Druids ever knew; Unriddled their dark oracles as weil

As thofe themselves that made them could foretell:
For as the Britons long have hop'd, in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd their prophecy alone,
And in this poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raife the dead, and give new life to men;
Make rival princes meet in arms and love,
Whom diftant ages did fo far remove;
For as eternity has neither past
Nor future (authors fay) nor first nor laft,
But is all inftant, your eternal Mufe.
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why fhould you, whofe miracle of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufied head
Tobferve what time they liv'd in, or were dead?
For, fince you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

*Moft of the celebrated wits in Charles the Second's reign addreffed this gentleman, in a bantering way, upon his poem called The Briti Princes, and, among the reft, Butler.

There's no man fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with your wit;
As light can no way but by light appear,

He must bring feufe that understands it here. 40

A PALINODIE

TO THE HONOURABLE

Who ever fhut thofe ftragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?

What thould confine thofe undetermin'd crowds, 45
And yet extend no further than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A fign and an afcendant were all one?

Or how 'tis poffible the moon fhould throwd
Her face, to peep at Mars behind a cloud,
Since clouds below are fo far diftant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from being barefac'd?
Who ever did a language fo enrich,
To fcorn all little particles of speech?

For though they make the fenfe clear, yet they 're found

EDWARD HOWARD, Esq. To be a fcurvy hindrance to the found;

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM OF

Therefore you wifely fcorn your style to humble,
Or for the fenfe's fake to wave the rumble.
Had Homer known this art, he 'ad ne'er been fain
To ufe fo many particles in vain,

THE BRITISH PRINCES. That to no purpose ferve, but (as he haps

ΙΟ

T is your pardon, Sir, for which Mufe
my
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, fues;
For, having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to ask forgivenefs, and fubmit;
Is forry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penauce in the white:
But fuch is her belief in your just candor,
She hopes you will not fo mifunderstand her,
To wreft her harmless meaning to the fenfe
Of filly emulation or offence.
No; your fufficient wit does ftill declare
Itfelf too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and fenfelefs a prefumption own,
To yoke your vaft parts in comparison :
And yet you might have thought upon a way
T' inftruct us how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praifes, and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame:
For who could chufe but err, without fome trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was defir'd, upon occafion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Defir'd his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth to fit it right;
So, had you fent a fcantling of your wit,
You might have blam'd us if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impofe, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge renown;
For he that writes below your valt defert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praife, like a robe of state, fhould not fit close
To th' perfon 'tis made for, but wide and loose;
Derives its comeliness from being unfit,
And fuch have been our praifes of your wit;
Which is fo extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right;
Witness thofe glorious poems you have writ,
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And thofe ftupendous difcoveries

To want a fyllable) to fill up gaps.

You justly coin new verbs, to pay for those
Which in conftruction you o'erfee and lofe;
And by this art do Prifcian no wrong
When you break 's head, for 'tis as broad as long.
Thefe are your own difcoveries, which none
But fuch a Mufe as your's could hit upon,
That can, in fpite of laws of art, or rules,
Make things more intricate than all the schools: 70
For what have laws of art to do with you,
More than the laws with honeft men and true?
He that's a prince in poetry fhould strive
To cry them down by his prerogative,
And not fubmit to that which has no force

But thofe you write are always fold by weight;
Each word and fyllable brought to the scale,

And valued to a fcruple in the fale:

For when the paper 's charg'd with your rich wit, 'Tis for all purposes and ufes fit,

Has an abfterive virtue to make clean
Whatever Nature made in man obfcene.
Boys find, b' experiment, no paper kite,
Without your verfe can make a noble flight.
It keeps our fpice and aromatics sweet;
In Paris they perfume their rooms with it:
For, burning but one leaf of your's, they fay,
Drives all their ftinks and naftiness away.
Cooks keep their pyes from burning with your
wit,
95

Their pigs and geefe from fcorching on the fpit;"
And vintners find their wines are ne'er the worse,
When arfenick's only wrap'd up in the verse.
Thefe are the great performances that raise
Your mighty parts above all reach of praife, 10a
And give us only leave t' admire your worth,

You've lately made of wonders in the skies: 40 For no man, but yourself, can fet it forth,

For who, but from yourself, did ever hear
The iphere of atoms was the atmosphere?

Whofe wondrous power 's fo generally known,
Fame is the echo, and her voice your own.

A PANEGYRIC

UPON

Falfe muftering of workmen by the day,
Deduction out of wages, and dead pay

For thofe that never liv'd; all which did come,

By thrifty management, to no small fum.
You pull'd no lodgings down, to build them worse,
Nor repair'd others, to repair your purfe,

SIR JOHN DENHAM's As you were wont, till all you built appear'd 45

RECOVERY FROM HIS MADNESS*.

IR, you 've outliv'd fo defperate a fit

As none could do but an immortal wit;
Had your's been lefs, all helps had been in vain,
And thrown away, though on a lefs fick brain;
But you were fo far from receiving hurt,
You grew improv'd, and much the better for 't.
As when th' Arabian bird does facrifice,
And burn himself in his own country's fpice,
A maggot first breeds in his pregnant urn,
Which after does to a young phœnix turn:
So your hot brain, burnt in its native fire,
Did life renew'd and vigorous youth acquire;
And with fo much advantage, fome have guest,
Your after-wit is like to be your best,
And now expect far greater matters of ve
Than the bought Cooper's Hill, or borrow'd
Sophy;

Such as your Tully lately drefs'd in verfe,
Like thofe he made himself, or not much worse;
And Seneca's dry fand unmix'd with lime,
Such as you cheat the King with, botch'd in
rhyme.

Nor were your morals lefs improv'd, all pride
And native infolence quite laid afide;
And that ungovern'd outrage, that was wont
All, that you durft with safety, to affront.
No China cupboard rudely overthrown,
Nor lady tipp'd, by being accofted, down;
No poet jeer'd, for fcribbling amifs,
With verfes forty times more lewd than his :
Nor did your crutch give battle to vour duns,
And hold it out, where you had built a fconce; 30
Nor furiously laid orange-wench aboard,
For afking what in fruit and love you 'ad fcor'd;
But all civility and complacence,
More than you ever us'd before or since.
Befide, you never over-reach'd the King
One farthing, all the while, in reckoning,
Nor brought in falfe accompt, with little tricks,
Of paffing broken rubbish for whole bricks;

It must furprize the reader to find a writer of Butler's judgment attacking, in fo fevere and entemptuous a manner, the character of a poet If fu much efteemed as Sir John Denham was. what he charges him with be true, there is, indeed, fome room for fatire; but ftill there is fich a fpirit of bitterness runs through the whole, befides the cruelty of ridiculing an infirmity of this nature, as can be accounted for by nothing but fome perfonal quarrel or difguft. How far this weaknefs may carry the greatest geniuses, we haye a proof in what Pope has written of Addison;

Like that Amphion with his fiddle rear'd:
For had the ftones (like his) charm'd by your verse
Built up themselves, they could not have done
worfe:

And fure, when you first ventur'd to survey,
You did defign to do 't no other way.

All this was done before thofe days began
In which you were a wife and happy man :
For who e'er liv'd in fuch a paradife,
Until fresh ftraw and darkness op'd your eyes?
Who ever greater treature could command,
Had nobler palaces, and richer land,
Than you had then, who coul raife fums as vaft
As all the cheats of a Dutch war could wafte,
Or all thofe practis'd upon public money?
For nothing, but your cure, could have undone ye.
For ever are you bound to curfe thofe quacks
That undertook to cure your happy cracks;

| For, though no art can ever make them found,
The tampering cost you threescore thousand pound.
How high might you have liv'd, and play'd, and
lol,

Yet been no more undone by being chouft,
Nor forc'd upon the King's accompt to lay
All that, in ferving him, you loft at play!
For nothing but your brain was ever found
To fuffer fequeftration, and compound.
Yet you 've an impofition laid on brick,
For all you then laid out at Beat or Gleek;
And when you've rais'd a fum, ftrait let it fly,
By understanding low, and venturing high;
Until you have reduc'd it down to tick,
And then recruit again from lime and brick.

UPON

CRITICS,

WHO JUDGE' OF

MODERN

PLAY S

And every pert and arbitrary fool

Can all poetic licence over-rule;

Affume a barbarous tyranny, to handle
The Mufes worse than Oftrogoth and Vandal;
Make them fubmit to verdict and report,
And ftand or fall to th' orders of a court?
Much lefs be fentenc'd by the arbitrary
Proceedings of a witlefs plagiary,
That forges old records and ordinances
Against the right and property of fancies,
More falfe and nice than weighing of the weather,
To th' hundredth atom of the lightest feather,
Or meafuring of air upon Parnaffus,
With cylinders of Torricellian glafies;
Reduce all Tragedy, by rules of art,
Back to its antique theatre, a cart,

And make them henceforth keep the beaten roads
Of reverend chorufes and epifodes;
Reform and regulate a puppet play,
According to the true and ancient way,
That not an actor fhall prefume to fqueak,
Unless he have a licence for 't in Greek;
Nor Whittington henceforward fell his cat in 25
Plain vulgar English, without mewing Latin:
No Pudding fhall be fuffer'd to be witty,
Unless it be in order to raife pity;
Nor devil in the puppet-play b' allow'd
To roar and fpit fire, but to fright the crowd,
Unless fome god or dæmon chance t' have piques
Against an ancient family of Grecks;
That other men may tremble, and take warning,
How fuch a fatal progeny they 're born in;
For none but fuch for tragedy are fitted,
That have been ruin'd only to be pity'd;
And only thofe held proper to deter,

And fet down in the rubric at what time
It should be counted legal, when a crime;
Declare when was, and when 'twas not a fin,
And on what days it went cut or came in.
An English poet fhould be try'd b' his peers,
And not by pedants and philofophers,
Incompetent to judge poetic fury,
As butchers are forbid to b' of a jury:
Befides the most intolerable wrong
To try their matters in a foreign tongue,
By foreign jurymen, like Sophocles,
Or Tales f..lfer than Euripides;
When not an Englith native dares appear
To be a witnefs for the prifoner;
When all the laws they ufe t' arraign and try
The innocent and wrong'd delinquent by,
Were made b' a foreign lawyer, and his pupils,
To put an end to all poetic fcruples,
And, by th' advice of virtuofi Tufcans,
Determin'd all the doubts of socks and bufkins;
Gave judgment on all past and future plays,
As is apparent by Speroni's cafe,
Which Lope Vega fit began to steal,
And after him the French filou Corneille;
And fince our English plagiaries nim
And fteal their far-fet criticifins from him,
And, by an action falfely laid of Trover,
The lumber for their proper goods recover,
Enough to furnish all the lewd impeachers
Of witty Beaumont's poetry and Fletcher's;
Who, for a few mitprifions of wit,

Are charg'd by thofe who teu times worfe commit;

And, for misjudging fome unhappy fcenes,
Are cenfur'd for't with more unlucky fente; 100
When all their worst mifcarriages delight,
And please more than the best that pedants write.

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The Works of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland: With Prefaces ..., Volume 2