With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets tofs'd.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-fharpen'd thumb, from thore to fhore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the basses roar:
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh- call,
And Sh- they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toaft that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield't thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhyme :
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The lute and fword which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Clofe to the walls which fair Augufta bind
(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric, rais'd t' inform the fight,
There ftood of yore and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houses rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets
keep,
And undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe a nursery erects its head,
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Shalmoft choak'd the way.
Bilk'd ftationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And H-n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd,
At his right hand our young Afcanius fat,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows, thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulnefs play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the alters come,
Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;
To Sh- fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain,
That he, till death, true dulnefs would maintain ;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the facred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his finifter hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his fceptre, and his rule of fway;
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd
And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche fprung:
His temples lait with poppies were-o'erfpread,
That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head.
Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye,
On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tiber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then fhook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulnefs: long he stood,
Repelling from his breaft the raging god;
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred : At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonfon dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanifh'd minds:
Pure clinches the suburbian mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously defign'd his Sh's throne:
For ancient Decker prophefied, long fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of wit, and flail of fenfe:
To whom true dulnefs fhould fome Pfyche's owe,
But worlds of. Mifers from his pen should flow;
Humorifts and Hypocrites it fhould produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now emprefs Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation thro' the town.
Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill, and diftant Watling-ftreet;
No Perfian carpets fpread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dufty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pyes, and relicks of the bum.
'Heavens blef's my fon, from Ireland let him
To far Barbadoes on the western main; Ereign
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond Love's kingdom let him ftretch his pen
He paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.
Then thus continued he: My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach; learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuofos in five years be writ;"
Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage;
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftify their author's want of sense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.
But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And, when falfe flow'rs of Rhetoric thou wouldft | Poets alone found the delightful way,
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull: [cull, Myfterious morals gently to convey
But write thy beft, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:
Sir Formal, tho' unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let falte friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonfon's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praife,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raife.
Thou art my blood, where Jonfon has no part;
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble strain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-stitch, kifs my arfe;
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth ridge doft transfufe to thine
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play :
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-bely make pretence
Of likeness; thine 's a tympany of fente.
Altun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
But fure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic mule gives fmiles; thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet ft thyfelf to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen lambics, but mild Anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choofe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.
There thou mayft wings difplay, and altars raife,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou wouldft thy diff'rent talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.'
He faid; but his laft words were scarcely
heard;
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterrancan wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.
31. An Efay upon Satire.
DRYDEN and BUCKINGHAM.
HOW dull and how infenfible a beast
In charming numbers; fo that, as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too.
Satire has always fhone among the reft,
And is the boldeft way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took diff'rent ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praife.
Some did all foily with just sharpness blame,
Whilft others laugh'd, and fcorn'd them into
But, of these two, the laft fucceeded beft,
As men aim righteft when they shoot in jeft.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides,
And cenfure thofe who cenfure all besides,
In other things they juftly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd :
Against the groffeft follies they declaim;
Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is eafier than fuch blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Befides, 'tis labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind;
That little fpeck which all the reft does spoil,
To wath off that, would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd fcenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to fee the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the moft,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a fhare,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too muft pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herfelf decay'd fo foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing fparks appear;
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight:
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half wits: that 's inore against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier fhould be flighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes fo much ado;
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like Efop's fox, becomes a prey at laft.
Nor fhall the royal miftreffes be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too cafy, to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a
pother,
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft! They are as common that way as the other:
Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beaft y
Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
In ev'ry age the lumpish mafs to move:
But thofe were pedants, when compar'd with thefe,
Who know not only to inftruct but pleafe.
Meets with diffembling ftill in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep:
But who can rail fo long as he can fleep?
Was ever prince by two at once mifled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of buly blockheads, fhall have here no place;
At council fet as foils on Dorfet's score,
To make that great falfe jewel fhine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with fuch naufeous men;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter fubject for a fharper Muse.
First let 's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear eafe, fome deep defign to lay,
'Gainst a fet time; and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends; and be
Juft as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the beft to ridicule.
Let him at bus'nefs ne'er fo earnest fit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit;
That shadow of a jeft fhall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd fat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old fleth and blood;
As, by our little Machiavel, we find
That nimbleft creature of the buty kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body thakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this buftle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him ftill
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill.
'Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To ufe a body fo, tho' 'tis one's own:
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er,
That whilft he creeps his vig'rous thoughts can foar:
Alas! that foaring, to thofe few that know,
Is but a bufy grov'ling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilft on the groundth'entranced wretches lie:
So modern fops have fancied they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a bufy man.
And what is that, at beft, but one whofe mind
Is made to tire himfelf and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; 'faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudg'ry do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him soo.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
Refin'dly leave his bitches and his bones
To turn a wheel and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Though fatire nicely writ no humour ftings
But those who merit praife in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos fake,
Who was too much defpis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deferves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing fmoothly, and for reas'ning wrong.
As boys on holidays let loose to play
Lay waggifh traps for girls that pafs that way,
Then thout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs
Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish dress ;
So have I mighty fatisfaction found,
To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground:
To fee the florid fool despis'd, and know it,
By fome who fcarce have words enough to fhew it:
For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay sometimes the wittiest speaker :
But 'tis prodigious fo much eloquence
Should be acquir'd by fuch little fente;
For words and wit did anciently agree;
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:`
At bar abufive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolfack, fop at council-table.
Thefe are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whofe harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And lazinefs call loving of their eafe;
To live diffolv'd in picatures ftill they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of furfeits, head-achs, claps are feen,
We scarce perceive the little time between ;
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleafure lofe only for pleasure's fake;
Each pleasure has its price; and when we pay
Too much of pain, we fquander life away.
Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat, Married; but wifer pufs ne'er thought of that; And firft he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's maftiffs at his kindeft time; Then for one night fold all his flavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife; Swell'd by contact of such a fulfome toad, He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Has ill reftor'd him to his liberty! Which he would ufe in his old fneaking way, Drinking all right, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brifker times Had fam'd for dulnefs in malicious rhymes.
Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the fnare, Tho' learn'd in all thofe arts that cheat the fair; For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the ftocks;
Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes,
To fee him catch a tartar for his prize;
Th' impatient town waited the with 'd-for change,
And cuckolds fimil'd in hopes of feet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with forrow fee,
As his eftate, his perfon too was free:
Him no foft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom ftill,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r
Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry hour.
And little Sid, for fimile renown'd,
Pleasure has always fought, but never found:
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are fo bad, fure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
His meat and miftreffes are kept too long.
But fure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his perfon all he can:
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin :
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle, we may fuppofe,
No naftiness offends his fkilful nofe;
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume, and effence from a f-t:
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochester i defpife for want of wit, Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For, while he mischief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find: And fo like witches juftly fuffers fhame, Whofe harmlefs malice is fo much the fame. Falfe are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, fo feldom hit; To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks: Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb, Manners themselves are mifchievous in him : A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature A very Killigrew, without good-nature. For what a Beffus has he always liv'd, And his own kickings notably contriv'd! For there's the folly that 's ftill mix'd with fear, Cowards more blows than any hero bear; Of fighting sparks fome may their pleasures fay, But 'tis a bolder thing to run away: The world may well forgive him all his ill, For ev'ry fault does prove his penance still: Falfely he falls into fome dang'rous noofe, And then as meanly labours to get loofe: A life fo infamous is better quitting, Spent in bafe injury and low fubmitting. I'd like to have left out his poetry; Forgot by all almost as well as me. Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit: And if it rarely, very rarely, hit, 'Tis under fo much nafty rubbish laid, To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in afhes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deferve no comments here;
Where one poor thought fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dullnefs must atone.
How vain a thing is man, and how unwife;
Ev'n he who would himfelf the most despise!
I, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can 't fee.
While the world's nonfenfe is fo fharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own :
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatires to fet up ourselves.
I (who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev'n with my mafter, who firft fatire taught;
And did by that defcribe the task fo hard,
It feems ftupendous and above reward)
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time;
'Tis juft that I fhould to the bottom fall;
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
§32. Cymon and Iphigenia. DRYDEN.
OLD as I am, for ladies' love unfit,
The pow'r of beauty I remember yet,
Which once inflam'd my foul, and still inspires
my wit.
If love be folly, the fevere divine
Has felt that folly, though he cenfures mine
Pollutes the pleasures of a chafte embrace,
Acts what I write, and propagates in grace,
With riotous excefs, a priestly race.
Suppofe him free, and that I forge th' offence,
He fhew'd the way, perverting first my sense;
In malice witty, and with venom fraught,
He makes me fpeak the things I never thought.
Compute the gains of his ungovern'd zeal;
Ill fuits his cloth the praife of railing well.
The world will think that what we loosely write,
Though now arraign'd, he read with fome delight;
Becaufe he feems to chew the cud again,
When his broad comment makes the text too
plain;
And teaches more in one explaining page
Than all the double-meanings of the stage.
What needs he paraphrafe on what we mean?
We were at worst but wanton; he 's obfcene.
I not my fellows nor myfelf excufe;
But love 's the fubject of the comic Mufe;
Nor can we write without it, nor would you
A tale of only dry inftruction view;
Nor love is always of a vicious kind,
But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind;
Awakes the fleepy vigour of the foul,
And, brushing-o'er, adds motion to the pool.
Love, ftudious how to pleafe, improves our parts
With polifh'd manners, and adorns with arts.
Love first invented verfe, and form'd the rhyme,
The motion meafur'd, harmoniz'd the chime;
To lib'ral acts enlarg'd the narrow-foul'd,
Soften'd the fierce, and made the coward bold;
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.co.id/books/content?id=IzEJAAAAQAAJ&hl=id&output=html_text&pg=PA340&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:OCLC4000197&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1eLeXOmEnWteWKtOu_HLnJxN39Eg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=69,114,463,139)
IN that sweet ifle where Venus keeps her court, And ev'ry grace, and all the loves, refort; Where either fex is form'd of fofter earth, And takes the bent of pleafure from their birth: There liv'd a Cyprian lord above the reft Wife, wealthy, with a num'ious iffue bleft: But, as no gift of fortune is fincere, Was only wanting in a worthy heir. His eldest born, a goodly youth to view, Excell'd the reft in fhape and outward fhew; Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd, But of a heavy, dull, degen'rate mind. His foul belied the features of his face; Beauty was there, but beauty in difgrace: A clownish mien, a voice with ruftic found, And ftupid eyes that ever lov'd the ground. He look'd like nature's error; as the mind And body were not of a piece defign'd, [join'd.
The ruling rod, the father's forming care, Were exercis'd in vain on wit's defpair; The more inform'd, the lefs he understood; And deeper funk by flound'ring in the mud. Now fcorn'd of all, and grown the public fhame, The people from Galefus chang'd his name, And Cymon call'd, which fignifies a brute; So well his name did with his nature fuit.
His father, when he found his labour loft,
And care employ'd that anfwer'd not the cost,
Chofe an ungrateful object to remove,
And loath'd to fee what nature made him love;
So to his country farm the fool confin'd;
Rude work well fuited with a ruftic mind.
Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,
A 'fquire among the fwains, and pleas'd with
banishment.
His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his fupreme delight a country fair.
It happen'd on a fummer's holiday,
That to the green-wood fhade he took his way;
For Cymon fhunn'd the church, and us'd not
much to pray.
His quarter-ftaff, which he could ne'er forfake,
Hung half before, and half behind his back.
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he fought,
And whiftled as he went for want of thought.
By chance conducted, or by thirt conftrain'd,
The deep receffes of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept thro' the matted grafs a crystal flood,
By which an alabafter fountain ftocd:
And on the margin of the fount was laid
(Attended by her flaves) a fleeping maid.
Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tir'd with
fport,
To reft by cool Eurotas they refort:
The dame herfelf the goddess well exprefs'd,
Not more diftinguish'd by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And even in flumber a fuperior grace:
Her comely limbs compos'd with decent care,
Her body shaded with a flight cymair;
Her bofom to the view was only bare:
Where two beginning paps were fcarcely fpied,
For yet their places were but fignified :
The fanning wind upon her botom blows,
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose;
The fanning wind, and purling ftreams, con-
tinue her repose.
The fool of nature stood with ftupid eyes,
And gaping mouth that teftified furprife,
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his fight,
New as he was to love, and novice to delight:
Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff,
His wonder witnefs'd with an idiot laugh;
Then would have fpcke, but by his glimm'ring
fenfe
Firft found his want of words, and fear'd offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his clown accent, and his country tone.
Through the rude chaos thus the running light
Shot the first ray that pierc'd the native night:
Then day and darknets in the mafs were mix'd,
Till gather'd in a globe the beams were fix'd:
Laft fhone the fun, who, radiant in his fphere,
Illumin'd heaven and earth, and roll'd around the
So reafon in this brutal foul began,
Love made him firft fufpect he was a man;
Love made him doubt his broad barbarian found;
By love his want of words and wit he found;
That fenfe of want prepar'd the future way
To knowledge, and difclos'd the promife of a day.
What not his father's care, nor tutor's art,
Could plant with pains in his unpolish'd heart,
The beft inftructor, love, at once infpir'd,
As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fir'd:
Love taught him fhame; and fhame, with love at
Soon taught the fweet civilities of life; [ftrife,
His grols material foul at once could find
Somewhat in her excelling all her kind:
Exciting a defire till then unknown,
Somewhat unfound, or found in her alone.
This made the first impreffion on his mind,
Above, but juft above, the brutal kind.
For beafts can like, but nor diftinguish too,
Nor their own liking by reflection know;
Nor why they like or this or t' other face,
Or judge of this or that peculiar grace;
But love in grofs, and ftupidly admire:
As flies allur'd by light approach the fire.
Thus our man-beaft, advancing by degrees,
First likes the whole, then feparates what he fees:
On fev'ral parts a fev'ral praise bestows:
The ruby lips, the well-proportion'd nofe,
The fnowy fkin, and raven-gloffy hair,
The dimpled cheek, and forehead rifing fair,
And, ev'n in fleep itself, a finiling air.
From thence his eyes defcending view'd the reft,
Her plump round arms, white hands, and heav
ing breaft.
Long on the last he dwelt, though every part
A pointed arrow fped to pierce his heart.
|