From Singing-mens' religion, who are
Always at church, just like the crows, 'caufe there
They build themselves a neft:
From too much Poetry, which shines
With gold in nothing but its lines,
Free, O you Powers! my breaft.
And from Aftronomy, which in the skies
Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalize.
From your Court-madams' beauty, which doth carry
At morning May, at night a January:
From the grave city brow
(For though it want an R, it has
The letter of Pythagoras)
Keep me, O Fortune, now!
And chines of beef innumerable fend me,
Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.
This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill-known;
Rumour can ope the grave!
Acquaintance I would have; but when 't depends
Not from the number, but the choice, of friends.
Books fhould, not business, entertain the light;:
And fleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night.
My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my ufe, no luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's; that pleafures yield! Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, and happy state,
I would not fear, nor wifh, my fate;
But boldly fay, each night,
To-morrow let my fun his beams difplay,
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day
A. POETICAL REVENGE.
WEstminster-hall. a friend and I agreed
To meet in; he (fome business 'twas did breed
His abfence) came not there; I up did go
To the next court; for though I could not know
Much what they meant, yet I might see and hear
(As most spectators do at theatre)
*The three concluding ftanzas of this poem are introduced by Mr. Cowley in his "Effays in Verse "and Profe." N.
Things very ftrange: Fortune did feem to grace
My coming there, and helpt me to a place.
But, being newly fettled at the sport,
A femi-gentleman of the Inns of Court,
In a satin suit, redeem'd but yesterday;
One who is ravish'd with a cock-pit play;
Who prays
God to deliver him from no evil
Befides a taylor's bill; and fears no devil
Befides a ferjeant, thrust me from my feat:
At which I 'gan to quarrel, till a neat
Man in a ruff (whom therefore I did take
For barrifter) open'd his mouth and spake;
"Boy, get you gone, this is no school." "Oh no;
"For, if it were, all you gown'd-men would go
"Up for falfe Latin." They grew ftraight to be
Incens'd; I fear'd they would have brought on me
An action of trespass: till the young man
Aforefaid, in the fatin fuit, began
To ftrike me doubtless there had been a fray,
Had not I providently skipp'd away
Without replying; for to fcold is ill,
Where every tongue 's the clapper of a mill,
And can out-found Homer's Gradivus; fo
Away got I: but ere I far did
I flung (the darts of wounding poetry)
These two or three fharp curfes back: May he
Be by his father in his study took
At Shakespeare's plays, inftead of my lord Coke!
May he (though all his writings grow as foon
As Butter's out of estimation)
Get him a poet's name, and so ne'er come
Into a ferjeant's or dead judge's room!
May he become fome poor physician's prey,
Who keeps men with that conscience in delay
As he his client doth, till his health be
As far-fetcht as a Greek noun's pedigree !
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
Never but in the long vacation!
May neighbours ufe all quarrels to decide;
But if for law any to London ride,
Of all thofe clients let not one be his,
Unless he come in Forma Pauperis !
Grant this, ye Gods that favour poetry!
That all these never-ceafing tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare
To quarrel with a thead-bare black but spare
Them who bear fcholars' names, left fome one take Spleen, and another Ignoramus make.
To the DUTCHESS of BUCKINGHAM.
F I fhould fay, that in your face were seen
Nature's beft picture of the Cyprian Queen ;
If I fhould fwear, under Minerva's name,
Poets (who prophets are) foretold your fame;
The future age would think it flattery;
But to the present, which can witness be,
'Twould feem beneath your high deserts, as far
As you above the rest of women are.
When Manners' name with Villiers' join'd I fee,
How do I reverence your nobility!
But when the virtues of your stock I view,
(Envy'd in your dead lord, admir'd in you)
I half adore them; for what woman can,
Befides yourself (nay, I might fay what man)
But sex, and birth, and fate, and years excel
In mind, in fame, in worth, in living well?
Oh, how had this begot idolatry,
If you had liv'd in the world's infancy,
When man's too much religion made the best
Or deities, or femi-gods at least!
But we, forbidden this by piety,
Or, if we were not, by your modefty,
Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray
Not to, but for, you; nor that England may
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone,
But, what's more poffible, t' enjoy you long,
To his very much honoured GODFATHER
Love (for that upon the wings of fame
Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts) my Name.
I love it more, becaufe 'twas given by you;
I love it moft, because 'twas your name too;
For if I chance to flip, a confcious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.
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