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Munster was bought, we boast not the success;
Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace.
Our foes, compell'd by need, have peace embrac'd:
The peace both parties want, is like to last:
Which, if secure, securely we may trade;
Or, not secure, should never have been made.
Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,
The sea is ours, and that defends the land:
Be then the naval stores the nation's care,
New ships to build, and batter'd to repair.

Observe the war, in ever annual course;
What has been done, was done with British force:
Namur subdued, is England's palm alone;
The rest besieg'd, but we constrain'd the town:
We saw th' event that follow'd our success;
France, though pretending arms, pursued the peace;
Oblig'd, by one sole treaty, to restore
What twenty years of war had won before.
Enough for Europe has our Albion fought;
Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.
When once the Persian king was put to flight,
The weary Macedons refus'd to fight:
Themselves their own mortality confess'd;
And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.
Ev'n victors are by victories undone;
Thus Hannibal, with foreign laurels won,
To Carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his own.
While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,
Why should we tempt the doubtful dye again?
In wars renew'd, uncertain of success;
Sure of a share as umpires of the peace.

A patriot both the king and country serves:
Prerogative, and privilege, preserves:
Of each our laws the certain limits show;
One must not ebb, nor t'other overflow:
Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand;
The barriers of the state on either hand:

May neither overflow, for then they drown the land.
When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode;
Like those that water'd once the Paradise of God.
Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share;
In peace the people, and the prince in war:
Consuls of moderate power in calms were made:
When the Gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd.
Patriots in peace assert the people's right;
With noble stubbornness resisting might:
No lawless mandates from the court receive,
Nor lend by force, but in a body give.
Such was your generous grandsire; free to grant
In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want:
But so tenacious of the common cause,
As not to lend the king against his laws.
And, in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie,
In bonds retain❜d his birthright liberty,
And sham'd oppression till it set him free.

O true descendant of the patriot line,

Praise-worthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise to make thy praises last.
For ev'n when death dissolves our human frame,
The soul returns to heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame.

epistle to SIR GODFREY Kneller.

ONCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,
And still the sweet idea charms my mind:
True, she was dumb; for nature gaz'd so long,
Pleas'd with her work, that she forgot her tongue;
But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller; such thy skill,
That nature seems obedient to thy will;
Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught;
Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.
At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine sounds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk they shoot before the sight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
And from their animated canvas came,
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;
This is the least attendant on thy praise;
From hence the rudiments of art began;
A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:
Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;
Ere canvas yet was strained; before the grace
Of blended colours found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanc'd;
As man grew polish'd, picture was inhanc'd:
Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view:
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart;
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive:

Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race,

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Did all the matchless monuments deface.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began t' enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,
The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, A heavy sabbath did supinely keep: At length in Raphael's age, at once they rise, Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.

Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line: One colour'd best, and one did best design. Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part, But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both; where true design, Postures unforc'd and lively colours join. Likeness is ever there; but still the best, Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest: Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives, Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought: Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought. Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight: With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write; With reverence look on his majestic face; Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight.

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless
Condemn the bad, and emulate the best.
Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost:
When most they rail, know then, they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof: a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth:
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth':
But oh, the painter Muse, though last in place,
Has seiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.
Though nature there her true resemblance bears,
A noble beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place:
The painter widely stretches his command:
Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not seven cities, but the world would strive.
Sure some propitious planet then did smile,
When first you were conducted to this isle:
Our genius brought you here, t' enlarge our fame;

For your good stars are every where the same; Thy matchless hand, of every region free, Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart To thee th' examples of their wondrous art. Those masters then, but seen, not understood, With generous emulation fir'd thy blood: For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd, The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,
'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee:
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a song, or senseless opera,
Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece of history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live :
Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool,
But so his follies in thy posture sink,
The senseless idiot seems at last to think.


Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so
To wish their vile resemblance may remain ;
And stand recorded at their own request,
To future days, a libel or a jest!

Else should we see your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place:
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best,
With every various character exprest:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew.
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age shall add the rest.
For time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the tint;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant;
To future ages shall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.


FAREWELL, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own;
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his young friend perform'd and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught thee smoothness of thy native tongue;
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,

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Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again;
[the slain.
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew
The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With down-cast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smil'd, to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble,

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again:

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has rais'd up his head :

As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd, he stares around.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries;
See the furies arise;

See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

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Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He rais'd a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.


Enter JANUS.

JANUS. Chronos, Chronos, mend thy pace. An hundred times the rolling sun Around the radiant belt has run

In his revolving race.

Behold, behold the goal in sight,

Spread thy fans and wing thy flight,

Enter CHRONOS with a scythe in his hand, and a globe on his back; which he sets down at his entrance. CHRONOS. Weary, weary of my weight,

Let me, let me drop my freight,

And leave the world behind.

I could not bear,

Another year,

The load of human-kind.

Enter MOMUS laughing.

MOMUS. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done,

To lay down thy pack,

And lighten thy back;

The world was a fool, e'er since it begun :

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And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the

JANUS. Then our age was in its prime,
CHRONOS. Free from rage,

And free from crime.
MOMUS. A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.
Cho. of all. Then our age was in it's prime,
Free from rage, and free from crime.
A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.
[Dance of Diana's attendants.

Enter MARS.

MARS. Inspire the vocal brass, inspire; The world is past its infant age: Arms and honour,

Arms and honour,

Set the martial mind on fire,

And kindle manly rage.

Mars has look'd the sky to red;

And Peace, the lazy good, is fled. Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly;

The sprightly green,

In woodland walks, no more is seen; [dye.
The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian

Cho. of all. Plenty, peace, &c.

MARS. Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;
Through all the world around,
Sound a reveille, sound, sound,
The warrior god is come.

Cho. of all. Sound the trumpet, &c.

MOMUS. Thy sword within the scabbard keep,
And let mankind agree;

Better the world were fast asleep,
Than kept awake by thee.

The fools are only thinner,

With all our cost and care;

But neither side a winner,
For things are as they were.

And since neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor I, Cho. of all. The fools are only, &c.

Can hinder the crimes,

Or mend the bad times,

'Tis better to laugh than to cry.

Cho, of all three. "Tis better to laugh than to cry. JANUS. Since Momus comes to laugh below,

Old Time begin the show,

That he may see, in every scene,
What changes in this age have been.

CHRONOS. Then, goddess of the silver bow, begin.

[Horns, or hunting music, within.]

Enter VENUS.

VENUS. Calms appear, when storms are past;
Love will have his hour at last:

Nature is my kindly care;
Mars destroys, and I repair:
Take me, take me, while you may,
Venus comes not every day.

Cho. of all. Take her, take her, &c.

CHRONOS. The world was then so light,

I scarcely felt the weight;
Joy rul'd the day, and love the night.
But since the Queen of Pleasure left the
I faint, I lag,

And feebly drag

The ponderous orb around.

MOMUS. All, all of a piece throughout;


to Diana.

Thy chase had a beast in view;


[To Mars.] Thy wars brought nothing about;
[To Venus.] Thy lovers were all untrue.

JANUS. Tis well an old age is out,
CHRONOS. And time to begin anew.
Cho. of all. All, all of a piece throughout;

Thy chase had a beast in view;

Thy wars brought nothing about;

Thy lovers were all untrue.

'Tis well an old age is out,

And time to begin anew.

For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer;
So hight her cock, whose singing did surpass
The merry notes of organs at the mass.
More certain was the crowing of the cock
To number hours, than is an abbey-clock;
And sooner than the matin-bell was rung,
He clapt his wings upon his roost, and sung:
For when degrees fifteen ascended right,
By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night.
High was his comb, and coral-red withal,
In dents embattled like a castle wall;
His bill was raven black, and shone like jet;
Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet:
White were his nails, like silver to behold,
His body glittering like the burnish'd gold.
This gentle cock, for solace of his life,

Six misses had, besides his lawful wife;

Scandal, that spares no king, though ne'er so good,
Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood;
His sisters both by sire and mother's side;

[Dance of huntsmen, nymphs, warriors, and lovers.]| And sure their likeness show'd them near ally'd.



THERE liv'd, as authors tell, in days of yore,
A widow somewhat old, and very poor:
Deep in her cell her cottage lonely stood,
Well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood.
This dowager, on whom my tale I found,
Since last she laid her husband in the ground,
A simple sober life, in patience, led,
And had but just enough to buy her bread:
But huswifing the little Heaven had lent,
She duly paid a groat for quarter rent;
And pinch'd her belly, with her daughters two,
To bring the year about with much ado.

The cattle in her homestead were three sows,
An ewe called Molly, and three brinded cows.
Her parlour window stuck with herbs around,
Of savoury smell; and rushes strew'd the ground.
A maple-dresser in her hall she had,

On which full many a slender meal she made;
For no delicious morsel pass'd her throat;
According to her cloth she cut her coat:
No poignant sauce she knew, nor costly treat,
Her hunger gave a relish to her meat:
A sparing diet did her health assure;
Or, sick, a pepper posset was her cure.
Before the day was done, her work she sped,
And never went by candle-light to bed:
With exercise she sweat ill humours out,
Her dancing was not hinder'd by the gout.
Her poverty was glad; her heart content;
Nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant.
Of wine she never tasted through the year,
But white and black was all her homely cheer:
Brown bread, and milk (but first she skim'd her bowls),
And rashers of sing'd bacon on the coals.
On holy days, an egg, or two at most;
But her ambition never reach'd to roast.

A yard she had with pales inclos'd about,
Some high, some low, and a dry ditch without.
Within this homestead liv'd, without a peer

But make the worst, the monarch did no more
Than all the Ptolemys had done before;
When incest is for interest of a nation,
"Tis made no sin by holy dispensation.
Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone,
Which by their common ugliness are known.

But passing this as from our tale apart,
Dame Partlet was the sovereign of his heart:
Ardent in love, outrageous in his play,
He feather'd her a hundred times a-day:
And she, that was not only passing fair,
But was withal discreet and debonair,
Resolv'd the passive doctrine to fulfil,
Though loth, and let him work his wicked will:
At board and bed was affable and kind,
According as their marriage-vow did bind,
And as the church's precept had enjoin'd.
Ev'n since she was a se'nnight old, they say,
Was chaste and humble to her dying day,
Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey.

By this her husband's heart she did obtain;
What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain!
She was his only joy, and he her pride,
She, when he walk'd, went pecking by his side;
If, spurning up the ground, he sprung a corn,
The tribute in his bill to her was borne.
But, oh! what joy it was to hear him sing
In summer, when the day began to spring,
Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat;
"Solus cum sola" then was all his note.
For in the days of yore, the birds of parts
Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal


It happ'd that, perching on the parlour-beam
Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream,
Just at the dawn; and sigh'd, and groan'd so fast,
As every breath he drew would be his last.
Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his side,
Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cry'd
For help from gods and men: and sore aghast
She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last.
Dear heart, said she, for love of Heaven, declare
Your pain, and make me partner of your care.
You groan, sir, ever since the morning-light,
As something had disturb'd your noble spright.
And, madam, well I might, said Chanticleer,

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