And by the Blast of Self-opinion mov'd,
We wish to charm, and seek to be belov❜d.
On Pleasure's flowing Brink We idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning Way:
Seeing no Danger, We disarm our Mind,
And give our Conduct to the Waves and Wind:
Then in the flow'ry Mead, or verdant Shade,
To wanton Dalliance negligently laid,
We weave the Chaplet, and We crown the Bowl,
And smiling see the nearer Waters roll;
'Till the strong Gusts of raging Passion rise;
'Till the dire Tempest mingles Earth and Skies;
And swift into the boundless Ocean born,
Our foolish Confidence too late We mourn:
Round our devoted Heads the Billows beat;
And from our troubl'd View the lessen'd Lands retreat.
O mighty Love! from thy unbounded Pow'r
How shall the human Bosom rest secure?
How shall our Thought avoid the various Snare?
Or Wisdom to our caution'd Soul declare
The diff'rent Shapes, Thou pleasest to imploy,
When bent to hurt, and certain to destroy?
The haughty Nymph in open Beauty drest,
To-Day encounters our unguarded Breast:
She looks with Majesty, and moves with State:
Unbent her Soul, and in Misfortune great,
She scorns the World, and dares the Rage of Fate.
Here whilst we take stern Manhood for our Guide,
And guard our Conduct with becoming Pride,
Charm'd with the Courage in her Action shown,
We praise her Mind, the Image of our own.
She that can please, is certain to perswade:
To-day belov'd, To-morrow is obey'd.
We think we see thro' Reason's Optics right;
Nor find, how Beauty's Rays elude our Sight:
Struck with her Eye whilst We applaud her Mind;
And when We speak Her great, We wish Her kind.
To-morrow, cruel Pow'r, Thou arm'st the Fair
With flowing Sorrow, and dishevel'd Hair:
Sad her Complaint, and humble is her Tale,
Her Sighs explaining where her Accents fail.
Here gen'rous Softness warms the honest Breast:
We raise the sad, and succour the distress'd:
And whilst our Wish prepares the kind Relief,
Whilst Pity mitigates her rising Grief,
We sicken soon from her contagious Care,
Grieve for her Sorrows, groan for her Despair;
And against Love too late those Bosoms arm,
Which Tears can soften, and which Sighs can warm.
Against this nearest cruelest of Foes,
What shall Wit meditate, or Force oppose?
Whence, feeble Nature, shall We summon Aid,
If by our Pity, and our Pride betray'd?
External Remedy shall We hope to find,
When the close Fiend has gain'd our treach'rous Mind,
Insulting there does Reason's Pow'r deride,
And blind Himself, conducts the dazl'd Guide?
Solomon, Book ii-Poems on Several Occasions, 1718
For My own Monument
AS way of rong took care,
S DOCTORS give physic by way of prevention,
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his Heir.
Then take MATT's word for it, the SCULPTOR is paid,
That the FIGURE is fine, pray believe your own eye,
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter our selves, and teach marble to lye.
Yet counting as far as to FIFTY his years,
His virtues and vices were as other men's are,
High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears,
In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree,
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord how merry was he.
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would trust, And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So MATT may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So MATT may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear,
He cares not-yet pr'ythee be kind to his FAME.
Miscellaneous Works, 1740
ELEAS’D from the noise of the Butcher and Baker
, her,
And from the soft Duns of my Landlord the Quaker,
From chiding the Footmen and watching the Lasses,
From Nell that burn'd Milk, and Tom that broke Glasses
(Sad mischiefs thro which a good housekeeper passes!)
From some real Care but more fancy'd vexation,
From a life party Colour'd half reason half passion,
Here lies after all the best Wench in the Nation.
From the Rhine to the Po, from the Thames to the Rhone,
Joanna or Janneton, Jinny or Joan,
Twas all one to her by what name She was known.
For the Idiom of words very little She heeded,
Provided the Matter She drove at succeeded,
She took and gave Languages just as She needed.
So for Kitching and Market, for bargain and Sale,
She paid English or Dutch or French down on the Nail,
But in telling a Story she sometimes did fail;
Then begging Excuse as She happen'd to Stammer,
With respect to her betters but none to her Grammer,
Her blush helpt her out and her Jargon became her.
Her Habit and Mein she endeavor'd to frame
To the different Gout of the place where She came;
Her outside stil chang'd, but her inside the same:
At the Hague in her Slippers and hair as the Mode is,
At Paris all Falbalow'd fine as a Goddess,
And at censuring London in smock sleeves and Bodice.
She order'd Affairs that few People cou'd tell
In what part about her that mixture did dwell
Of Vrough, or Mistress, or Medemoiselle.
For her Sirname and race let the Heraults e'en Answer;
Her own proper worth was enough to advance her,
And he who lik'd her, little valu'd her Grandsire.
But from what House so ever her lineage may come
I wish my own Jinny but out of her Tomb,
Tho all her Relations were there in her Room.
Of such terrible beauty She never cou'd boast
As with absolute Sway o'er all hearts rules the roast
When J-bawls out to the Chair for a Toast;
But of good Household Features her Person was made,
Nor by Faction cry'd up nor of Censure afraid,
And her beauty was rather for Use than Parade.
Her Blood so well mix't and flesh so well Pasted
That tho her Youth faded her Comliness lasted;
The blew was wore off, but the Plum was well tasted.
Less smooth than her Skin and less white than her breast
Was this pollisht stone beneath which she lyes prest:
Stop, Reader, and Sigh while thou thinkst on the rest.
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