THE COMPLAINT OF A SCHOLAR.
BY THOMAS NASH.
WHY ift damnation to dispaire and die,
When life is my true happineffe disease?
My foule, my foule, thy fafetie makes me flie
The faultie meanes that might my paine appease:
Diuines and dying men may talke of hell,
But in my heart her feuerall torments dwell.
Ah worthleffe wit, to traine me to this woe!
Deceitfull arts that nourish difcontent!
Ill thriue the folly that bewitcht me fo;
Vaine thoughts, adieu, for now I will repent: 10
And yet my wants perfwade me to proceed,
Since none takes pittie of a schollers need.
Forgiue me, god, although I curfe my birth,
And ban the ayre, wherein I breath a wretch;
Since miferie hath daunted all my mirth,
And I am quite vndone through promife-breach.
Oh friends, no friends, that then vngently frowne,
When changing Fortune cafts vs headlong downe.
Without redreffe complaines my carelesse verse,
And Midas-eares relent not at my moane:
In fome far land will I my griefes rehearse,
Mongst them that will be mou'd when I shall groane.
England, adieu, the foyle that brought me forth,
Adieu, vnkinde, where skill is nothing worth.
FLY fwift, ye hours; ye fluggish minutes, fly;
Bring back my love, or let her lover dye.
Make hafte, O fun, and to my eyes once more,
My Cælia, brighter than thyfelf, restore.
In fpight of thee, 'tis night when she's away,
Her eyes alone can the glad beams display,
That make my sky look clear, and guide my day,.
O when will she lift up her facred light,
And chafe away the flying fhades of night!
With her how faft the flowing hours run on!
But oh! how long they stay when she is gone!
So flowly time when clogg'd with grief does move;
So fwift when born upon the wings of love!
Hardly three days, they tell me, yet are past,
Yet 'tis an age fince I beheld her last.
O, my aufpicious star, make hafte to rise,
To charm our hearts, and blefs our longing eyes!
O, how I long on thy dear eyes to gaze,
And chear my own with their reflected rays!
How my impatient, thirsty foul does long,
To hear the charming mufick of thy tongue!
Where pointed wit with folid judgment grows,
And in one eafie ftream united flows.
When-e'er you speak, with what delight we hear, You call up every foul to every ear!
Nature's too prodigal to woman-kind,
Ev'n where she does neglect t' adorn the mind; Beauty alone bears fuch refiftlefs fway,
As makes mankind with joy and pride obey.
But, oh! when wit and fense with beauty's join'd, 30
The woman's sweetness with the manly mind;
When nature with so just a hand does mix
The most engaging charms of either fex ;
And out of both that thus in one combine
Does fomething form not humane but divine, 35
What's her command, but that we all adore
The nobleft work of her almighty power!
Nor ought our zeal thy anger to create,
Since love's thy debt, nor is our choice but fate.
Where nature bids, worship I'm forc'd to pay, 40
Nor have the liberty to disobey:
And whenfoe'er fhe does a poet make,
She gives him verfe but for thy beauty's fake.
Had I a pen that could at once impart
Soft Ovid's nature and high Virgil's art,
Then the immortal Sachariffa's name
Should be but fecond in the list of fame ;
Each grove, each fhade, fhould with thy praise be
And the fam'd Penshurst to our Windsor yield.
A SOLILOQUY out of ITALIAN.
COU'D
'D he whom my diffembled rigour grieves,
But know what torment to my foul it gives,
He'd find how fondly I return his flame,
And want myself the pity he wou'd claim. Immortal gods! why has your doom decreed Two wounded hearts with equal pangs shou'd bleed? Since that great law, which your tribunal guides, Has join'd in love whom deftiny divides; Repent, you pow'rs, the injuries you cause,
Or change our natures, or reform your laws. 10
Unhappy partner of my killing pain,
Think what I feel the moment you complain.
Each figh you utter wounds my tend'reft part,
So much my lips misrepresent my heart.
When from your eyes the falling drops diftil,
My vital blood in every tear you spill :
And all thofe mournful agonies I hear
Are but the echoes of my own despair.
|