Select British Poets, Or, New Elegant Extracts from Chaucer to the Present Time, with Critical Remarks

When I had done what man could do,

Take up the time; all strive to be And thought the place mine own,

Masters of truth, as victory: The enemy lay quiet too,

And were you come, I'd boldly swear And smil'd at all was done.

A synod might as eas'ly err.

When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place:

She's fair, &c.

A gentle round fill'd to the brink, To this and t’other friend I drink; And if 'tis nam'd another's health, I never make it her's by stealth:

She's fair, &c.

Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains on a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much as my love:

She's fair, &c.

TO A FRIEND. Sir, Whether these lines do find you out, Putting or clearing of a doubt; (Whether Predestination, Or reconciling Three in One, Or the unriddling how men die, And live at once eternally, Now take you up) know 'tis decreed You straight bestride the college steed. Leave Socinus and the schoolmen, (Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men) And come to town; 'tis fit you shew Yourself abroad, that men may know (Whate'er some learned men have guest) That oracles are not yet ceasid: There you shall find the wit and wine Flowing alike, and both divine: Dishes, with names not known in books, And less amongst the college cooks, With sauce so poignant that you need Not stay till hunger bids you feed. The sweat of learned Jonson's brain, And gentle Shakespear's easier strain A hackney-coach conveys you to, In spite of all that rain can do: And for your eighteen-pence you sit The lord and judge of all fresh wit. News in one day as much as we've here As serves all Windsor for a year; And which the carrier brings to you, After t'has here been found not true. Then think what company's design'd To meet you here, men so refin'd, Their very common talk at board, Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord: And makes him capable to be Umpire in's father's company. Where no disputes nor forc'd defence Of a man's person for his sense

I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day:
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool:

She's fair, &c.

A SONG.

Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tost it? Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crost it?
Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping,

Or the foxes sleeping ?
Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride,

When he courts for his leachery? Ols! so fickle, oh! so vain,oh! so false, so false is she!

DETRACTION EXECRATED.

We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,

Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,

Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part Canker of conversation! could'st thou find

Our love had been of still eternity; Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate?

Much less could have it from the purer fire, Thou never wert, when we two were alone;

Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense, What canst thou witness then thou base dull aid Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire; Wast useless in our conversation,

Our mutual love itself did recompense: Where each meant more than could by both be said.

Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n, Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?

And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free: That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;

Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster? even Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth

From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,

Thee to her ears, to ruin my content: When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,

May it one minute taste such happiness, Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath Deserving lost unpitied it lament!

I must forbear her sight, and so repay
More purity, more innocence than they.
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;

Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail And in one year outlive Methusalem.
That had her love, for what else could he seek?

GEORGE WITHER-A.D. 1588-1667.

FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia’s Pastorals) not to give

over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him. Willy. For a song I do not pass

With Detraction's breath on thee. 'Mongst my friends, but what, alas!

It shall never rise so high Should I have to do with them,

As to stain thy poesy. That my music do contemn?

As that sun doth oft exhale Roget. What's the wrong?

Vapours from each rotten vale, Willy. A slight offence,

Poesy so sometime drains Wherewithal I can dispense;

Gross conceits from muddy brains, But hereafter, for their sake,

Mists of envy, fogs of spite, To myself I'll music make.

'Twixt men's judgments and her light.

But so much her power may do, Roget. What, because some clown offends,

That she can dissolve them too. Wilt thou punish all thy friends ?

If thy verse do bravely tower, Willy. Honest Roget, understand me,

As she makes wing, she gets power: Those that love me may command me;

Yet the higher she doth soar, But thou know'st I am but young,

She's affronted still the more, And the pastoral I sung

Till she to the high’st hath past, Is by some supposed to be

Then she rests with fame at last. (By a strain) too high for me;

Let nought therefore thee affright, So they kindly let me gain

But make forward in thy flight. Not my labour for my pain.

For, if I could match thy rhyme, Trust me, I do wonder why

To the very stars I'd climb; They should me my own deny.

There begin again, and fly, Though I'm young, I scorn to flit

Till I reach'd eternity. On the wings of borrow'd wit.

But alas! my Muse is slow, I'll make my own feathers rear me

For thy place she flags too low; Whither others' cannot bear me.

Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Yet I'll keep my skill in store,

Her short wings were clipt of late ; Till I've seen some winters more.

And poor I, her fortune ruing, Roget. But in earnest mean'st thou so?

Am myself put up a muing. Then thou art not wise, I trow.

But, if I my cage can rid, That's the ready way to blot

I'll fly where I never did. All the credit thou hast got.

And, though for her sake I'm crost, Rather in thy age's prime

Though my best hopes I have lost, Get another start of time;

And knew she would make my trouble And make those that so fond be,

Ten times more than ten times double ; Spite of their own dullness, see,

I should love and keep her too, That the sacred Muses can

Spite of all the world could do. Make a child in years a man.

For, though banish'd from my flocks, Envy makes their tongues now run,

And confined within these rocks, More than doubt of what is done.

Here I waste away the light, See'st thou not in clearest days,

And consume the sullen night, Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;

She doth for my comfort stay, And the vapours that do breathe

And keeps many cares away. From the earth's gross womb beneath,

Though I miss the flowery fields, Seem they not with their black streams

With those sweets the spring-tide yields ; To pollute the sun's bright beams;

Though I may not see those groves, And yet vanish into air,

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, Leaving it unblemish'd, fair ?

And the lasses more excel So, my Willy, shall it be

Than the sweet-voiced philomel ;

Though of all those pleasures past

The dull loneness, the black shade, Nothing now remains at last

That these hanging vaults have made; But remembrance (poor relief)

The strange music of the waves, That more makes than mends my grief;

Beating on these hollow caves; She's my mind's companion still,

This black den which rocks emboss, Maugre envy's evil will;

Overgrown with eldest moss ; Whence she should be driven too,

The rude portals, which give light Were't in mortals' power to do.

More to terror than delight; She doth tell me where to borrow

This my chamber of Neglect, Comfort in the midst of sorrow;

Wall'd about with Disrespect : Makes the desolatest place

From all these, and this dull air, To her presence be a grace ;

A fit object for despair, And the blackest discontents

She hath taught me by her might Be her fairest ornaments.

To draw comfort and delight. In my former days of bliss

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Her divine skill taught me this,

I will cherish thee for this; That from every thing I saw

Poesy, thou sweet's content I could some invention draw,

That e'er heaven to mortals lent, And raise pleasure to her height

Though they as a trifle leave thee, Through the meanest object's sight.

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; By the murmur of a spring,

Though thou be to them a scorn, Or the least bough's rustling,

Who to nought but earth are born; By a daisy whose leaves spread

Let my life no longer be Shut when Titan goes to bed,

Than I am in love with thee. Or a shady bush or tree,

Though our wise ones call it madness, She could more infuse in me

Let me never taste of sadness, Than all Nature's beauties can

If I love not thy madd'st fits In some other wiser man.

Above all their greatest wits. By her help I also now

And though some too seeming holy Make this churlish place allow

Do account thy raptures folly, Some things that may sweeten gladness

Thou dost teach me to contemn In the very gall of sadness.

What make knaves and fools of them.

NEW ELEGANT EXTRACTS.

WALLER.)

WALLER—A.D. 1605-87.

ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd:
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose ;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose !
Proch cheerful modesty, such humble state,
As when, din love, but with as doubtful fate
Inviting fruit on too sudardy reach, we see
All the rich flow'rs through his Ki.
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bouna.

Lia found,
Had but this copy (which the artist cook
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr’d.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

PHEBUS AND DAPHNE.
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phæbus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use !
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair,
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,

approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonivuo lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phæbus, thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill’d his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST.
Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place ;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well marshall’d and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confus'd heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!
Go, Boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth ; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

OF LOVE.
Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz’d.
For women (born to be control'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,

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Select British Poets, Or, New Elegant Extracts from Chaucer to the Present ...