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Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, It found a liking there, a sportful fire, s the best gift of heaven: a happiness

And that fomented into serious love; Chat even above the smiles and frowns of fate Which musing daily strengthens and improves, Exalts great nature's favourites: a wealth

Through all the heights of fondness and romance: That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr’d. And you're undone, the fatal shaft has sped, Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn’d;

If once you doubt whether you love or no. Dr dealt by chance, to shield a lucky knave, The body wastes away; th' infected mind, Or throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.

Dissolv'd in female tenderness, forgets But for one end, one much-neglected use,

Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame. Are riches worth your care: (for nature's wants Sweet heaven from such intoxicating charms Are few, and without opulence supply'd.)

Defend all worthy breasts! Not that I deem This noble end is, to produce the soul;

Love always dangerous, always to be shunnid. To show the virtues in their fairest light;

Love well repaid, and not too weakly sunk To make humanity the minister

In wanton and unmanly tenderness, Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast Adds bloom to health ; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds That generous luxury the gods enjoy.

A gay, humane, a sweet and generous grace, Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly sage And brightens all the ornaments of man. Sometimes declaim'd. Of right and wrong he taught But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack'd Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard ;

With jealousy, fatigu'd with hope and fear, And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd. Too serious, or too languishingly fond, Skill'd in the passions, how to check their sway Unnerves the body and unmans the soul : He knew, as far as reason can controul

And some have died for love; and some run mad; The lawless powers. But other cares are mine:

And some with desperate hands themselves have Form'd in the school of Pæon, I relate

Some to extinguish, others to prevent, (slain. What passions hurt the body, what improve: A mad devotion to one dangerous fair, Avoid them, or invite them, as you may.

Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate Know then, whatever cheerful and serene The cares of love amongst an hundred brides. Supports the mind, supports the body too.

Th' event is doubtful: for there are who find Hence, the most vital movement mortals feel

A cure in this; there are who find it not. Is hope ; the balm and life-blood of the soul.

'Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls It pleases, and it lasts. Indulgent Heaven

The wound, to those who are sincerely sick. Sent down the kind delusion, through the paths For while from feverish and tumultuous joys Of rugged life, to lead us patient on;

The nerves grow languid and the soul subsides, And make our happiest state no tedious thing. The tender fancy smarts with every sting, Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, And what was love before is madness now. Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.

Is health your care, or luxury your aim?
But there are passions grateful to the breast, Be temperate still: when nature bids, obey;
And yet no friends to life: perhaps they please Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb:
Or to excess, and dissipate the soul;

But when the prurient habit of delight,
Or while they please, torment. The stubborn clown, Or loose imagination, spurs you on
The ill-tam'd ruffian, and pale usurer,

To deeds above your strength, impute it not (If love's omnipotence such hearts can mould) To nature: nature all compulsion hates. May safely mellow into love; and grow

Ah! let not luxury nor vain renown Refin'd, humane, and generous, if they can.

Urge you to feats you well might sleep without; Love in such bosoms never to a fault

To make what should be rapture a fatigue, Or pains or pleases. But, ye finer souls,

A tedious task; nor in the wanton arms Form'd to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill

Of twining Lais melt your manhood down. With all the tumults, all the joys and pains,

For from the colliquation of soft joys That beauty gives; with caution and reserve How chang'd you rise! the ghost of what you was! Indulge the sweet destroyer of repose,

nid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan; Nor court too much the queen of charming cares. Your veins exhausted, and your nerves unstrung. For, while the cherish'd poison in your breast Spoil'd of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood Ferments and maddens; sick with jealousy, Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy, (To each slight impulse tremblingly awake) The wholesome appetites and powers of life

A subtle fiend that mimics all the plagues, Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach lothes Rapid and restless springs from part to part. The genial board: Your cheerful days are gone; The blooming honours of your youth are fallen; The generous bloom that flush'd your cheeks is filed. Your vigour pines ; your vital powers decay; To sighs devoted and to tender pains,

Diseases haunt you; and untimely age* Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,

Creeps on ; unsocial, impotent, and lewd. And waste your youth in musing. Musing first Infatuate, impious, epicure! to waste Toy'd into care your unsuspecting heart:

The stores of pleasure, cheersulness, and health!

Infatuate all who make delight their trade,

Of all that ever taught in prose or song, And coy perdition every hour pursue.

To tame the fiend that sleeps a gentle lamb, Who pines with love, or in lascivious flames And wakes a lion. Unprovok'd and calm, Consumes, is with his own consent undone:

You reason well; see as you ought to see, He chooses to be wretched, to be mad;

And wonder at the madness of mankind: And warn’d proceeds and wilful to his fate.

Seiz'd with the common rage, you soon forget But there's a passion, whose tempestuous sway The speculations of your wiser hours. Tears up each virtue planted in the breast,

Beset with furies of all deadly shapes, And shakes to ruins proud philosophy.

Fierce and insidious, violent and slow:. For pale and trembling anger rushes in,

With all that urge or lure us on to fate: With fault'ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare; What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare? Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas,

Where reason proves too weak, or void of wiles Desperate, and arm’d with more than human To cope with subtle or impetuous powers, strength.

I would invoke new passions to your aid: How soon the calm, humane, and polish'd man With indignation would extinguish fear, Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend!

With fear or generous pity vanquish rage, Who pines in love, or wastes with silent cares, And love with pride; and force to force oppose. Envy, or ignominy, or tender grief,

There is a charm, a power, that sways the breast; Slowly descends, and ling'ring to the shades. Bids every passion revel or be still; But he whom anger stings, drops, if he dies, Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves; At once, and rushes apoplectic down;

Can soothe distraction, and almost despair. Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.

That power is music: far beyond the stretch For, as the body through unnumber'd strings Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage; Reverberates each vibration of the soul;

Those clumsy heroes, those fat-beaded gods, As is the passion, such is still the pain

Who move no passion justly but contempt: The body feels: or chronic, or acute.

Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!) And oft a sudden storm at once o'erpowers

Do wondrous feats, but never heard of grace. The life, or gives your reason to the winds.

The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts; Such fates attend the rash alarm of fear,

Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest And sudden grief, and rage, and sudden joy.

peals, There are, mean time, to whom the boist'rous fit Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels; Is health, and only fills the sails of life.

And, with insipid show of rapture, die For where the mind a lorpid winter leads,

Of idiot notes impertinently long. Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold,

But he the Muse's laurel justly shares, And each clogg'd function lazily moves on;

A poet he, and touchi'd with Heaven's own fire; A generous sally spurns th’incumbent load, Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds, Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow. Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul; But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,

Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain, Or are your nerves too irritably strung,

In love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains Waive all dispute; be cautious, if you joke; Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling breast; Keep lent for ever; and forswear the bowl:

Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad, For one rash moment sends you to the shades, Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings. Or shatters ev'ry hopeful scheme of life,

Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old And gives to horror all your days to come.

Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Fate, arm’d with thunder, fire, and ev'ry plague Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,
That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,

The man who bade the Theban domes ascend, And makes the happy wretched in an hour,

And tam’d the savage nations with his song; O’erwhelms you not with woes so horrible

And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre, As your own wrath, nor gives more sudden blows. Tun’d to soft woe, made all the mountains weep; While choler works, good friend, you may be Sootlı'd even th' inexorable powers of hell, wrong;

And half redeem'd his lost Eurydice. Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight. Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, 'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;

Expels diseases, softens every pain, If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.

Subdues the rage of poison, and the plague; But calm advice against a raging fit

And hence the wise of ancient days ador'd Avails too little; and it braves the power

One power of physic, melody, and song.

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CHATTERTON-A. D. 1752470.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE;

OR, THE DETIE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.

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The featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne:
Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes

Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte

Proclayme the fated daie. “ Thou’rt ryght,” quod he, “ for, by the Godde

That syttes enthron’d on hyghe! Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,

To daie shall surelie die."

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Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,

And felle down onne hys knee;
“ I'm come," quod hee, “ unto your grace

To move your clemencye.”
“ Thenne," quod the kynge, “ Youre tale speke out,

You have been much oure friende;
Whatever youre request may bee,

Wee wylle to ytte attende.”
“ My nobile leige! alle my request

Ys for a noblie knyghte,
Who, though may hap hee has donne wronge,

He thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte: “ He has a spouse and children twaine;

Alle rewyn'd are for aie, Yff that you are resolv’d to lett

Charles Bawdin die to-dai." “ Speke not of such a traytour vile,"

The kynge ynn furie sayde; “ Before the evening starre doth sheene,

Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
“ Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

And hee shalle have hys meede:
Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else

Att present doe you neede?"
My nobile leige!” goode Canynge sayde,

“ Leave justice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule asyde;

Be thyne the olyve rodde. “ Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,

The best were synners grete; Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne,

Ynne alle thys mortall state. “ Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,

'Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; From race to race thye familie

Alle sov’reigns shall endure:
“ But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou

Beginne thy infante reigne,
Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows

Wylle never long remayne."
Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile

Has scorn’d my power and mee;
Howe canst thou then for such a manne

Entreate my clemencye?"
My nobile leige ! the trulie brave

Wylle val’rous actions prize,
Respect a brave and nobile mynde,

Although ynne enemies."

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; “ Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

Hee leaves thys mortall state.” Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,

Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
But whenne he came, hys children twaine,

And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.
• O goode Syr Charles !" sayd Canterlone,

“ Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.” Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles,

* Whatte says the traytour kynge?" • I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne

Does fromme the welkinn flye, Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne,

Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

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“ We all must die,” quod brave Syr Charles;

· Of thatte I'm not affearde; Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?

Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd: “ Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,

l'de sooner die to-daie, Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,

Though I shoulde lyve for aie."
Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out,

To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness

For goode Syr Charleses fate.

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“ Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n

“ Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

Of parents of grete note; I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

Emblazon onne hys cote: “ By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,

“ I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone, Thys sunne shall be hys laste."

Where soone I hope to goe; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,

Where wee for ever shall bee blest, And from the presence paste.

From oute the reech of woe. Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

“ Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

Wyth pitie to unite; And sat hymm dowpe uponne a stoole,

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe And teares beganne to flowe.

The wronge cause from the ryghte: “ Wee all must die," quod brave Sir Charles; “ Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande “ Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

To feede the hungrie poore, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie Of all wee mortall menne.

The hungrie fromm my doore: “ Say why, my friende, thie honest soul

“ And none can saye but alle mye lyfe Runns over att thyne eye;

I have hys wordyes kept; Is ytte for my most welcome doome

And summ'd the actyonns of the daie Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Eche nyghte before I slept. Quod godlie Canynge,“ I doe weepe,

“ I have a spouse, goe aske of her Thatt thou so soone must dye,

Yff I defyld her bedde? And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;

I have a kynge, and none can laie "Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.

Black treason onne my hedde. “ Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

6 Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Fromm tleshe I dydd refrayne; Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

To leave thys worlde of payne ? “ Whan through the tyrant's welcom means “ Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shall resigne my lyfe,

I shall ne see thye dethe; The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

Most willynglie yone thye just cause For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Doe I resign my brethe. “ Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

“ Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! Thys was appointed mee;

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge

Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, What Godde ordeynes to bee?

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. “ Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

“ Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

And godlie Henrie's reigne, Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

For those of bloude and peyne? “ Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,

• Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, Thatt cutte the airie waie,

And mangled by a hynde, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

I doe defye the traytour's pow'r, And close myne eyes for aie?

Hee can ne harm my mynde; “ And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

“ Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere;

And ne ryche monument of brasse Bee alle the manne display'd.

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; “ Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, “ Yett ynne the holie book above, And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, Yff’tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

Mye name shall lyve for aie. “ My honest friende, my faulte has beene

“ Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne To serve Godde and mye prynce;

I leave thys mortall lyfe: And thatt I no tyme-server am,

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Mye sonnes and lovyoge wyfe!

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u Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Wyth my dere wyse to staie.”

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Quod Canynge,“ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

Before hym went the council

menne, To bee prepar'd to die;

Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.”

Muche glorious to beholde:
And nowe the belle began to tolle,

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
And claryonnes to sound;

Appeared to the syghte,
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
And just before the officers

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt;
Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. “ Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Ynn quiet lett mee die;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,
Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule

From rescue of Kynge Henries friends
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Syr Charles forr to defend. “ Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers ?

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Theye washe my soule awaie,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: “ 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe
Untoe the lande of blysse;

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Receive thys holie kysse.”

Marched ynne goodlie route:
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; " Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt: 6 Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

And theyre attendyng mennc cchone,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.”

Lyke easterne princes trick't:
And nowe the officers came ynne

And after them a multitude
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyse,

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, And thus to her dydd saie:

As hee dydd passe alonge. “ I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Truste thou ynne Godde above,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

“ O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

soule clean thys daie !" 6 Teache them to runne the nobile race

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
Thatt I theyre fader runne;

The kynge ynne myckle state,
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu !

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
Yee officers leade onne.”

To hys most welcom fate.
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, And dydd her tresses tere;

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, «« Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

And thus hys wordes declare: "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Shee fellen onne the flore;

Expos’d to infamie;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne!
And march'd fromm oute the dore.

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

Washe mye

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