CHARLES COTTON. TO CHLORIS. ORD! how you take upon you still! L° How you crow and domineer! How still expect to have your will, And carry the dominion clear, As you were still the same that once you were! Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake, Correct your errors, and be wise; But yet have learn'd, though love I prize, I was a fool while you were fair, And all the rest are so that lovers are: Gives all the rule and sway; Men afterwards unwillingly obey. Yet still you have enough, and more than needs, Nor is it much against my will, Though I pretend to wrestle and repine. Your beauties, sweet, are at their height, New years new graces still create, You in your very ruins shall have more Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world before. SIR RICHARD FANSHAW. THOU HOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thysweet flow'r, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour, To murder thee as soon as thou art born. Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death. JOHN DRYDEN. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, Or, the Power of Music: AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne : His valiant peers were plac'd around; The lovely Thaïs by his side Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! Timotheus plac'd on high, Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, The song began from Jove; And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov❜reign of the world; The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravish'd ears, The monarch hears, Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung; He shews his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath-he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice be routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius, great and good! By too severe a fate Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, The various turns of chance below; The mighty master smil'd to see Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Take the good the gods provide thee. Who caus'd his care, 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 opprest, Now strike the golden lyre again: And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has rais'd up his head, As awak'd from the dead, And, amaz'd, he stares around. |