Though through the tend'rest part of all, the eye;
But your sharp claws have left enough to shew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleasure is pain, for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to b' allay'd.
. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P. What you like best, you always disapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love will not be nice,
T'excuse the wrong he does, to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourself the pain you give:
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve,
But 'tis your want of passion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For while you stifle and inflame desire,
You burn and starve me in the self-same fire.
C. It is not I, but you that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accuse me for 't;
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt sun and sun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.
HONOURABLE EDWARD HOWARD, ESQ.
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM OF
You have oblig'd the British nation more
Than all their bards could ever do before,
And, at your own charge, monuments more hard
Than brass or marble to their fame have rear'd;
For as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how brave their ancestors could fight,
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no less virtuously improv'd your own:
For 't will be doubted whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You of their ancient princes have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd;
Describ'd their customs and their rites anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew ;
Unriddled their dark oracles as well
As those themselves that made them could foretell:
For, as the Britons long have hop'd, in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again,
* Most of the celebrated wits in Charles II.'s reign addressed this gentleman in a bantering way upon his poem called 'The British Princes,' and, among the rest, Butler.
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in this poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic pow'r has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new life to men;
Make rival princes meet in arms, and love,
Whom distant ages did so far remove:
For as eternity has neither past
Nor future (authors say), nor first, nor last,
But is all instant, your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why should you, whose miracle of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-busied head
T'observe what time they liv'd in, or were dead?
For since you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar latitude.
There's no man fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some proportion with your wit;
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense that understands it here.
TO THE HONOURABLE EDWARD HOWARD, ESQ. UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE POEM OF
Ir is your pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus in form of paper sues;
For having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to ask forgiveness and submit ;
Is sorry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white:
But such is her belief in your just candour,
She hopes you will not so misunderstand her,
To wrest her harmless meaning to the sense
Of silly emulation or offence.
No; your sufficient wit does still declare
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and senseless a presumption own,
To yoke your vast parts in comparison :
And yet you might have thought upon a way
T' instruct us how you 'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises, and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame.
For who could choose but err, without some trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was desir'd, upon occasion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Desir'd his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth to fit it right;
So, had you sent a scantling of your wit,
You might have blamed us if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impose, and then cry down
All that 's unequal to your huge renown:
For he that writes below your vast desert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praise, like a robe of state, should not sit close
To th' person 'tis made for, but wide and loose;
Derives its comeliness from b'ing unfit,
And such have been our praises of your wit,
Which is so extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right:
Witness those glorious poems you have writ
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And those stupendious discoveries
You 'ave lately made of wonders in the skies:
For who, but from yourself, did ever hear
The sphere of atoms was the atmosphere?
Who ever shut those stragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?
What should confine those undetermin'd crowds,
And yet extend no further than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A sign and an ascendant were all one?
Or how 'tis possible the moon should shroud
Her face to peep at Mars behind a cloud,
Since clouds below are so far distant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from being barefac'd?
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