Then be not jealous, friend: for why? My lady marchioness is nigh,

To see I ne'er should hurt ye; Besides you know full well that I Am turn'd of five-and-forty.

THE RECONCILEMENT BETWEEN JACOB TONSON AND MR. CONGREVE. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK III. ODE IX.

TONSON.

WHILE at my house in Fleet-street once you lay,
How merrily, dear sir, time pass'd away?
While "I partook your wine, your wit, and mirth,
I was the happiest creature on God's yearth '."
CONGREVE.

While in your early days of reputation,
You for blue garters had not such a passion;
While yet you did not use (as now your trade is)
To drink with noble lords, and toast their ladies;
Thou, Jacob Tonson, wert to my conceiving,
The cheerfullest, best, honest fellow living.

TONSON.

I'm in with captain Vanburgh at the present, A most sweet-natur'd gentleman, and pleasant; He writes your comedies, draws schemes, and models,

And builds dukes' houses upon very odd hills:
For him, so much I dote on him, that I,
If I was sure to go to Heaven, would die.

CONGREVE.

Temple and Delaval are now my party, Men that are tam Mercurio both quam Marte; And though for them I shal! scarce go to Heaven, Yet I can drink with them six nights in seven.

TONSON.

What if from Van's dear arms I should retire, And once more warm my bunnians at your fire; If I to Bow-street should invite you home, And set a bed up in my dining room,

Tell me, dear Mr. Congreve, would you come?

CONGREVE.

Though the gay sailor, and the gentle knight, Where ten times more my joy and heart's delight, Though civil persons they, you ruder were, And had more humours than a dancing-bear; Yet for your sake I'd bid them both adieu, And live and die, dear Bob, with only you.

HORACE BOOK III. ODE XXI.
TO HIS CASK.

HAIL, gentle cask, whose venerable head

With hoary down and ancient dust o'er-spread, Proclaims, that since the vine first brought thee Old age has added to thy worth. [forth Whether the sprightly juice thou dost contain, Thy votaries will to wit and love,

Or senseless noise and lewdness move,

Or sleep, the cure of these and every other pain.

1 The dialect of the elder Tonson.

Sir Richard Temple, afterwards lord Cobham. 3 Jacob's term for his corns.

Since to some day propitious and great,
Justly at first thou wast design'd by fate;
This day, the happiest of thy many years,
With thee I will forget my cares:

To my Corvinus' health thou shalt go round,
(Since thou art ripen'd for to day,

And longer age would bring decay) [drown'd. Till every anxious thought in the rich stream be To thee my friend his roughness shall submit, And Socrates himself a while forget. Thus when old Cato would sometimes unbend The rugged stiffness of his mind,

Stern and severe, the stoic quafi`d his bowl,

His frozen virtue felt the charm,

And soon grew pleas'd, and soon grew warm, And bless'd the sprightly power that cheer'd his gloomy soul.

[free.

With kind constraint ill-nature thou dost bend,
And mould the snarling cynic to a friend.
The sage reserv'd, and fam'd for gravity,
Finds all he knows summ'd up in thee,
And by thy power unlock'd, grows easy, gay, and
The swain, who did some credulous nymph per-
To grant him all, inspir'd by thee, [suade
Devotes her to his vanity,

And to his fellow-fops toasts the abandon'd maid.
The wretch who, press'd beneath a load of cares,
And labouring with continual woes, despairs,
If thy kind warmth does his chill'd sense invade,
From earth he rears his drooping head,
Reviv'd by thee, he ceases now to mourn;

[turn;

His flying cares give way to haste,
And to the god resign his breast,
Where hopes of better days, and better things re-

The labouring hind, who with hard toil and pains,
Amidst his wants, a wretched life maintains;
If thy rich juice his homely supper crown,
Hot with thy fires, and bolder grown,
Of kings, and of their arbitrary power,

And how by impious arms they reign,
Fiercely he talks with rude disdain,
And vows to be a slave, to be a wretch no more.

Fair queen of love, and thou great god of wine,
Hear, every grace, and all ye powers divine,
All that to mirth and friendship do incline,
Crown this auspicious cask, and happy night,
With all things that can give delight;
Be every care and anxious thought away;
Ye tapers, still be bright and clear,
Rival the Moon, and each pale star,
Your beams shall yield to none, but his who
brings the day.

HORACE BOOK IV. ODE I.

TO VENUS.

ONCE more the queen of love invades my breast
Late, with long ease and peaceful pleasure blest;
Spare, spare the wretch, that still has been thy
And let my former service have
[slave,

The merit to protect me to the grave.
Much am I chang'd from what I once have been,
When under Cynera, the good and fair,
With joy I did thy fetters wear,

Bless'd in the gentle sway of an indulgent queer.

Have wisely from those envy'd heights declin'd,
Have sunk to that just level of mankind,
Where not too little nor too much gives the true
peace of mind.

ON THE LAST JUDGMENT,

AND THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD.

In that bless'd day, from every part, the just,
Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering dust,
The various products of Time's fruitful womb,
All of past ages, present and to come,
In full assembly shall at once resort,
And meet within high Heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long succession ran;

The reverend sires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat
Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all those tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more sacred friendship know,
Firm, constant, and unchangeable shall grow.
Refin'd from passion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlasting being shall commence:
There, like their days, their joys shall ne'er be done,
No night shall rise, to shade Heaven's glorious sun,
But one cternal holy-day go on.

Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false-one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.

"And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die. "If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground. The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true. "Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day; While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of, or seen, Unless when beneath the pale Moon, His ghost shall glide over the green."

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

A SONG, TO THE TUNE OF "GRIM KING OF THE GHOSTS."

DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;

And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
"Alas, silly swain that I was!"

Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd,
"When first I beheld that fair face,
"Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue;
When she smil'd, twas a pleasure too great.
1 listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

"How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?

"What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.

REPLY, BY ANOTHER HAND. YE winds, to whom Colin complains, In ditties so sad and so sweet, Believe me, the shepherd but feigns He's wretched to show he has wit. No charmer like Colin can move, And this is some pretty new art; Ah! Colin's a juggler in love,

And likes to play tricks with my heart,

When he will, he can sigh and look pale,
Seem doleful and alter his face,
Can tremble, and alter his tale,

Ah! Colin has every pace:

The willow my rover prefers

To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie, And the stream, that he swells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than 1.

His head my fond bosom would bear,

And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair, But Colin is only in jest ;

No death the deceiver designs,

Let the maid that is ruin'd despair; For Colin but dies in his lines,

And gives himself that modish air.

Can shepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes passion his sport,

Beware of so fatal a game;
My voice of no music can boast,
Nor my person of ought that is fine,
But Colin may find to his cost,

A face that is fairer than mine.

Ab! then I will break my lov'd crook,

To thee I'll bequeath all my sheep, And die in the much-favour'd brook,

Where Colin does now sit and weep: Then mourn the sad fate that you gave, In sonnets so smooth and divine; Perhaps, I may rise from my grave, To hear such soft music as thine.

Of the violet, daisy, and rose,

The heart's-ease, the lily, and pink, Did thy fingers a garland compose,

And crown'd by the rivulet's brink; How oft, my dear swain, did I swear,

How much my fond love did admire Thy verses thy shape, and thy air,

Though deck'd in thy rural attire! Your sheep-hook you rul'd with such art, That all your small subjects obey'd; And still you reign'd king of this heart, Whose passion you falsely upbraid; How often, my swain, have I said,

Thy arms are a palace to me,
And how well I could live in a shade,
Though adorned with nothing but thee!

Oh! what are the sparks of the town,
Though never so fine and so gay?

I freely would leave beds of down,

For thy breast on a bed of new hay: Then, Colin, return once again,

Again make me happy in love, Let me find thee a faithful true swain, And as constant a nymph I will prove.

EPIGRAM

ON A LADY WHO SHED HER WATER AT SEEING THE TRAGEDY OF CATO; OCCASIONED BY AN EPIGRAM ON A LADY WHO WEPT AT IT.

MECENAS.

475

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER-
RED ON THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF HALI-
FAX, 1714; BEING THAT YEAR INSTALLED
KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE
GARTER.

PHOEBUS and Cæsar once conspir'd to grace
A noble knight of ancient Tuscan race.
The monarch, greatly conscious of his worth,
From books and his retirement call'd him forth;
Adorn'd the patriot with the civic crown,
The consul's fasces and patrician gown:
The world's whole wealth he gave him to bestow,
And teach the streams of treasure where to flow:
To him he bade the suppliant nations come,
And on his counsels fix'd the fate of Rome.

The god of wit, who taught him first to sing, And tune high numbers to the vocal string, With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king.

ON THE PRINCE OF WALES's, then regENT, APPEARING AT THE FIRE IN SPRING-GARDEN, 1726.

THY guardian, blest Britannia, scorns to sleep,
When the sad subjects of his father weep;
Weak princes by their fears increase distress;
He faces danger, and so makes it less.

He knows, to save, is greater than destroy.

SONG

ON À FINE WOMAN WHO HAD A DULL HUSBAND. WHEN on fair Celia's eyes I gaze,

And bless their light divine;

I stand confounded with amaze,
To think on what they shine.

On one vile clod of earth she seems
To fix their influence;

Which kindles not at those bright beams,
Nor wakens into sense.

Lost and bewilder'd with the thought,
I could not but complain,
That Nature's lavish hand had wrought
This fairest work in vain.

Thus some, who have the stars survey'd,
Are ignorantly led,

To think those glorious lamps were made To light Tom-fool to bed.

OCCASIONED BY

HIS FIRST VISIT TO LADY WARWICK,
AT HOLLAND HOUSE.

HEARING that Chloe's bower crown'd
The summit of a neighbouring hill,
Where every rural joy was found,
Where health and wealth were plac'd around;
To wait like servants on her will,

I went, and found 'twas as they said,

That every thing look'd fresh and fair; Her herds in flowery pastures stray'd, Delightful was the green-wood shade,

And gently breath'd the balmy air.
But when I found my troubled heart

Uneasy grown within my breast,
My breath come short, and in each part
Some new disorder seem to start,

Which pain'd me sore and broke my rest :

"Some noxious vapour sure," I said,

"From this unwholesome soil must rise; Some secret venom is convey'd

Or from this field, or from that shade,
That does the power of life surprise."

Soon as the skilful Leach beheld

The change that in my health was grown: "Blame not," he cry'd," nor wood nor field; Diseases which such symptoms yield,

Proceed from Chloe's eyes alone.

"Alike she kills in every air,

The coldest breast her beauties warm;
And though the fever took you there,
If Chloe had not been so fair,

The place had never done you harm."

STANZAS TO LADY WARWICK.

ON MR. ADDISON'S GOING TO IRELAND.

YE gods and Nereid nymphs who rule the sea! Who chain loud storms, and still the raging main! With care the gentle Lycidas convey,

And bring the faithful lover safe again.

When Albion's shore with cheerless heart he left,
Pensive and sad upon the deck he stood,
Of every joy in Chloe's eyes bereft,
And wept his sorrows in the swelling flood.

Ah, fairest maid! whom, as I well divine,

The righteous gods his just reward ordain; For his return thy pious wishes join,

That thou at length may'st pay him for his pain.

And since his love does thine alone pursue,
In arts unpractis'd and unus'd to rauge;
I charge thee be by his example true,

And shun thy sex's inclination, change.
When crowds of youthful lovers round thee wait,
And tender thoughts in sweetest words impart;
When thou art woo'd by titles, wealth, and state,
Then think on Lycidas, and guard thy heart.
When the gay theatre shall charm thy eyes,

When artful wit shall speak thy beauty's praise;

When harmony shall thy soft soul surprise, Sooth all thy senses, and thy passions raise: Amidst whatever various joys appear,

Yet breathe one sigh, for one sad minute mourn; Nor let thy heart know one delight sincere, Till thy own truest Lycidas return.

THE VISIT.

Wir and beauty t' other day,
Chane'd to take me in their way;
And, to make the favour greater,
Brought the graces and good-nature,
Conversation care-beguiling,
Joy in dimples ever smiling,
All the pleasures here below;
Men can ask, or gods bestow,
A jolly train, believe me! No:
There were but two, Lepell' and How.

THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. TO MRS. AD

As on a summer's day

In the greenwood shade I lay,
The maid that I lov'd,
As her fancy mov'd,
Came walking forth that way.

And as she passed by
With a scornful glance of her eye;
"What a shame," quoth she,
"For a swain must it be,
Like a lazy loon for to die!

"And dost thou nothing heed, What Pan our god has decreed; What a prize to day

Shall be given away,
To the sweetest shepherd's reed!

"There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain,

But with hopes and fears
Now busily prepares
The bonny boon to gain.

"Shall another maiden shine In brighter array than thine? Up, up, dull swain,

Tune thy pipe once again, And make the garland mine."

"Alas! my love," he cry'd, "What avails this courtly pride? Since thy dear desert

Is written in my heart What is all the world beside?

"To me thou art more gay,
In this homely russet gray,

Than the nymphs of our green,
So trim and so sheen;
Or the brightest queen of May.

"What though my fortune frown, And deny thee a silken gown;

1 Afterwards the celebrated lady Harvey 2 Afterwards his wife.