Most Wretched Man, were th'Ills I nam'd before All which I could in thy sad State deplore, Did Things without alone 'gainst thee prevail, My Tongue I'de chide, that them I did bewaile: But, Shame to Reason, thou art seen to be Unto thy self the fatall'st Enemy, Within thy Breast the Greatest Plagues to bear, First them to breed, and then to cherish there; Unmanag'd Passions which the Reins have broke Of Reason, and refuse to bear its Yoke. But hurry thee, uncurb'd, from place to place, A wild, unruly, and an Uncouth Chace. Now cursed Gold does lead the Man astray, False flatt'ring Honours do anon betray, Then Beauty does as dang'rously delude, Beauty, that vanishes, while 'tis pursu'd, That, while we do behold it, fades away, And even a Long Encomium will not stay.
Each one of these can the Whole Man employ, Nor knows he anger, sorrow, fear, or joy, But what to these relate; no Thought does start Aside, but tends to its appointed Part, No Respite to himself from Cares he gives, But on the Rack of Expectation lives. If crost, the Torment cannot be exprest, Which boyles within his agitated Breast. Musick is harsh, all Mirth is an offence, The Choicest Meats cannot delight his Sense, Hard as the Earth he feels his Downy Bed, His Pillow stufft with Thornes, that bears his Head, He rolls from side to side, in vain seeks Rest; For if sleep comes at last to the Distrest; His Troubles then cease not to vex him too, But Dreams present, what he does waking do. On th'other side, if he obtains the Prey, And Fate to his impetuous Sute gives way, Be he or Rich, or Amorous, or Great, He'll find this Riddle still of a Defeat, That only Care, for Bliss, he home has brought, Or else Contempt of what he so much sought. So that on each Event if we reflect, The Joys and Sufferings of both sides collect, We cannot say where lies the greatest Pain, In the fond Pursuit, Loss, or Empty Gain.
And can it be, Lord of the Sea and Earth, Off-spring of Heaven, that to thy State and Birth Things so incompatible should be joyn'd, Passions should thee confound, to Heaven assign'd? Passions that do the Soul unguarded lay, And to the strokes of Fortune ope' a way. Were't not that these thy Force did from thee take, How bold, how brave Resistance would'st thou make? Defie the Strength and Malice of thy Foes, Unmoved stand the Worlds United Blows? For what is't, Man, unto thy Better Part, That thou or Sick, or Poor, or Captive art? Since no Material Stroke the Soul can feel, The smart of Fire, or yet the Edge of Steel. As little can it Worldly Joys partake, Though it the Body does its Agent make, And joyntly with it Servile Labour bear, For Things, alas, in which it cannot share. Surveigh the Land and Sea by Heavens embrac't, Thou'lt find no sweet th'Immortal Soul can tast: Why dost thou then, O Man! thy self torment Good here to gain, or Evils to prevent? Who only Miserable or Happy art, As thou neglects, or wisely act'st thy Part.
For shame then rouse thy self as from a Sleep, The long neglected Reins let Reason keep, The Charret mount, and use both Lash and Bit, Nobly resolve, and thou wilt firmly sit: Fierce Anger, boggling Fear, Pride prauncing still, Bounds-hating Hope, Desire which nought can fill, Are stubborn all, but thou may'st give them Law; Th'are hard-Mouth'd Horses, but they well can draw. Lash on, and the well govern'd Charret drive, Till thou a Victor at the Goal arrive, Where the free Soul does all her burden leave, And Joys commensurate to her self receive.
Upon the saying that my Verses were
made by another.
Next Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse!) I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire, No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part, More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold The Muses Laurel, than a Crown of Gold. An Undivided Sacrifice I'le lay Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay; Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be, My All I'le make a Holocaust to thee.
The Deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend. I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen: Could any doubt Insuing Glory then? What pleasing Raptures fill'd my Ravisht Sense? How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence? And thine, False Hope, that to my flatter'd sight Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright? By thee deceiv'd, methought, each Verdant Tree, Apollos transform'd Daphne seem'd to be; And ev'ry fresher Branch, and ev'ry Bow Appear'd as Garlands to empale my Brow. The Learn'd in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome Joy; At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight, Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind Their Hearts, than when they more assurance find.