See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age,
That load the Press, and so o'erwhelm the Stage,
That e'en the noblest art that e'er was known,
As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown:
Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done,
What a dire judgment is brought down,
By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town;
On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate,
And both may now repent too late,
For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone.
Once more the fam'd Astræa's come;
'Tis she pronounc'd the fatal doom,
And has restor'd it to the rightfull Heirs,
Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.
IX.
Never was Soul and Body better joyn'd,
A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind;
See but the Shadow of her beauteous face,
The pretious minitures of every Grace,
There one may still such Charms behold,
That as Idolaters of old,
The works of their own hands ador'd,
And Gods which they themselves had made implor'd;
Jove might again descend below,
And, with her Wit and Beauty charm'd, to his own Image bow.
But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws!
How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws!
Alas, what's all the glittering Pride
Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day,
With what a violent and impetuous Tide,
E'er they're flow'd in their glories ebb away?
The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must
Be blended with the common Pebbles dust,
And even Astræa with all her sacred store,
Be wreckt on Death's inevitable Shore,
Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more.
And wisely therefore e'er it was too late,
She has revers'd the sad Decrees of Fate,
And in deep Characters of immortal Wit,
So large a memorandum's writ,
That the blest memory of her deathless Name
Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame;
When Towns inter'd in their own ashes lie,
And Chronicles of Empires die,
When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell
Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.
To the excellent ASTRÆA.
We all can well admire, few well can praise
Where so great merit does the Subject raise:
To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free,
On this hand, as on that from flattery;
He who wou'd handsomly the Medium hit,
Must have no little of Astræa's Wit.
Let others in the noble Task engage,
Call you the Phœnix, wonder of the Age,
The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours,
Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers;
For me, alas, I nothing can design, }
To render your soft Numbers more divine, }
Than by comparison with these of mine: }
As beauteous paintings are set off by shades,
And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids;
Yet after all, forgive me if I name
One Fault where, Madam, you are much to blame,
To wound with Beauty's fighting on the square,
But to o'ercome with Wit too is not fair;
'Tis like the poison'd Indian Arrows found,
For thus you're sure to kill where once you wound.
J.W.
To Madam A. Behn on the publication of her Poems.
When the sad news was spread,
The bright, the fair Orinda's dead,
We sigh'd, we mourn'd, we wept, we griev'd,
And fondly with our selves conceiv'd,
A loss so great could never be retriev'd.
The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by,
Sheath'd his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot,
The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory,
Rais'd in his Breast no emulative thought;
For pond'ring on the common Lot,
Where is, said He the Diff'rence in the Grave,
Betwixt the Coward and the Brave?
Since She, alas, whose inspir'd Muse should tell
To unborn Ages how the Hero fell,
From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled,
T'inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.
II.