Fool that I was! to believe blood,
While swoll'n with greatness, then most good;
And the false thing, forgetful man,
To trust more than our true god, Pan.
Such swellings to a dropsy tend,
And meanest things such great ones bend.
Then live deceived! and, Fida, by
That life destroy fidelity.
For living wrongs will make some wise,
While Death chokes loudest injuries:
And screens the faulty, making blinds
To hide the most unworthy minds.
And yet do what thou can'st to hide,
A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.
For that foul guilt which first took place
In his dark heart, now damns his face;
And makes those eyes, where life should dwell,
Look like the pits of Death and Hell.
Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals
Their faith in Moors, in him reveals
A blackness at the heart, and is
Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness.
Only his lips with blood look red,
As if asham'd of what they fed.
Then, since he wears in a dark skin
The shadows of his hell within,
Expose him no more to the light,
But thine own epitaph thus write
"Here burst, and dead and unregarded
Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA.
Long since great wits have left the stage
Unto the drollers of the age,
And noble numbers with good sense
Are, like good works, grown an offence.
While much of verse—worse than old story—
Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory.
Such trash-admirers made us poor,
And pies turn'd poets out of door;
For the nice spirit of rich verse
Which scorns absurd and low commerce,
Although a flame from heav'n, if shed
On rooks or daws warms no such head.
Or else the poet, like bad priest,
Is seldom good, but when oppress'd;
And wit as well as piety
Doth thrive best in adversity
For since the thunder left our air
Their laurels look not half so fair.
However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude,
Not to profess our gratitude
And debts to thee, who at so low
An ebb dost make us thus to flow;
And when we did a famine fear,
Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year.
So while the world his absence mourns,
The glorious sun at last returns,
And with his kind and vital looks
Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks,
Puts drowsy Nature into play,
And rids impediments away,
Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through
Her pregnant lap get up and grow.
But if among those sweet things, we
A miracle like that could see
Which Nature brought but once to pass,
A Muse, such as Orinda was,
Phœbus himself won by these charms
Would give her up into thy arms;
And recondemn'd to kiss his tree,
Yield the young goddess unto thee.