Success in Battle not always attributable to the General.
——— Generals oftimes famous grow
By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies;
Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
Truth is, ’tis pretty to observe
How little Princes and great Generals
Contribute oftentimes to the fame they win.
How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds
With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
And have endeavour’d with their dearest blood
To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
The fate of kingdoms; and at last have faln
By vulgar hands, unable now to do
More for their cause than die; and have been lost
Among the sacrifices of their swords;
No more remember’d than poor villagers,
Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
That every meadow wears: whilst other men
With trembling hands have caught a victory,
And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
Besides, I have thought
A thousand times; in times of war, when we
Lift up our hands to heaven for victory;
Suppose some virgin Shepherdess, whose soul
Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
And with hoarse trumpets’ warlike airs to drown
The harmless music of her oaten reeds,
Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
Repair to some small fane (such as the Gods
Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
And beg his helps: ’tis possible to think,
That Heav’n, which holds the purest vows most rich,
May not permit her still to weep in vain,
But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not hear
The prayers of poor folks, they’d ne’er bid them pray);
And so, in the next action, happeneth out
(The Gods still using means) the Enemy
May be defeated. The glory of all this
Is attributed to the General,
And none but he’s spoke loud of for the act;
While she, from whose so unaffected tears
His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.[43]
Unlawful Solicitings.
When I first
Mention’d the business to her all alone,
Poor Soul, she blush’d, as if already she
Had done some harm by hearing of me speak,
Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran
So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
As if she thought herself obliged to cry,
’Cause all the world was not so good as she.
Proportion in Pity.
There must be some proportion still to pity
Between ourselves and what we moan: ’tis hard
For Men to be ought sensible, how Moats
Press Flies to death. Should the Lion, in
His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
Complain for want of little drops of dew,
What pity could that generous creature have
(Who never wanted small things) for those poor
Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
And but for want of these they pine and die.
Modesty a bar to preferment.