In stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand:
Nor on a marble tun, his face besmear'd
With grapes, is curl'd, uncizar'd Bacchus rear'd.
We offer not, in emblems, to the eyes,
But to the taste, those useful deities:
We press the juicy god, and quaff his blood,
And grind the yellow goddess into food.
Yet we decline not all the work of Art;
But where more bounteous Nature bears a part,
And guides her handmaid, if she but dispense
Fit matter, she with care and diligence
Employs her skill; for where the neighbour source
Pours forth her waters, she directs her course,
And entertains the flowing streams in deep
And spacious channels, where they slowly creep
In snaky windings, as the shelving ground
Leads them in circles, till they twice surround
This island mansion, which, i' th' centre plac'd,
Is with a double crystal Heaven embrac'd;
In which our wat'ry constellations float,
Our fishes, swans, our waterman and boat,
Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake
Their star-burnt limbs in our refreshing lake;
But they stick fast nail'd to the barren sphere,
Whilst our increase, in fertile waters here,
Disport, and wander freely where they please
Within the circuit of our narrow seas.

With various trees we fringe the water's brink,
Whose thirsty roots the soaking moisture drink,
And whose extended boughs in equal ranks
Yield fruit, and shade, and beauty to the banks.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddy-cheek'd Pomona; Zephyr sports
On th' other with lov'd Flora, yielding there
Sweets for the smell, sweets for the palate here.
But did you taste the high and mighty drink
Which from that luscious fountain flows, you 'd
think

The god of wine did his plump clusters bring,
And crush the Falern 3 grape into our spring;
Or else, disguis'd in wat'ry robes, did swim
To Ceres' bed, and make her beg of him,
Begetting so himself on her: for know,
Our vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in autumn; but our fire boils here
As lusty liquor as the Sun makes there.

1

Thus I enjoy myself, and taste the fruit Of this blest place; whilst, toil'd in the pursuit Of bucks and stags, th' emblem of war, you

strive

To keep the memory of our arms alive.

2 Amalthea was the daughter of Melissus, king of Crete. She is fabled to have fed Jupiter, while an infant, with the milk of a goat, whose horn the god afterwards made her a present of, endued with this virtue, that whoever possessed it, should have every thing they wished for. Hence it was called the born of plenty.

3 The grape of Falernus is celebrated by all antiquity. It was produced from vines of a peculiar strength and flavour which grew in the Falernian fields in Campania.

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

TO THE KING.

Look back, old Janus, and survey,
From Time's birth till this new-born day,
All the successful seasons bound
With laurel wreaths, and trophies crown'd;
Turn o'er the anuals past, and, where
Happy auspicious days appear,
Mark'd with the whiter stone that cast
On the dark brow of th' ages past
A dazz'ling lustre, let them shine
In this succeeding circle's twine,
Till it be round with glories spread;
Then with it crown our Charles his head,
That we th' ensuing year may call
One great continu'd festival.
Fresh joys in varied forms apply
To each distinct captivity.
Season his cares by day with nights
Crown'd with all conjugal delights.
May the choice beauties that inflame
His royal breast be still the same,
And he still think them such, since more
Thou canst not give from Nature's store:
Then as a father let him be

With numerous issue blest, and see
The fair and god-like off-spring grown
From budding stars to suns full blown.
Circle with peaceful olive boughs
And conquering bays his regal brows:
Let his strong virtues overcome,
And bring him bloodless trophies home:
Strew all the pavements where he treads
With loyal hearts or rebels' heads:
But, Byfront', open thou no more,
In his blest reign, the temple door.

TO THE QUEEN.

THOU great commandress, that dost move
Thy sceptre o'er the crown of Love,
And through his empire, with the awe
Of thy chaste beams, dost give the law;
From his profaner altars we
Turn to adore thy deity.

He only can wild lust provoke;
Thou those impurer flames canst choke:
And where he scatters looser fires,
Thou turn'st them into chaste desires:
His kingdom knows no rule but this,
"Whatever pleaseth lawful is."
Thy sacred lord shows us the path
Of modesty and constant faith,
Which makes the rude male satisfy'd
With one fair female by his side;
Doth either sex to each unite,
And form love's pure hermaphrodite.
To this thy faith behold the wild
Satyr already reconcil'd,

1 Janus, who was painted with two faces. He was worshipped as a god, and had a temple built to him: in time of peace it was shut; in time of war it was open.

Who from the influence of thine eye Hath suck'd the deep divinity.

O free them then, that they may teach
The centaur and the horseman; preach
To beasts and birds, sweetly to rest
Each in his proper lare and nest:
They shall convey it to the flood,
Till there thy law be understood.

So shalt thou, with thy pregnant fire,
The water, earth, and air inspire.

TO THE NEW YEAR,

FOR THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE'.

GIVE Lucinda pearl nor stone,
Lend them light who else have none:
Let her beauty shine alone.

Gums nor spice bring from the east,
For the phenix in her breast
Builds his funeral pile and nest.

No rich 'tire thou canst invent
Shall to grace her form be sent;
She adorns all ornament.

Give her nothing, but restore
Those sweet smiles which heretofore
In her cheerful eyes she wore.
Drive those envious clouds away,
Veils that have o'ercast my day,
And eclips'd her brighter ray.
Let the royal Goth mow down
This year's harvest with his own
Sword, and spare Lucinda's frown.

Janus, if, when next I trace
Those sweet lines, I in her face
Read the charter of my grace;

Then, from bright Apollo's tree,
Such a garland wreath'd shall be
As shall crown both her and thee.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND,
MASTER THOMAS MAY1,

UPON HIS COMEDY, THE heir.
THE Heir being born, was in his tender age
Rock'd in a cradle of a private stage,
Where, lifted up by many a willing hand,
The child did from the first day fairly stand.

This was Anne, daughter of Edward lord Howard of Escrick, and wife of Charles Howard, first earl of Carlisle.

2 These complimentary verses must be considered rather as a tribute to friendship than to genius; for though May was a competitor with sir William D'Avenant for the royal laurel, his abilities were much less splendid. He translated the Georgics of Virgil and Lucan's Pharsalia, and was the historian of the Oliverian parliament.-These verses were written in 1620.

Since, having gather'd strength, he dares prefer
His steps into the publick theatre,

The world; where he despairs not but to find
A doom from men more able, not less kind.
I but his usher am, yet if my word
May pass, I dare be bound he will afford
Things must deserve a welcome, if well known,
Such as best writers would have wish'd their own
You shall observe his words in order meet,
And, softly stealing on with equal feet,
Slide into even numbers with such grace
As each word had been moulded for that place.
You shall perceive an amorous passion spun
Into so smooth a web, as had the Sun,
When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid',
Courted her in such language, she had stay'd.
A love so well exprest must be the same
The author felt himself from his fair flame.
The whole plot doth alike itself disclose
Through the five acts, as doth the lock that goes
With letters; for till every one be known,
The lock 's as fast as if you had found none;
And where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread
Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read.
Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal
My want of art, dear friend, than to conceal
My love. It did appear I did not mean
So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene,
As men might judge my aim rather to be,
To gain praise to myself, than give it thee;
Though I can give thee none, but, what thou hast
Desery'd, and what must my faint breath out-last.
Yet was this garment (though I skilless be
To take thy measure) only made for thee;
And if it prove too scant, 't is 'cause the stuff
Nature allow'd me was not large enough.

I

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND,

MASTER GEORGE SANDS',

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE PSALMS.

PRESS not to the choir, nor dare I greet The holy place with my unhallowed feet; My unwasht Muse pollutes not things divine, Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine: Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays. So, devout penitents of old were wont, Some without door, and some beneath the font, To stand and hear the church's liturgies, Yet not assist the solemn exercise: Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain, To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train: Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy lark, Hér lyric feet may dance before the ark.

3 Alludes to the fable of Apollo and Daphne.

This was Mr. George Sands, son of Edwin archbishop of York. Besides the Translation of the Psalms here mentioned, (which was the delight and amusement of Charles I. during his imprisonment in the Isle of Wight,) he translated Ovid's Metamorphoses and part of Virgil's Eneis. Dryden calls him the best versifier of his time.

Who knows, but that her wand'ring eyes that run,
Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the Sun:
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty pow'r
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour:
My eyes in penitential dew may steep

That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. So (though 'gainst Nature's course) fire may be quench'd

With fire, and water be with water drench'd;
Perhaps my restless soul, tir'd with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd,
Quench'd all her thirst, nor satisfy'd, though cloy'd;
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first fair may find th' immortal love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;

But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn,
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.

TO MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,

HENRY LORD CARY OF LEPINGTON, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI. MY LORD,

In every trivial work, 't is known,

Translators must be masters of their own

And of their author's language; but your task

A greater latitude of skill did ask;

'or your Malvezzi first requir'd a man

To teach him speak vulgar Italian:

His matter's so sublime, so new his phrase,

o far above the stile of Bembo's days,

Old Varchie's rules, or what the Trusca ' yet
'or current Truscan mintage will admit,
As I believe your marquis by a good
'art of his natives hardly understood.
You must expect no happier fate; 't is true,
le is of noble birth, of nobler you:

o nor your thoughts nor words fit common ears; He writes, and you translate, both to your peers.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER D'AVENANT2,

JPON HIS EXCELLENT PLAY, THE JUST ITALIAN.

'LL not mispend in praise the narrow room borrow in this leaf; the garlands bloom

Requires a satyr. What star guides the soul
Of these our froward times, that dare controul,
Yet dare not learn to judge? When didst thou fly
From hence, clear, candid Ingenuity?

I have beheld, when perch'd on the smooth brow
Of a fair modest troop, thou didst allow
Applause to slighter works; but then the weak
Spectator gave the knowing leave to speak.
Now noise prevails, and he is tax'd for drowth
Of wit, that with the cry spends not his mouth.
Yet ask him reason why he did not like;
Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike
Thy soul with scorn and pity: mark the places
Provoke their smiles, frowns, or distorted faces,
When they admire, nod, shake the head, they'll be
A scene of mirth, a double comedy.

But thy strong fancies (raptures of the brain,
Drest in poetic flames) they entertain

As a bold, impious reach; for they'll still slight
All that exceeds Red Bull' and Cockpit flight.
These are the men in crouded heaps that throng
To that adulterate stage, where not a tongue
Of th' untun'd kennel can a line repeat
Of serious sense, but the lips meet like meat;
Whilst the true brood of actors, that alone
Keep nat❜ral, unstrain'd Action in her throne,
Behold their benches bare, though they rehearse
The terser Beaumont's or great Jonson's verse.
Repine not thou then, since this churlish fate
Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the state
Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good
Have by the rabble been misunderstood.
So was thy play; whose clear, yet lofty strain,
Wise men, that govern fate, shall entertain.

'TO THE READER

OF MR. WILLIAM D'AVENANT'S PLAY1.

IT hath been said of old, that plays are feasts,
Poets the cooks, and the spectators guests;
The actors, waiters: from this simile,
Some have deriv'd an unsafe liberty

To use their judgments as their tastes, which chuse,
Without controul, this dish, and that refuse :
But wit allows not this large privilege,
Either you must confess or feel its edge;
Nor shall you make a current inference,
If you transfer your reason to your sense:

3 After the restoration, there were two companies of players formed, one under the title of the king's servants, the other under that of the duke's company, both by patent from the crown; the first granted to Mr. Killigrew, and the latter to sir William D'Avenant. The king's servants acted

Of thy triumphant work; the sullen age

1 Tuscany, famous for speaking the Italian language in its greatest purity.

2 This gentleman, who was supposed, but with the greatest improbability, to be a natural son of Shakspeare, was one of the first poets of his time. It was he who harmonized the stage. He first introduced scenery, and the order and decorum of the French theatre, upon the British one. He succeeded Ben Jonson as poet-laureat to Charles.

wards at the Cockpit in Drury Lane; to which place our poet here alludes. It seems, by the verses before us, that though Killigrew's company was much inferior to D'Avenant's, it was more successful; though the company of the latter, who performed at the duke's theatre in Lincoln-inn-Fields, acted the pieces of Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, and were headed by the celebrated Betterton.

The Just Italian, which did not meet with so much success as it ought to have had from a polite audience.