Poems on Several Occasions, Act 2 – Publishers advertisement
The SECOND ACT.
Scene, Damaetas's House.
Damaetas and Servants.
Damae.
GET all things ready, in due order plac'd:
Provide the Shears, and things to hold the Wool;
Bring the clean Sheep down to the lesser Fold:
Drive those, that lately came from the Wash-Pool,
To yonder Sunny Bank, and let 'em dry.
Shear the Lambs first; and if their Fleece be wet,
Lay 'em on that quick Hedge, that Phoebus may
Bestow his piercing heat, and melt 'em dry.
Then let the rest provide the Festival:
And first, bring in the lusty Bacon-Chine
Of the great Hog, that whilome spoil'd the Pease;
And on the self-same Dish, on either side,
Serve up the two Red Cocks, that 'tother Day
Were Fighting at the Barn's Door: And bring
A piece of the Red Cow, with Coleworts boil'd:
And in another Dish, two sucking Piggs,
With Guts of Sage, and Bellies full of Bread;
With all the rest of the good Country Fare.
Besure to fill the Liquor well about;
And see the Beechen Bowl, that holds a Quart,
By each glad Swain be nimbly taken off.
Spare not the Sider, nor the Barley Juice;
Ceres and Pan will make all up again.
Corydon, Thyrsis, Amoretta, Damaetas, Proba and Guests.
Dam.
You're kindly welcome, Friends! pray sit you down
Upon this Hurdle; with what Mirth you can,
Dissolve the coming hours in sweetest joy,
Until such time the pleasant work is o're.
The Fleecy Sheep have ta'ne their Summer suits,
And strip'd themselves to Dance along with us. Goes to the Work-men.
Eph.
Where am I now? Ye Gods! this Sylvane Scene
Proves your great Paradise but low and mean.
Too long the City toils, alas! too long,
Have I admired the dull inglorious throng!
Pardon, Augustus, I Blaspheme thy Court,
Were't here with me, thou'dst leave thy phancied sport;
Quit thy poor Throne, thy self a Shepherd make;
And for a Scepter, wouldst a Sheep-Hook take.
Health to you all! Companions, strive with me
To praise your Country life.
Thyr.
So well agree,
Our Minds and Souls in this, that all alike,
One common Note our joyful Pipes will strike.
This Hurdle is an Altar, Mirth our Prayer;
We Votaries, and you our Venus are;
Whilst each glad Swain, as an unquestion'd due,
Shall pay his Orisons to Love and You;
I'll sit and feast mine Eyes, and crowd my Breast,
With the Idea of your Beauty blest.
Amor.
Yonder's a ragged Cliff beside the Plain,
The sturdy limit of the boist'rous Main:
There every day in solitude I keep
Some nobler hours, and view the spacious deep.
Sometimes (the weather fair) my self I please,
To see the Vessels scim along the Seas,
With gawdy Prow, and no less gawdy Stern;
Gilt with the yellow glittering of the Morn;
Stem the proud Waves, and kiss the amorous Flood;
Play with the Winds, then Anchor in the Road;
'Till scorching Phoebus from his rest is come;
Shows his red Head, and hotly drives me home.
Cor.
Yonder's a steepy Hill, where every day,
From my glad Flocks, I slily steal a way;
Sit on a Tufft of Grass, and view the Plain,
The roving Flocks, and every roving Swain:
View here a lonesome Cottage, there a Grove;
Here a close Wood, design'd for closer Love:
Yonder the Fields of Corn, producing Food;
And Meadows groaning underneath their load.
With greedy Eyes the Forrest I survey;
And thus in glorious Ease, I nobly spend the Day.
Thyr.
By yonder Dome, there runs a purling Stream,
(The Cowherds Glory, and the Muses Theam)
On whose soft Bank an aged Alder grows;
And stretcheth o're the Flood his spacious boughs.
A natural Arbor on its Trunk is made;
And its thick Leaves afford a secret Shade.
Sometimes its hanging Boughs stoop'd down, and wou'd
Take a soft kiss from the transparent Flood.
Sometimes in it the neighb'ring Halcyons hung
Their brooding Nests, and there bred up their young.
Here every day I come, and sit me down,
And tell the groaning Flood my pitious moan.
I Carve my Mistresses Name on every bough,
And charge the Flood to water't, make it grow:
Then to my lonesome Flocks, I back return,
And all the way her much-loath'd Crossness mourn.
Damae.
Heavens bless ye Swains! You well have prais'd the Life
We Country-Men enjoy; let solitude,
And Country ease, and noble Luxury
Inspire each Swains immortal Breast, and make him
Tell to the Vrbane Crowd his and their Miseries.
I now defie all Caesars gawdy Cockscombs,
To vye with us in pleasure; who can boast
Of Days, and Months, and Years spent all in joy.
Care never here makes lean, but plump and full;
Swell'd up, like Bacchus, with the juice of Grape:
Grown strong, as Ceres, with the strength of Wheat.
This aged Head of mine scarce ever Ach'd;
These Snowy Hairs are Time's slow Harbengers
Of Death; nor are they caus'd by anxious Grief,
But 'tis the effect of Nature: All must yield
To Fate. This Fourscore years and Ten have I
Enjoy'd one lasting Scene of Mirth and Bliss:
Not one sad hour has intermix'd with Ease.
When Fate lets fall the Curtain, takes me hence,
Then every Swain shall weep, Damaetas gone;
And say, He liv'd, he dy'd, a Jovial Swain.
Damon and Servants with the Festival.
Dam.
Now are the Golden days of Orpheus come
Once more; Mirth is great, as triumphant
As e're it was; the Grecian Shepherds cou'd not
In olden times, boast of more Mirth than we.
Now all at once, our Sences shall be Feasted:
Wine that's fin'd, not pal'd, shall please our Pallates:
The wholsome Country Food shall fill our stomachs:
The flowry Meeds and Lawns shall feast our Eyes;
And these young Swains shall Feast our list'ning Ears
With Musick. Come Lads, begin the pleasant Song,
Was whileome sung to Caelia on the Green. They Sing.
SONG I.
I.
ALL Hail, to fair Caelia! for I will adore
Not Venus her self, nor a Goddess no more:
To Caelia, to Caelia my Vows shall be paid;
And all the Sacred Oaths, that Lovers have made.
II.
She makes Summer to smile, and the Winter to thaw,
And keeps the fierce course of Nature in awe.
The Melancholy Gods are made brisk by her Charms;
And languishing Mortals revive in her Arms.
III.
She sits on the Bank, the Forrest does view;
With her Rosie Mouth she sips of the Dew:
She gathers the Violet, and Rose of the Field;
But none, as her self, such Rich Incense can yield.
IV.
She never is Cruel, nor never Vnkind;
No Angry Thought perplexeth her Mind:
Then who wou'd complain of the Chains of her Love,
When every Link a Cupid does prove?
Damaetas Sings. SONG II.
I.
BY the side of a Mountain, my dwelling shall be
In an old hollow Tree;
With age, with age grown rusty as I.
With a hole for a Window, from whence I survey,
The neighb'ring Groves, where every day
The amorous Nymphs, and Shepherds do play.
Thus warm and still,
In my close wooden shell,
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in a Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
II.
On a Pipe as old as my self I Play:
When some good Lady Mag-pye, or Mistress Jay,
Resort to my boughs for shade,
I strike up a Serenade,
And fright my Guests away.
In my hollow old Tree you would wonder;
My Musick roars like Thunder:
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
III.
Here free from Care, and Kingly disasters;
From chiding of Servants, and pleasing of Masters.
I'm a Common-wealth alone,
Mounted on a Wooden Throne:
I d' enjoy more Peace than on a Golden one.
My Kitchin, my Parlour, and Chappel's together;
Where I Pray, and I Banquet, and keep from the Weather.
Full fraught with Pleasure, my hours I keep,
And in the Night season supinely I sleep:
And thus undisturb'd, I quietly lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in a Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
Cor.
May every day be like to this! and may
What we have spoke and sung, be well receiv'd!
Receiv'd, as a Tribute due to Pan.
May blooming youth always adorn our Brows!
And active Blood still circle in our veins!
May Manly Heat our noble Spirits sway!
May you, blest Nymphs, always be fresh and fair;
Clear as the Spring, and brighter than the Noon,
Chast as the Morn, and silent as the Night!
May you for ever Live, for ever be
Tall as Cedar, lasting as the Yew.
Eph.
And henceforth, may the Shepherds always thrive!
May every Ewe bring forth a pair of Lambs!
May hurtful Seasons ne're molest your Flocks,
Nor rav'nous Wolf tear the young tender Kid!
Amor.
All the kind blessings that the Gods have laid
On Mortals, light on you! May all your Life
Be one continued Scene of Bliss and Joy!
Damaet.
But now the Nightly Season hasteth on,
And trav'ling Phoebus to his rest is gone.
The Evening Toads from watry Marshes croak,
And yonder Villages begin to smoak.
Their young ones to the Roost the Partridge call;
And larger shadows from the Mountains fall.
Let us go home, and sleep until the Morn;
Rise with the Light, and with the Day return. Exeunt.
Finis Actus Secundi.
The THIRD ACT.
Ephelia sola.
Eph.
HOW I have been deceiv'd'? Who could have thought
That Rusticks liv'd so well? Our gawdy Town,
With all its Monuments and Statues deck'd,
And all its glittering Pageants, never look'd
Half so beautiful, so gay and great
As yonder Village.
Surely the Gods have ta'ne possession here:
This is the Seat of the Aetherial Race.
Thrysis.
Thyr.
All alone! I'll enjoy a little more
Of her Scorn.
[To her] Fair Maid, I hope you'll pardon the surprise;
You know my Message by my languid Eyes.
Cupid has led me to this lonely Grove,
And charg'd me here perform the Dues of Love:
To you, my better Soul! my Love impart;
Give you my Hand, and offer up my Heart.
Eph.
Far be't from me, your Love to entertain!
And Heaven guard me from the Monster Man!
Who open Falsehood and Deceit does show,
Though slily cover'd in Love's Name does go.
Thyr.
My Modesty's an Argument to prove,
How ignorant I am in Arts of Love:
How oft have I your Beauty prais'd, and said,
You are the best, the only lovely Maid?
When e're you Danc'd, amazed I stood by,
And at each gentle stop, I drop'd a sigh!
My Groans went faster than your Feet, and prov'd
To all the Company how much I Lov'd.
Ost when you rose, in the same place I lay'd,
And kiss'd the print your lovely Body made.
Heaven knows how much this Passion me has vext;
First to avoid, and to dissemble it next,
Has prov'd a task so exquisitely great,
A worse even Fate it self, could not create.
Had some sinister end my Passion mov'd,
I e're this time had told how much I Lov'd.
My Love, like Fire pent in a narrow hole,
Whose limits does its threatning Rage controul,
Which while but warm, glowing and quiet lay;
Now heated quite, breaks the weak bands away
Sooner may Ships on tumbling Surges rest,
Than Love in my no less disturbed Breast.
Winds may forget to roar, and Storms to flie,
E're this griev'd Breast shall be unlearn'd to sigh.
Eph.
Well; since you do such mighty dangers prove,
For your reward I give you leave to Love.
For being Lov'd why should we Women chide?
The Gods are Lov'd, and so we're deify'd.
Then Love me still; but Love me as a Friend.
Thyr.
You grant the Means, but you deny the End.
Such Love I always to my Sex do give:
But you, my Mistress, should more Love receive.
Eph.
Your Mistress! Cockscomb, is your Pride so great?
This the ambition of a mean Retreat?
How well my Silks and your course Weeds agree?
Have I been Born to be enjoy'd by thee?
Is that foul Mein of thine a Match for me?
Whose noble Birth each God-like Poets sing,
Sprung from an antient Race of mighty Kings:
Sooner may Grass on the wild Ocean grow,
And Tyber to its Streams may backward flow,
Rome Wed with yonder Village, Ladies court
Their bulky Foot-men, and with Pages sport:
E're I to thee, mean Swain! can Wedded be.
Thyr.
So well your Pride and High-born Blood agree.
If to your antient Race you proudly flie;
My Father was a Shepherd, so am I.
On yonder Hill his hundred Flocks he led;
And on yon' Hillock laid his drousie Head.
The Gods for Masterdom have often strove;
Yet Pan always out-vy'd poor Bankrupt Jove.
Let Rome to Ruines be entirely thrown;
And vast Destruction writ on every Stone!
Curse on your gawdy Crew!
Home to my Arms, my lovely fair one, flie:
On this still constant Breast securely lie.
False Oaths and broken Vows surround the Town,
Their impious Hands pull Virtues Statues down.
Try once our Country pleasure, easie Bliss;
You know not what a thing a Shepherd is.
Eph.
The pleasures of your Life I well approve;
But not one word, I charge you, more of Love.
When with these joys I've satisfi'd my mind,
I may perhaps advance, and then prove kind.
But if your Love does always thus drop down,
'Twill make my Heart as hard as any Stone;
And then your Words, and deep-fetch'd Sighs are vain:
'T will only serve to Echo 'em back again.
But stay; I hear some noise! for once, adieu. Exit.
Corydon and Damaetas.
Damae.
Ha! Here's my Thyrsis!
Thyr.
Father!
Damae.
Son!
Methinks thou look'st like some old Rural God:
The happy Off-spring of our mighty Pan;
Woods to the Fields, or Verdure to the Woods,
Are not a greater Ornament, than thou to Men.
Thou know'st how 'tis to Live; how 'tis to steal
A glorious life from the inglorious Throng:
Is not that Grove thy planting? Sure it is!
It looks as if some happy Hand had set it.
When Caesar's Statues shall grow old and rusty,
Then this thy Verdant Grove shall flourish still.
When thou art dead, it shall bestow green Laurels,
As signals of thy lasting memory.
Cory.
If any are Immortal, sure 'tis we!
On yonder Mountain great Alphesebseus
Cut his lov'd Name; and still the gentle Ground
Retains the mark for each good Swain to read.
The wandring Sheep when o're the place they go,
Forbear to eat it, that it still may grow.
Damae.
In yonder Wood, there stands an aged Tree,
In which is carv'd the mighty Orpheus Name,
For many hundred years ago, and still
'Tis legible.
Happy the Tree that bears it, for 't has giv'n,
An Immortality, a lasting Verdure;
And sure his Pipe lies buried thereabouts;
For every day the Airy Choristers,
Do thither come, a Heavenly Consort make.
Here Philomel does need no wakeful Thorne
To spur her Breast; nor can she sleep a Nights,
But always quavers out her Tereus Song.
Thyr.
May I see henceforth nought but Woods and Plains!
May Shepherds be my Company! And may
We all be Merry!
And may these Eyes never behold the Court;
The boisterous Deep, or the tempestuous Main;
The frightful Rock, or the Death-threatning Sands! Damaetas Sings.
SONG.
I.
THen hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,
Free from Passions, free from Fears!
Phillis Loves, and Phillis may
A greater Bliss to us convey,
Than what painted Sylvia brings,
To the costly Bed of Kings.
II.
Kings are Gods; so let them be;
Still they're from my Envy free.
We can sport, and spend the Nights,
In no less ūdisturb'd delights.
A calm Voyage we can prove,
O're the Hellespont of Love.
III.
The Beechen Bowl no poison hath:
'Tis Gold and Silver make up Death.
Behind these Walls no Bullies slide;
'Tis Arras does the Traytor hide.
No wanton She was here Embrac'd:
At Court no Woman e're prov'd Chast.
IV.
Virtue here, in pomp Array'd,
Is the Beauty of each Maid.
No Ornaments but homely Stuff,
Serves to set poor Phillis off:
Yet as fair, as sweet she's seen,
As the Beauteous Paphian Queen.
V.
Then hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,
Free from Passions, free from Fears!
Hail ye Nymphs! as kind as Day,
Fair as Spring, and sweet as May!
Your old Damaetas still shall raise
A living Structure to your Praise.
Thyr.
We thank you, Father.
Cor.
How well he Sings! Sure he grows young again!
He, like the Snake, has cast his antient Skin,
Has ta'ne a new, and Youth together with it.
Pray, Father, what's your Age?
Damae.
Not quite an Hundred.
Thyr.
Almost.
Damae.
Yes,
The yonder Grove, and I were born together.
That aged Oak, I well may call my Brother;
In the same Day my Father set us both.
Cory.
And you're grown up together too.
Damae.
Some Snowy Hairs have seiz'd my aged Head,
And Moss, the Hair of Wood, has seiz'd its stock:
I know not but I may survive it.
Thyr.
Were I as you, I'd cut it down, and make
A lusty fire of its spacious Boughs,
To warm my chilly Limbs in Winter.
E're I did die, I would not leave a branch
In any Wood should bear a longer date
Than I.
Damae.
No; let Posterity enjoy the fruit
Of former Ages Labour; by it we're made
Immortal.
Through countless Ages shall it still be said,
This Damon set, and this Damaetas planted.
Live still ye Woods! and spread your flourishing Arms!
Grow 'till you make a solitude beneath
Your Boughs, 'till ye exclude the Light,
And you become an Umbrage for the Deer,
The timerous Hare, the Fox, and Evening Wolf.
Grow, till ye be a shelter for the Swains,
A shade in Heat, and Covert from the Storm. Exeunt.
Finis Actus Tertii.
The FOURTH ACT.
Ephelia and Amoretta.
Eph.
HE's the plague of my Life!
Am.
How you blaspheme the Sacred Deity?
Ungrateful wretch! whom Love might well disown.
Is that a plague, God Cupid has ordain'd,
The great perfection of our humane Race?
Of Harmony and Love our Souls are made;
And who hath neither, was by Fate design'd
To be the laughing-stock of humane kind.
A thing so near a Beast, but just the shape
Does make the difference.
Eph.
Love is indeed a Passion great and good,
And what the Gods so lovingly have given,
Should not so carelessly be thrown away:
We hoard our Jewels up in Cabinets.
Am.
A better Cabinet can ne're be found
Than the kind Breast of him adores your Name.
Eph.
That homely rotten Chest would quite disgrace,
So Sacred Reliques as Immortal Love.
The Smoaky Chimny of his Breast could ne're
Adorn so pure a flame as mine.
Am.
But then your Love might be an Ornament
To his mean Breast.
Eph.
'Twould look just like a Canvase Coat,
That's lace'd with Gold, and line'd with Velvet.
Am.
So much the better.
The White shows more delightful, when 'tis near
The Black. The transparent Taper never looks
Half so bright as in the Dark.
Eph.
Well; when I Wed a Swain may Night be Day,
And all the course of Nature backward run.
May the fix'd Orbe a local Motion have,
And travel round the World with the Sun:
The Spheres descend and Sing my Marriage Song.
Am.
Bravely resolved! but Blasphemously spoken!
Eph.
No! I love my self too well.
Were these Hands ever made to hold a Crook?
I phancy it a pleasant sight to see
Me driving home a drove of Milking Cows.
My Husband, Clown, just following at my heels;
Whistling a lamentable Tune, all clad
In Leather, ruffling and noisy, like the Wind.
Am.
A very fine description of a Swain!
Eph.
Then to the low thatch'd Cottage we are come;
And all the Houshold there is one great Dog,
And three small bawling Children.
Am.
Very well joyn'd!
Eph.
Then down I sit me by the Dun-Cows side,
And with my tender Hands I Milk her clean.
Can I leave all my glorious Pomp, my self demean?
I, who have known the pleasures of the Court,
Change all my former glory; meanly take
A homely Cottage, for a gawdy Pallace?
Say, Nymph, I do but what is rational?
Am.
So you say:
But what is all your boasted City Joy;
The fulsome pleasure does your Senses cloy?
Are not these homely Cotes, this Rural shade,
A better Covert than a Masquerade?
Free from all tricks of Court we quiet rest;
And talk of Summer joys close in our Winter Nest.
Eph.
And may you there still rest, unenvy'd be,
At least no great ambition work in me!
To Savage Woods, and Desart Caves I'll go,
When madness in my Breast does overflow:
Too well the City pomp and worth I know.
Secure, like Bees, we slumber in our Hive;
On Summer Honey we in Winter live:
Nor need we buzz about to every Bower,
And Plunder here, and there a Flower;
Rob all the Gardens, and each fruitful Soil;
Get little sweets with industry and toil.
Home to our very doors does Plenty come,
And begs admittance, prays to find a home.
We spend the day in ravishing delights;
Good Books, and better Friends, dissolve the Nights.
Each Man an Angel seems, each Prince a God;
Each Woman fair, each Maid divinely good:
Free from the Stormy Winters hurtful noise,
We bathe in Pleasure, and we swim in Joys.
Am.
And what are gawdy Joys, that do create
In Men no more but Envy, Pride and Hate?
What the adored Monster, that is born
To publick Praise, the wise call, publick Scorn?
By Nature, not by Art we're understood:
Our Youths are born both beautiful and good.
Sprung like a Pine-Tree up, a Youth does rise;
In Spring grows wanton, and in Winter wise:
In middle Age is strong, at length appears,
An old. Plebeian of an Hundred Years.
Gray Hairs about his Head like Laurels grow,
And down his Shoulders in grave branches flow:
Sure Emblems all of Wit; and then, to crown
His other joys, in Death he lays him down
Easy and soft, without or Ach or Pains,
Departs to Shepherds on the Elysian Plains.
Eph.
So in the Town a Youth begins his days,
Is born in Triumph and begot with Praise;
Grown up in Honor, and his Age to crown,
He wears his grisly Hairs with much Renown;
Does speak in Halls, at Council-Boards debate,
And wisely manages Affairs of State.
If the shrill noise of Mars resounds from far,
Our Youth takes up the Iron Robes of War
March out Death-threatning Warriors, and then come
Loaden with Praise and Earthly Honors home.
Of Glory's Meed, and Hero's Name he'll miss,
Who seeks for Honor where no Action is.
Am.
And yet these wondrous great, these wandring Elves,
Know much of others, yet know not themselves:
To Fame's chief Pinacle they proudly rise,
Grow often Great but seldom they grow Wise.
Nature can teach what Arts could never do.
Adieu! here's Thyrsis! Exit.
Eph.
She'as left me! nay betray'd me too!
Here's the tormentor of my Life already come:
False Woman!
Thyrsis.
Ho, Thyrsis!
Thyr.
Nymph!
Eph.
Shepherd?
Thyr.
Would I were your Shepherd!
I know, I am the Man that Loves you dearly;
And were your Love but half so great as mine,
I had not spent so many tedious Nights, and lain
Speechless, nay almost breathless on the ground.
I, since the time I saw you, have not slept;
Sometimes indeed I Dream'd, still Dream'd of you.
Before my Eyes methought I saw you stand:
Fair as you are, methought you then look'd kind;
And smiling said, My Thyrsis, Come let's go
To yonder Bower, for Thyrsis I am thine:
My nimble sleepy feet began to move;
At which I wak'd, and found 'twas but a Dream.
Had you but seen, how then I tore my Hair!
Curst the deluding Vision that was gone!
Eph.
Why, Shepherd? Love is nothing but a Dream:
Nothing of solid worth does crown its praise;
'Tis but the raging Calenture of Minds.
Some Mad-man first invented it, and made
It fashionable; at Court it got a Name
For a fit thing to please sick Ladies phancies:
Trick'd up in Complement, set off with Cringes
And modish postures, adorn'd with Tears and Sighs,
The wind of falsest Hearts to raise compassion.
It grew so much in custom, each was thought
An Ass, that was no Madman, not in Love.
The Court thus cloy'd with all its foolery,
Poor bankrupt Love, sought out another seat,
And plac'd it self in the fresh Country Air:
The gentle breezes of one blooming Spring
Made the old tatter'd Bawd look young again.
Swallows themselves were not more welcome made
Than this old Hag, a Minion she was thought,
Each Swain admir'd the Mines of her Face;
And Love was all the Talk and all the Song.
The Pipe could play nought but of Love; the Voice
Could sound nothing but Love; all day the Plains,
The unfrequented Woods with Love was fill'd,
The lovely Cloris, charming Phillis fill'd
The Mouth of every Swain; nay somtimes 'twould
Make 'em mistake, and call their Flock and Herds
By name of Mistress:
Nay by the Fire side in Winter-Nights,
Instead of Tales of Sprights and Fairies,
And dreadful great Hob-goblins, Love did make
All the Discourse; each Swain told of his Dear;
He prais'd her Beauty, or how well she Danc'd;
Her kindness, or the Dowry her Father left.
I tell thee, Shepherd, Love is but a Name.
Go tell thy Sheep, and Hurdle up thy Fold;
And leave these fooleries to Babes and Women.
Thyr.
Yes, I could leave them there, were but sure
They'd be accepted. Love is the thing I'd give
To you a Woman, but false as you are fair,
Much better had I speak to Rocks and Stones;
Mountains have more relenting Hearts than Women;
Tygers are born to more Humanity;
And Wolves more kindness shew unto their Kind.
Eph.
Sure the Man's mad! How he raves?
Thyr.
If Love be Madness, then I am grown mad!
And, sure, 'tis Madness!
Eph.
I am no Company
For mad Men: Adieu! I'll never see you more! Exit.
Thyr.
She's gone!
Damaetas.
Damaet.
From whence that Groan, good Thyrsis?
Thyr.
The Nymph just left me! She said, She'd never see
Me more.
Damaet.
And do'st thou groan for that?
I'll tell thee, Man, My noble Breast has always Joy;
And yet I never care to see a Woman.
Thyr.
Your aged Breast, which Winter's Frost has hardn'd,
How can it melt? But I, whom Youth and Heat
Inspire; I, who could bid Defiance once
To Love, am all in Flame!
Damaet.
And may'st thou burn!
Who, if thou would'st apply but just one Drop
Of Reason, 'twould quench th' impetuous Flame.
Thyr.
I have try'd it.
Damaet.
Is 't not a glorious Sight to a Youth
Handsom and strong, a Master-piece of Nature,
One that might win the Garland in the Dance,
Or take the Standard in the Martial Field;
To see this Man, with folded Arms, and languid Eyes,
Look like a Changeling, talk of nought but Love,
And Nymphs, and Beauty, and such idle Stuff!
Thyr.
And yet the Best have done so?
Damaet.
The best of Fools, I must confess!
Thyr.
When Friends augment, and She disdains to own
My Grief; 'tis time, I think, to die alone.
When She will never to my Love submit;
When Love deserts me, must I flie from it?
'Tis vain th' approaching Destiny to shun;
I'll meet my Ruin, to its Embraces run. Exit.
Damaet.
There went a Lover!
Now, to good Drink, and Friends, I'll get me gone;
Sport by the Day, and revel by the Moon:
Love never shall deny my aged Breast
The Sweets of Mirth, and solid Hours of Rest. Exeunt.
Finis Actus Quarti.
The Vnfortunate Shepherd: The FIFTH ACT.
Damaetas and Corydon.
Damaet.
NOW for a Scene of Bliss, an Age of Joy,
Contracted in the narrow Hours of a Day:
Let us now use our Mirth, as dying Men
Do their last Gasp; catch, with an eager Joy,
Our parting Pleasure. Mirth we may have again;
But yet, we are not certain. Fate may retrieve
Its old Decree: Mirth is not always Man's;
We must submit to Fate. A doleful Hour
Must interpose. The Day is now our own;
Then let us use it: Hugg the downy Hours,
C…rt 'em to stay; and, if they will be flying,
Then we'll Contemplate on the Joys we've had.
Cory.
The yonder Dome is a substantial Place
For Pleasure; there lives an aged Woman,
Knows much of Joy; she knows true solid Pleasure:
Let that be our Retreat. Never was Day
Spent in more Mirth: Never were Shepherds
So gamesom, as we'll be! This joyful Day
To future Ages shall be told.
Amoretta, Proba, and Nymphs, Weeping.
Ha! They weep! What angry Planet reigns?
Say, beauteous Maids, From whence proceed your Tears?
Am.
Would Grief would give me leave to speak!
Cory.
Now, I conjure you, by our Mighty Pan,
Tell us this dismal News?
Am.
Thyrsis is slain! Slain by himself!
Cory.
Oh, my Thyrsis!
Damaet.
Did not we talk of Joy? How soon 'tis gone?
Where's now our Scene of Bliss, our promis'd Joy?
We may decree what e're we please, below;
If Heav'n think otherwise, it shan't be so.
Ah, wretched Mortals! in uncertain State,
Govern'd by the Almighty Hand of Fate!
How soon our Hopes are turned to Despair,
And all our Joys dwindled to Wind and Air?
But since we cannot with our Death contend,
Let us endeavour then to mourn our Friend.
Cory.
That Work may justly, Swain, to you belong:
This is a Subject for a Skilful Tongue.
Whil'st you his Requiem sing, let others come,
With mournful Cypress to adorn his Tomb.
Damaet.
Thyrsis was once the Joy of all tho Plain;
The Lovely Thyrsis, the Renowned Swain!
True to his Gods, and Faithful in his Vows;
Constant to all the Terms that Faith allows.
Cory.
And yet ill-natur'd Death has took him hence!
What was it did thy mighty Rage insence?
Damaet.
No more his wand'ring Sheep! he never will
Behold 'em grazing on the steepy Hill!
Nor that Green Den shall never more receive
The joyful Sound his gladsom Pipe did give.
Cory.
Surely, his Tuneful Pipe could Wit inspire;
It far out-did the Strings of Orpheus Lyre.
Ah! Would to God, he had bequeath'd to me
His Pipe, tho' tuneless, for a Legacy!
Damaet.
Were't Dumb and Tuneless, yet it would rejoyce;
The Thoughts of him, would sure inspire a Voice.
Cory.
Not Beauteous Venus e're lamented more
Her lov'd Adonis, slain by Savage Boar;
Than we will mourn our Thyrsis o're the Hills,
While our sad Note the empty Valley fills.
Damaet.
Speak to the Raging Sea, and bid it tell
To all the Rivers, how lov'd Thyrsis fell;
Tell it to Tyber, and to Thame's fair Stream;
And let Cayister's Swans lament with them!
Cory.
Nay, let the Winds too, with 'em bear a part;
They, like his Lover too, can sigh without an Heart.
Damaet.
But now, let us an happier Morning chuse:
Go, Publish to the World the direful News. Exeunt.
Ephelia.
Eph.
Why so sad, Nymph?
Am.
Don't ye know, Thyrsis is slain?
Eph.
Yes.
Am.
And don't you know, that he dy'd for you?
Eph.
I know, they say so: But if so he did,
He dy'd a Fool: 'Tis more than I will do for him.
But, How dy'd he, Nymph?
Am.
Down to a Melancholy Grove he went;
Thrice on the Ground he laid him down, and wept:
Then sigh'd, then tore his Hair!
Eph.
Very pitiful!
Am.
Open'd his Breast, invok'd Ephelia's Name;
Took out his Poniard, strook it to his Heart:
The last Word e're he spake, was, Ephelia!
Eph.
Indeed, I'm much beholding for his kindness,
To speak of Me, when his Life was so concern'd.
But, Is he Dead, tho'?
Am.
Wou'd She that Kill'd him, were so Dead!
Eph.
Ah, Love! Thou Child of Folly, Babe of Madness!
Parent to all Disorder! Brother of Distraction!
If ever I do own thy Deity,
May I become as False, as Mad, as Thee! Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Quinti.
A DISCOURSE OF LIFE.
IT is not my intent to make a Philosophical Discourse of Life; neither shall I endeavour to invent a stratagem to prolong it: to a Wise-Man it is not so desirable, and none but a Mad-Man would bestow Cost and Pain in adorning an Inn, in which he must tarry but for a Night. Whether those things Physitians call Radical Moisture, and Natural Heat are any thing, or nothing, I know not; and whether they are incapable of solid Reparation, I shall not stand to examine. But of this I am sure, That the Lamp of my Life shall burn as long as it has any matter to work upon; and if a puff of denouncing Fate shall blow it out before its Oyl be quite spent, I have no reason to be angry; but rather to bless the kind blast, that wafts me to the serenity of Darkness. I shall not fill my Discourse with the unfathomable words of Deseccation, Arefaction, Alimentation, Bodies tangible, and Pneumatical, the Glory of the Physitians; words as ridiculous as their Practice is poor; But my intent is only to discourse of the Happiness of Life. Though Mortality be writ on the Fore-head of all our Enjoyments, and we know that this Garland of Mirth one Sun does produce, another shall wither; yet how apt are we to bless our selves under the Umbrage of our Verdant Gourd, unmindful of the envious Worm that sculcks at the bottom, and will soon eat down the pleasure of it. Our Life is so uncertain, and the happiness of it so unconstant, that we can only tell that we live; and that there is such a thing as Happiness. Some Pleasure there is, but it is mixed with Misery; we have some Honey but 'tis alloy'd with Gall; some lucid Intervals, some gentle gales of Mirth and Ease; but soon a black Cloud of Fate does intervene. We are all the Balls of Fortune; some she unfortunately throws into the Hazzard, and others she bandies about at her pleasure: But to a Man of Resolution, all things are alike: He's neither puff'd up with Plenty, nor discontented with Want; He values not the praise of Fools, nor the frowns of Knaves; He can despise what the Great call Good; The Vicisicutedes, and changes of Fortune are no more to him than the Change of the Moon: Certainly there is no better Antidote against an exorbitant desire of the World, than a generous Contempt of its Pleasures. What wise Man would court the ruined Beauties of an old weather-heaten World? What Symetry or Proportion is there in its Features? What Votary did it ever make Eternally Rich? What Admirers did it ever make happy? I had rather be the Servant of Aristotle or Pythagoras, than the Heir of Midas. Apuleius his Golden Ass, is the exact Emblem of a great Man. Happiness is no more consistent with Superfluity, than it is with Penury. Content is a greater stranger to the Palace, than 'tis to the Cottage. Pyramids and Spires of Steeples are rent by the Thunder-bolt, when the low Houses remain untouch'd. The lofty Hills are cloathed with Barrenness, while the humble Valleys rejoyce in their Plenty. If there be any thing Great below, 'tis a Nobleness of Mind: If there be any Grandeur, 'tis Virtue: If there be any Happiness, 'tis Wisdom. Virtue is a Sacred Amulet, who ever wears it, is secured from the stings of Serpentine Greatness. Figure to your self a Virtuous Man, though Poor; how well he becomes the meanest condition? he looks like a transparent Taper in a gloomy Night; like a Jewel amongst a heap of Rubbish and Stones: Though he chuses his Seat upon the Earth, his Mind is employ'd above the Clouds; like the Poetick Birds, who sing on the tops of Trees, though their Nest be in the Hedge. It shews more of a generous and Heroick temper, to contemn the grandeur of the World, than to desire it. The greatest Spirits that ever blest the World with their Memory, have done it. A better sight it was to see Scipio retired into a Wood, after all his Conquests, than to behold him at the head of his Army. Epaminondas, the best Man that ever Greece bred, who delivered his Country of Thebes from the Lacedemonian Slavery, whose Conquests could have lifted him to the highest pitch of Pride and Profit; yet was he such a Contemner of Riches, that when he died, he left not enough behind him …o defray his Funeral Charges. Natural Reason can easily discover how much they are mistaken in Happiness, who place it in Wealth, and outward Grandeur. What the chiefest Felicity is, cannot easily be determin'd; but of this we are sure, That it is hard to be obtain'd. We may truly say of Happiness, That Philosophers seek it, Divines find it, and only Religious Men enjoy it. The chiefest Felicity, by the excellent Boethius, is defined to be Statu… omnium bonorum aggregatione perfectu… ; a State perfect in the confluence of all good things: A state certainly not attained by any in this Life. All that Men call Good may be reduced to these Three heads, Either the Goods of Fortune; the Goods of the Mind; or the Goods of the Body. But where shall we find one Man that enjoys 'em all? We see we purchase one by the loss of the other. If I am Rich, and great in Fortune, yet I may want a greatness of Mind: If I am Beautiful, Rich, and Learned, yet I may be too Bookish, and want a complaisant Humor to render me agreeable. Had Methusalem lived to this Age, 'tis like he might have acquired these accomplishments; but our Age is too short to admit of 'em.
Da spatium vitae! multos da Jupiter annos!
Give many Years, good God! and lasting Life!
is the Prayer both of Old and Young. Though Life be indeed so Calamitous and troublesome, that were we capable of knowing what it is before we enjoy it, none would venture on so tedious a Fatigue: Yet do we naturally desire our Lives to be lengthn'd out, though our Misery encrease with it. As a Man is a Creature, he is Mortal; as he is Rational, he is Miserable: For his Reason is but the Usher to introduce his Misery, and the Perspective through which he beholds his trouble. Whoever expects to have an entire Happiness here, may expect to see the Orbes move irregularly; Rivers flow back to their Fountains, and Rivulets command the Ocean. The most we can enjoy, is but a Scene of Bliss; Fate will change the Scene, let down the Curtain, and put an Exit to our phancied Joys. Why then should we court a Shadow we cannot hold? and be desirous of a Good that depends only upon the imagination? For certainly there is no other Happiness here, but what is phancied; we sooth our selves with hopes of future Joys, and Paint what the Wise call Vanity and Vexation of Spirit, like the Statue of Pleasure. Well then, if Life does afford no Happiness that is real, let us expect it at Death; certainly there 'tis to be found, according to that of Ovid,
—Sed ultima semper
Expectanda dies homini est, dici que beatus,
Ante obitum nemo, suprema que Funera debet.
Which Mr. Sands very excellently Translates.
But Man must censur'd be by his last hour:
Whom truly we can never happy call
Afore his Death, and closing Funeral.
Indeed there is no better way to understand the Vanity of Life, than the Contemplation of its contrary, Death: Death, that frees us from the Miseries of Life; that removes us from the distraction of Noise and Tumult; that delivers us from the Fetters of Diseases, and Lashes of Pain. Sleep, which is the image of Death, how grateful, how refreshing is it to a Natural Body? When I am asleep, I am in the Land of Forgetfulness; happily buried in a pleasing silence; my Soul for that time is, as it were, removed from its troublesome companion, the Body: Oblivion has seiz'd on all my Passions; all my Pains and Aches are still and quiet: What a Tranquility then must attend Death, which is Sleep in the highest degree, Sleep in its perfection? When I am Dead, I need no pleasing murmurs of Winds in the Trees, nor sleepy groanings of purling Brooks, to lull my Senses asleep: I need no soft melancholy Musick, to charm the Evil-Spirit from my Eye-lids, they close naturally: The Province of Death affords no Noise, Hurry, or Contention; but a lucid Ray of Serenity informs each Breast: Morpheus is the only God they adore; and Tranquility the only Pleasure they admire. Death is the beginning of Happiness, and the consummation of it. Happiness has not a motion, as other things, by degrees; it has not a Maturing and Mellowing time, like Fruits; but is born in Perfection. The destruction of Life is the Generation of Happiness. And if Happiness be not attainable before Death, how diligent ought we to be, to make our Lives as Happy as we can? To counterfeit a Happiness, and please our selves with it on the Ocean of Life, 'till we arrive at the Harbour of Death.
To live well, is to be Wise betimes; and Wisdom is attained by so few, that we have reason to doubt, whether Animal Rationale be a good definition of Man in general. Methinks it is a bold saying of the Sieur de Mountaigne, That were he to live over his Life again, he would live as he had done: Were the Sieur my Equal, I should accuse him of Madness and Folly. For my part, I am but in the Twenty third Year of my Age; and have always devoted my Time to the study of Learning and Wisdom; yet were I to Correct the Errata's of my short Life, I would quite alter the Press: Not an Action have I done, but is lyable to the censure of right Reason; and not a Line have I Written; but has need of Correction. Certainly the Life of the best amongst us, is but one great Blot. We may see Folly attending the wisest of Philosophers; when they would perswade us to follow their dictates, at the same time they grow Cynical and morose; and the Tub of a Diogenes is but the derision of an Alexander. Should I speak of those Worthies, that have won the immortal Garland of Honor in the Field, we should find Folly and Rashness always mixed with their Enterprizes: Should I speak of Alexander? he Slew Parmenio: Should I mention Marcus Antonius? he lost the World for a Cleopatra; a Woman, a thing in Petticoats: What an odious sight must it be, to see this great Man, this Anthony, who not long since appear'd in Iron, and Painted it with Blood, now prostrate at the Feet of a silly Woman? To see Honor and Glory subdu'd by Beauty? Hence we may conclude, That Effeminacy is mixed with the greatest Valour, and Folly with the greatest Wisdom. All our Actions are mark'd with the Character of Weakness: Our Humanity supposeth us frail and inconstant. The Decaying Nature of what we Enjoy, tells us every day, there is no solid Happiness in Life▪ Why then should we be so stupid to court this lucid Vapor to remain in our inglorious Houses of Clay? Why should we be so Tyrannous and Cowardly, to desire our Souls to remain in Prison, and keep them unblest from their Enlargement? But it is natural to Man to desire Life; and the Wisest and Stoutest Men do it: Therefore Curtius gives a good description of a Valiant Man; not to hate Life, but to contemn Death: i. e. To have no servile fear of a dissolution, or tremble at grizly Hairs, the Emblems of Death. How vainly do the Old envy the Pleasures, or rather Follies of the Young? An amazing spectacle it is, to see an old grizly Lady applying the black Patches to her Face; tampering of her Fucus, and courting her new-vamp'd Visage in her Glass? though the stench of Death has seiz'd her already, and supersedes the rankness of her Powders. There is nothing so much incenses a Woman, as to tell her, She is Old: That unlucky word, Old, brings all the Blood in her Body to her Face; and for a time supplies the place of artificial Beauty. Neither are the Men free from this Folly; 'tis a contagious Plague, a Gangrene that spreads over the whole Body of Mankind: To see an Old-Man with the mark of Death in his Forehead, buttressed up with a Crutch (like the Pinion-end of an Old-House) spitting and spawling, as if he did intend to drown himself with an inundation of Phlegm: To see him, like a superannuated Ape, acting all his Juvenile Follies over; chewing his Cud upon some delicious Cavalcade, perform'd by him in Whetstones-Park, or White-Friers: To see him pruning of his Head, and picking the Hairs from his Cloaths; setting up for a Spark, with a Cravat of Point de Venice, which the longitude of his Beard will not suffer to be seen: To hear him repeating some of his Complements out of the Academy: To hear him talk of his Assignation-Notes, and telling the young Wantons, how many Mistresses he formerly had; how he knew the meaning of their Hearts, by the glancing of their Eyes, and the colour of their Garters by the complexion of their Shoestrings; and then holds up his old reverent Nodle, concluding with Oh mihi praeter…itos referet si Jupiter annos! I phancy there is nothing more absurd and ridiculous than this. That ever the wrinkles of Old-Age, should be the Indexes of lost Reason! And gray Hairs should be attended with so much Folly!
Were Envy a Vertue, I should exercise it in nothing more than in coveting a Country-Man's life, who has enough of the World to keep him from being beholding, and burthensome to Friends; enough to make him an ordinary Gentleman, and not enough to advance him to the place of a Justice of the Peace; enough to secure him from Contempt, and not enough to make him Honourable, or Miserable, which you please: For Honour is a perplexing Plague, the damn'd Fatigue of Life, the Devil that bewitches Mortals, the Ignis fatuus, that leads Men into Ruine. Were I to lay a Curse upon a Man, a Curse, that should have more than all Pharoah's Plagues in it, I would wish him Honourable; I would damn him to a gilt Coach and Six, two cast off Lackqueys always to attend him; always to be making his Honors; Complementing and Caressing of Ladies; often to be at Balls, and never to appear but in uncomfortable Grandeur. Indeed, Princes and Great Personages cannot properly be said to live; they are but the Pageants of the People, the Sign-Posts of Honor; what they count their Glory (the praise of the multitude) is but Air and Wind. It was a noble and resolute act of Horace, to chuse the melancholy Dome in the Tiburtine Wood, before the place of Secretary to Augustus. He was too much a Poet, to be pleased with any kind of Lustre, beside the Ornaments of the Mind; and certainly never Man appear'd in more splendor upon that account than he. He was too well acquainted with the folly of Noise and Tumult: He could not be ignorant of the pleasure of a Country Retirement, who had all the Muses for his instructors.
Solitude is a thing so agreeable with an Ingenuous and Manly Temper, that it seems to be the very Parent of Wit. What greater Pleasure can there be than to live retir'd? Company is the Remora of all glorious designs; the spring of Vice; the source of Discord and Disorder. Were it not for Company, Emulation had never had a being; Pride had been conceal'd in its original Chaos; Thefts, Rapes and Murders had never sill'd the World with their nauseous fame. To live Retired, is to imitate our pristine state of Innocence, e're Rapine and Cruelty had invaded our World. But, Alas! herein is our Misery, we never can attain to the Happy State of our Fore-Father: He lived in a Garden, so may we; but it cannot be an Eden: He was retir'd in a glorious obscurity, we may be so too; but here is the fatal consequence, our Passions, our Lusts, our Inordinate Desires still accompany us: But yet for all this, Solitude is a thing the nearest Happiness of any; for though we have our Passions always with us, the infamous Retinue, the black Guard of Miserable Bodies; yet in Solitude they are better tamed, there are fewer objects to exercise them on. When I am alone, I can Envy, Hate, Quarrel with none: Indeed Solitude is an Antidote against all the raging Plagues of the Tumultuous World. What Encomiums are good enough for Noble Solitude?
I.
Ah Solitude! what shall I do
Thy worth to show!
Thou source of Poetry, and gay Desire;
Love's brightest Spark, and Wit's immortal Fire:
School of Sense, and Learned Arts;
With Whom Philosophy is bred:
The glory of Ambitious Hearts;
And honour of each Laurel Head:
Thou giv'st new Life to the Immortal Dead.
II.
First State, and Best of Men!
Free from all Cares!
Ancorité Adam happy still had been,
Free from Lust, and free from Fears
Had not Company and Vice come rowling in;
And with it all that Mortals vex:
Envy pale, and Discontent
Hand in hand together went;
Envy could not be withstood,
It dy'd the Earth with Brother's Blood.
Noisy Tumults then perplext
The quiet Sylvane Scene, and silent Shade;
Where, drunk with Rest, the Creature was supinely laid.
III.
The greatest Scipio Thee admir'd,
After his Conquests to a Grove retir'd.
'Tis Solitude that gives us Rest;
'Tis Solitude inspires each noble Breast.
In vain's the giddy Noise of worthless Schools,
Or Taverns cramm'd with loads of Knaves and Fools:
Let them boast on of Wit in Company,
While all the Wise grow Great in good Obscurity.
I know, in this I differ much from the Men of Business; who place their Happiness in Talk, admire London, and damn the Country; think that the harmonious Twatling of a Company of Gossipping Hero's, is more delightful than the Melancholy Singing of Birds in a Noble Solitude. These are the genuine Sons of Mother-Midnight; and would better become the Society of a Christ'ning, than the Solid Retinue of Wisdom. Others there are, that place their Happiness in outward Pomp and Grandeur; that think nothing Great, but what is Gaudy: And some there are, that as much admire an Infinite heap of Gold and Silver; and think, Happiness only consists in Excess and Superfluity; when indeed, the substantial Goodness of our Estates, as well as our Passions, consists in a Mediocrity. I think, I could say Amen to this Prayer of Mr. Cowley's:
Magne Deus, quod ad has Vitae brevis attinet horas,
Da mihi, Da panem Libertatemque nec ultra
Sollicitas effundo preces; si quid datur ultra
Accipiam gratus, sin non contentu… abibo.
And were I to lay down a Rule for a Wise Man to walk by, (I wish, I were capable of following it my self) it should be to Retire from the World, to Immure himself within the Earthen Walls of a Homely Cottage; where not one Cranny should be open, for Lust or Passion to enter: For we are the best Friends, or worst Enemies to our selves. Another's Affronts cannot injure us, unless we resent them: And he that keeps his Breast shut against all Temptations, keeps his Soul more secure, than a Body that is surrounded with the Walls of a Castle. To Conclude:
Could we our Passions guide by Reason's Law,
And keep th' Affections in severest Awe:
Could we a Limit set to boundless Love,
And make our Wrath in peaceful Order move:
Could we unruly Hate in Fetters bind,
And tame the wild Desires of the Mind;
Not Lovers would enjoy more Blissful Ease,
Or Halcions brooding on the silent Seas:
More Damage would the sturdy Oaks sustain
From Fighting Winds, and the Tempestuous Rain,
Than We; though Passion should its Storms raise,
Wild as the Wind, and raging as the Seas.
Grant me, good God! a Melancholy Seat,
Free from the Noise and Tumults of the Great:
Like some Blest Man, who his Retinue sees
A tall and sprightly Grove of servile Trees,
Of complemental Trees, that fright the Hindes,
Making low Congees to the roaring Winds:
A Place where Lust and Passion die away,
And some good Friends make sort… the tedious Day.
Fraught full of Mirth, the Hours more Joy would bring,
Than the black Days attend a Regent King.
FINIS.
THE CONTENTS.
PART I.
A Satyr against Vice. Page 1
A Satyr against Whoring. 10
On the Memory of Sir John Oldham. 13
On the Memory of the Right Honourable the Earl of Rochester. 17
An Ode. 20
The Tory Catch. 22
Hypermnestra to Linus. 24
Corinna to Philocles. 28
Cleopatra to Anthony. 37
Translations out of Horace. 43
Ode. 54
Ode. Page 55
Ode. 58
Ode. 61
Ode. 62
A Letter to a Friend. 64
On the Death of Mrs. E.P. who died on the Small Pox. 69
PART II.
The Vnfortunate Shepherd, a Pastoral. 77
A Discourse of Life. 127
Books Printed for Jonathan Greenwood, at the Black Raven in the Poultry, …ear the Old Jury.
INstructions about Heart-Work; what is to be done on God's Part, and Ours, for the Cure and Keeping of the Heart, that we may live in the Exercise and Growth of Grace here, and have a comfortable Assurance of Glory to Eternity: By that Eminent Gospel-Minister, Mr. Richard Allein, Author of Vindiciae Pietatis: With a Preface, by Dr. Annesley.
Compassionate Counsel to all Young Men; especially, 1. London-Apprentices. 2. Students of Divinity, Physick and Law. 3. The Sons of Magistrates, and Rich Men. By Richard Baxter. Price bound, 1s. 6d.
A Sermon Preached at the Funeral of the Right Honourable Anne Baroness Holles, of Ifield in Sussex; with a short Account of her Holy Life, and Patience under all Afflictions, from Heb. 13.14. By James Waters, Domestick Chaplain to the Right Honourable Francis Lord Holles, Baron Holles of Ifield, her late Husband.
End of the text · John Tutchin, Poems on Several Occasions (1685)