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.
The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute,
And said be thou for ever mute:
Mute as the silent shades of night,
Whither Orinda's gone,
Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song;
She that could make
Thy inarticulated strings to speak,
In language soft as young desires,
In language chaste as Vestal fires;
But she hath ta'n her Everlasting flight:
Ah! cruel Death,
How short's the date of Learned breath!
No sooner do's the blooming Rose,
Drest fresh and gay,
In the embroy'dries of her Native May,
Her odorous sweets expose,
But with thy fatal knife,
The fragrant flow'r is crop't from off the stalk of life.
III.
Come, ye Stoicks, come away,
You that boast an Apathy,
And view our Golgotha;
See how the mourning Virgins all around,
With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground;
And tell me, tell me where's the Eye
That can be dry,
Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain)
Their universal cry,
Should mount the vaulted sky,
And of the Gods obtain,
A young succeeding Phœnix might arise
From Orinda's spicy obsequies.
In Heaven the voice was heard,
Heaven does the Virgins pray'rs regard;
And none that dwells on high,
If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.
IV.
'Tis done, 'tis done, th' imperial grant is past,
We have our wish at last,
And now no more with sorrow be it said,
Orinda's dead;
Since in her seat Astræa does Appear,
The God of Wit has chosen her,
To bear Orinda's and his Character.
The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow
On her more gracefull Brow;
And in her hand
Look how she waves his sacred Wand:
Loves Quiver's tyde
In an Azure Mantle by her side,
And with more gentle Arts
Than he who owns the Aureal darts,
At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.
V.
Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce,
And with a gracefull voice,
Commend Apollo's Choice.
The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet,
And chearfully her name repeat,
And chearfully admire and praise,
The Loyal musick of her layes;
Whilst they securely sit,
Beneath the banners of her wit,
And scorn th'ill-manner'd Ignorance of those,
Whose Stock's so poor they cannot raise
To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise,
Unless they're dubb'd the Sexes foes,
These squibbs of sense themselves expose.
Or if with stolen light
They shine one night,
The next their earth-born Lineage shows,
They perish in their slime,
And but to name them, wou'd defile Astræa's Rhime.
IV.
But you that would be truely wise,
And vertues fair Idea prize;
You that would improve
In harmless Arts of not indecent Love:
Arts that Romes fam'd Master never taught,
Or in the Shops of fortune's bought.
Would you know what Wit doth mean,
Pleasant wit yet not obscene,
The several garbs that Humours wear,
The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe?
Wou'd you the pattern see
Of spotless and untainted Loyalty,
Deck't in every gracefull word
That language that afford;
Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly,
Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie?
Reade you then Astræa's lines,
'Tis in those new discover'd Mines,
Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found
With which in Worlds as yet unknown Astræa shall be crown'd.
VII.
And you th' Advent'rous sons of fame,
You that would sleep in honours bed
With glorious Trophies garnished;
You that with living labours strive
Your dying Ashes to survive;
Pay your Tributes to Astræa's name,
Her Works can spare you immortality,
For sure her Works shall never dye.
Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay,
Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust,
Noisie Wonders of a short liv'd day,
That must in time yield up their Trust;
And had e'er this been perisht quite
Ith' ruines of Eternal night,
Had no kind Pen like her's,
In powerfull numbers powerfull verse,
Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate,
To these our ages lost declar'd their pristine State.
VIII.
But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee,
For when the Globe of vast Eternity;
Turns up the wrong-side of the World,
And all things are to their first Chaos hurl'd,
Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll'd,
With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold.
And surely none 'midst the Poetick Quire,
But justly will admire
The Trophies of thy wit,
Sublime and gay as e'er were yet
In Charming Numbers writ.
Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost,
Of Ages past the pride and boast;
Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse
That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse.
And if 'twere lawfull to suppose
(As where's the Crime or Incongruity)
Those awfull Souls concern'd can be
At any sublunary thing,
Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see,
That whilst I sing,
And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.
By F. N. W.
To Madam Behn, on her Poems.
When th'Almighty Powers th'Universe had fram'd,
And Man as King, the lesser World was nam'd.
The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless.
And sent him Woman his chief happiness.
She by an after-birth Heaven did refine,
And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine;
She with delight was Natures chiefest pride,
Dearer to Man than all the World beside;
Her soft embraces charm'd his Manly Soul,
And softer Words his Roughness did controul:
So thou, great Sappho, with thy charming Verse,
Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse;
From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell,
As if the Graces strove which shou'd excell.
Th'admiring World when first your Lute you strung.
Became all ravisht with th' immortal Song;
So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen,
As if the Muses had design'd you Queen.
For thee, thou great Britannia of our Land,
How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command?
With what great influence do thy Verses move?
}
How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love?
}
Admir'd by us, and blest by all above.
}
To you all tribute's due, and I can raise
No glory but by speaking in your praise.
Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen,
And we shall oft return thee thanks again.
H. Watson.
POEMS UPON
SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
The Golden Age.
A Paraphrase on a Translation out of French.
I.
Blest Age! when ev'ry Purling Stream
Ran undisturb'd and clear,
When no scorn'd Shepherds on your Banks were seen,
Tortur'd by Love, by Jealousie, or Fear;
When an Eternal Spring drest ev'ry Bough,
And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossest;
These their kind Shade affording all below,
And those a Bed where all below might rest.
The Groves appear'd all drest with Wreaths of Flowers,
And from their Leaves dropt Aromatick Showers,
Whose fragrant Heads in Mystick Twines above,
Exchang'd their Sweets, and mix'd with thousand Kisses,
As if the willing Branches strove
To beautifie and shade the Grove
Where the young wanton Gods of Love
Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.
II.
Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud,
The Skie was dark'ned with no sullen Cloud;
But all the Heav'ns laugh'd with continued Light,
And scattered round their Rays serenely bright.
No other Murmurs fill'd the Ear
But what the Streams and Rivers purl'd,
When Silver Waves o'er Shining Pebbles curl'd;
Or when young Zephirs fan'd the Gentle Breez,
Gath'ring fresh Sweets from Balmy Flow'rs and Trees,
Then bore 'em on their Wings to perfume all the Air:
While to their soft and tender Play,
The Gray-Plum'd Natives of the Shades
Unwearied sing till Love invades,
Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Musick makes the Day.
III.
The stubborn Plough had then,
Made no rude Rapes upon the Virgin Earth;
Who yielded of her own accord her plentious Birth,
Without the Aids of men;
As if within her Teeming Womb,
All Nature, and all Sexes lay,
Whence new Creations every day
Into the happy World did come:
The Roses fill'd with Morning Dew,
Bent down their loaded heads,
T'Adorn the careless Shepherds Grassy Beds
While still young opening Buds each moment grew
And as those withered, drest his shaded Couch a new;
Beneath who's boughs the Snakes securely dwelt,
Not doing harm, nor harm from others felt;
With whom the Nymphs did Innocently play,
No spightful Venom in the wantons lay;
But to the touch were Soft, and to the sight were Gay.
IV.
Then no rough sound of Wars Alarms,
Had taught the World the needless use of Arms:
Monarchs were uncreated then,
Those Arbitrary Rulers over men:
Kings that made Laws, first broke 'em, and the Gods
By teaching us Religion first, first set the World at Odds:
Till then Ambition was not known,
That Poyson to Content, Bane to Repose;
Each Swain was Lord o'er his own will alone,
His Innocence Religion was, and Laws.
Nor needed any troublesome defence
Against his Neighbours Insolence.
Flocks, Herds, and every necessary good
Which bounteous Nature had design'd for Food,
Whose kind increase o'er-spread the Meads and Plaines,
Was then a common Sacrifice to all th'agreeing Swaines.
V.
Right and Property were words since made,
When Power taught Mankind to invade:
When Pride and Avarice became a Trade;
Carri'd on by discord, noise and wars,
For which they barter'd wounds and scarrs;
And to Inhaunce the Merchandize, miscall'd it, Fame,
And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies,
Was gaining of a Glorious Name:
Stiling their salvage slaughters, Victories;
Honour, the Error and the Cheat
Of the Ill-natur'd Bus'ey Great,
Nonsense, invented by the Proud,
Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd,
Thou wert not known in those blest days
Thy Poyson was not mixt with our unbounded Joyes;
Then it was glory to pursue delight,
And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite,
Then 'twas the Amorous world injoy'd its Reign;
And Tyrant Honour strove t' usurp in Vain.
VI.
The flowry Meads, the Rivers and the Groves,
Were fill'd with little Gay-wing'd Loves:
That ever smil'd and danc'd and Play'd,
And now the woods, and now the streames invade,
And where they came all things were gay and glad:
When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat
Opprest with a too fervent heat;
A Thousands Cupids fann'd their wings aloft,
And through the Boughs the yielded Ayre would waft:
Whose parting Leaves discovered all below,
And every God his own soft power admir'd,
And smil'd and fann'd, and sometimes bent his Bow;
Where e'er he saw a Shepherd uninspir'd.
The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain;
Deny'd their Joyes, or gave the Lover pain;
The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes;
Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame,
But the Effect of kindling Flame:
Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes,
While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes,
Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.
VII.
The Lovers thus, thus uncontroul'd did meet,
Thus all their Joyes and Vows of Love repeat:
Joyes which were everlasting, ever new
And every Vow inviolably true:
Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause,
Nor in obedience to the duller Laws.
Those Fopperies of the Gown were then not known,
Those vain, those Politick Curbs to keep man in,
Who by a fond mistake Created that a Sin;
Which freeborn we, by right of Nature claim our own.
Who but the Learned and dull moral Fool
Could gravely have forseen, man ought to live by Rule?
VIII.
Oh cursed Honour! thou who first didst damn,
A Woman to the Sin of shame;
Honour! that rob'st us of our Gust,
Honour! that hindred mankind first,
At Loves Eternal Spring to squench his amorous thirst.
Honour! who first taught lovely Eyes the art,
To wound, and not to cure the heart:
With Love to invite, but to forbid with Awe,
And to themselves prescribe a Cruel Law;
To Veil 'em from the Lookers on,
When they are sure the slave's undone,
And all the Charmingst part of Beauty hid;
Soft Looks, consenting Wishes, all deny'd.
It gathers up the flowing Hair,
That loosely plaid with wanton Air.
The Envious Net, and stinted order hold,
The lovely Curls of Jet and shining Gold;
No more neglected on the Shoulders hurl'd:
Now drest to Tempt, not gratify the World:
Thou, Miser Honour, hord'st the sacred store,
And starv'st thy self to keep thy Votaries poor.
IX.
Honour! that put'st our words that should be free
Into a set Formality.
Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart,
That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art;
What Love design'd a sacred Gift,
What Nature made to be possest;
Mistaken Honour, made a Theft,
For Glorious Love should be confest:
For when confin'd, all the poor Lover gains,
Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains.
Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature's worst Disease,
Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings,
What mak'st thou here in Shepheards Cottages;
Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs?
Be gone, and make thy Fam'd resort
To Princes Pallaces;
Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court,
That busie Market for Phantastick Things;
Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat,
Of the Illustrious and the Great;
Go break the Politicians sleep,
Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool,
That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule,
Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep;
But let the humble honest Swain go on,
In the blest Paths of the first rate of man;
That nearest were to Gods Alli'd,
And form'd for love alone, disdain'd all other Pride.
X.
Be gone! and let the Golden age again,
Assume its Glorious Reign;
Let the young wishing Maid confess,
What all your Arts would keep conceal'd:
The Mystery will be reveal'd,
And she in vain denies, whilst we can guess,
She only shows the Jilt to teach man how,
To turn the false Artillery on the Cunning Foe.
Thou empty Vision hence, be gone,
And let the peaceful Swain love on;
The swift pac'd hours of life soon steal away:
Stint not, yee Gods, his short liv'd Joy.
The Spring decays, but when the Winter's gone,
The Trees and Flowers a new comes on;
The Sun may set, but when the night is fled,
And gloomy darkness does retire,
He rises from his Watry Bed:
All Glorious, Gay, all drest in Amorous Fire.
But Sylvia when your Beauties fade,
When the fresh Roses on your Cheeks shall die
Like Flowers that wither in the Shade,
Eternally they will forgotten lye,
}
And no kind Spring their sweetness will supply.
}
When Snow shall on those lovely Tresses lye.
}
And your fair Eyes no more shall give us pain,
But shoot their pointless Darts in vain.
What will your duller honour signifie?
Go boast it then! and see what numerous Store
Of Lovers will your Ruin'd Shrine Adore.
Then let us, Sylvia, yet be wise,
And the Gay hasty minutes prize:
The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light,
Once sett, a sleep brings an Eternal Night.
A Farewel to Celladon, On his Going into
Ireland.
Pindarick.
Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good,
By all admir'd and understood;
For all thy vertues so extensive are,
Writ in so noble and so plain a Character,
That they instruct humanity what to do,
How to reward and imitate 'em too,
The mighty Cesar found and knew,
The Value of a Swain so true:
And early call'd the Industrious Youth from Groves
Where unambitiously he lay,
And knew no greater Joyes, nor Power then Loves;
Which all the day
The careless and delighted Celladon Improves;
So the first man in Paradice was laid,
So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade,
Till false Ambition made him range,
So the Almighty call'd him forth,
And though for Empire he did Eden change;
Less Charming 'twas, and far less worth.
II.
Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains,
The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains,
Obeys the mighty voice of Jove.
The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues,
Bus'ness Debauches all his hours of Love;
Bus'ness, whose hurry, noise and news
Even Natures self subdues;
Changes her best and first simplicity,
Her soft, her easie quietude
Into mean Arts of cunning Policy,
The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude.
Say, mighty Celladon, oh tell me why,
Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy
In bus'ness, which alone was made
To teach the restless States-man how to Trade
In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design,
But n'ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine.
Business the Check to Mirth and Wit,
Business the Rival of the Fair,
The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit,
Onely to those that languish in Dispair;
Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate
To him to whom forgetful Heaven,
Has no one other vertue given,
But dropt down the unfortunate,
To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.
III.
But thou whose nobler Soul was fram'd,
For Glorious and Luxurious Ease,
By Wit adorn'd, by Love inflam'd;
For every Grace, and Beauty Fam'd,
Form'd for delight, design'd to please,
Give, Give a look to every Joy,
That youth and lavish Fortune can invent,
Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy
Both Heaven and Natures first intent.
But oh in vain is all I say,
And you alas must go,
The Mighty Cæsar to obey,
And none so fit as you.
From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth,
He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth;
He's try'd it oft, and put it to the Test,
It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest,
The great, the God-like Celladon,
Unlike the base Examples of the times,
Cou'd never be Corrupted, never won,
To stain his honest blood with Rebel Crimes.
Fearless unmov'd he stood amidst the tainted Crowd,
And justify'd and own'd his Loyalty aloud.
IV.
Hybernia hail! Hail happy Isle,
Be glad, and let all Nature smile.
Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers;
Ye Groves and every Purling Spring,
Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing,
Be glad and gay, for Celladon is yours;
He comes, he comes to grace your Plains.
To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains,
Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name
To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills;
Ye Feather'd Quire chant forth his Fame,
Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand'ring Rills,
That through the Meadows in Meanders run,
Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.
VI.
Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes,
And give his Life some softning Interludes:
That when his weari'd mind would be,
From Noise and Rigid Bus'ness free;
He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down,
Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade,
With some dear Shee, whom Nature made,
To be possest by him alone;
Where the soft tale of Love She breathes,
Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves,
The different Notes of Cheerful Birds,
And distant Bleating of the Herds:
Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet,
Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.
VII.
Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes,
And for the publick good, prolong your days:
Instruct the World, the great Example prove,
Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love.
And when your busier hours are done,
And you with Damon sit alone;
Damon the honest, brave and young;
Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung,
For you (by Sacred Friendship ty'd,)
Love nor Fate can nere divide;
When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run,
Surveying all the Conquests you have won,
The Swaines you'ave left, the sighing Maids undone;
Try if you can a fatal prospect take,
Think if you can a soft Idea make:
Of what we are, now you are gone,
Of what we feel for Celladon.
VIII.
'Tis Celladon the witty and the gay,
That blest the Night, and cheer'd the world all Day:
'Tis Celladon, to whom our Vows belong,
And Celladon the Subject of our Song.
For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice,
The praise of these, of those the choice;
And if our Joyes were rais'd to this Excess,
Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great:
Some pittying God help thee to guess,
(What fancy cannot well Express.)
Our Languishments by thy Retreat;
Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more,
And let that pitty haste thee to our shore;
And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are,
Afford us all your sighs, and Cesar all your care.
On a Juniper-Tree, cut down to make Busks.
Whilst happy I Triumphant stood,
The Pride and Glory of the Wood;
My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit,
Did with all other Trees dispute.
Had right by Nature to excel,
In pleasing both the tast and smell:
But to the touch I must confess,
Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness.
My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I
Yielded with some Reluctancy;
For which my vallue should be more,
Not giving easily my store.
My verdant Branches all the year
}
Did an Eternal Beauty wear;
}
Did ever young and gay appear.
}
Nor needed any tribute pay,
For bounties from the God of Day:
Nor do I hold Supremacy,
(In all the Wood) o'er every Tree.
But even those too of my own Race,
That grow not in this happy place.
But that in which I glory most,
And do my self with Reason boast,
Beneath my shade the other day,
Young Philocles and Cloris lay,
Upon my Root she lean'd her head,
}
And where I grew, he made their Bed:
}
Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread.
}
Their trembling Limbs did gently press,
The kind supporting yielding Grass:
Ne'er half so blest as now, to bear
A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair:
My Grateful Shade I kindly lent,
And every aiding Bough I bent.
So low, as sometimes had the blisse,
To rob the Shepherd of a kiss,
Whilst he in Pleasures far above
The Sence of that degree of Love:
Permitted every stealth I made,
Unjealous of his Rival Shade.
I saw 'em kindle to desire,
Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire;
Saw the approaches of their joy,
He growing more fierce, and she less Coy,
Saw how they mingled melting Rays,
Exchanging Love a thousand ways.
Kind was the force on every side,
}
Her new desire she could not hide:
}
Nor wou'd the Shepherd be deny'd.
}
Impatient he waits no consent
But what she gave by Languishment,
The blessed Minute he pursu'd;
And now transported in his Arms,
Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes,
His panting Breast, to hers now join'd,
They feast on Raptures unconfin'd;
Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove
The Immortality of Love.
For who but a Divinitie,
}
Could mingle Souls to that Degree;
}
And melt 'em into Extasie?
}
Now like the Phenix, both Expire,
}
While from the Ashes of their Fire,
}
Sprung up a new, and soft desire.
}
Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke,
The God! and thrice new vigor took.
Nor had the Mysterie ended there,
But Cloris reassum'd her fear,
And chid the Swain, for having prest,
What she alas wou'd not resist:
Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame,
Before and after was the same,
Fondly implor'd she wou'd forget
A fault, which he wou'd yet repeat.
From Active Joyes with some they hast,
To a Reflexion on the past;
A thousand times my Covert bless,
That did secure their Happiness:
Their Gratitude to every Tree
They pay, but most to happy me;
The Shepherdess my Bark carest,
Whilst he my Root, Love's Pillow, kist;
And did with sighs, their fate deplore,
Since I must shelter them no more;
And if before my Joyes were such,
In having heard, and seen too much,
My Grief must be as great and high,
}
When all abandon'd I shall be,
}
Doom'd to a silent Destinie.
}
No more the Charming strife to hear,
The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear:
No more a joyful looker on,
Whilst Loves soft Battel's lost and won.
With grief I bow'd my murmering Head,
And all my Christal Dew I shed.
Which did in Cloris Pity move,
(Cloris whose Soul is made of Love;)
She cut me down, and did translate,
My being to a happier state.
No Martyr for Religion di'd
With half that Unconsidering Pride;
My top was on that Altar laid.
Where Love his softest Offerings paid:
And was as fragrant Incense burn'd,
My body into Busks was turn'd:
Where I still guard the Sacred Store,
And of Loves Temple keep the Door.
On the Death of Mr. Grinhil,
the Famous Painter.
I.