Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 3

thy Complaints serve but to show thee more,?How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore.?Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head,?And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led.?Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys,?The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys??Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France,?To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance??Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star,?And sent thee like a Meteor to the War??Have I done all that Royal Dad could do,?And do you threaten now to be untrue??But say I did with thy fond Mother sport,?To the same kindness others had resort;?'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame,?To shelter thee under my Royal Name.?Alas! I never got one Brat alone,?My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known,?And I still willing all their Brats to own.?I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace,?And stuck upon thee every mighty Place,?Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow?Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low.?I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose?With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes?By secret Envy at thy growing State:?I lost my safety when I made thee Great.?There's not the least Injustice to you shewn;?You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne.?Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge?Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage;?And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves?I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves.?Thou art a Creature of my own Creation;?Then swallow this without Capitulation.?If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter,?And make the People for your Sake to mutter,?For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know,?G------fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.
AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE.
ENGLISH'D BY MR. DRYDEN.
O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain?Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign,?New People fill the Land now thou art gone,?New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne.?Scotland and thou did each in other live,?Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive.?Farewell! who living didst support the State,?And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.
THE ROBBER ROBB'D.
I.
A certain Priest had hoarded up?A mass of secret Gold.?And where he might bestow it safe?He knew not to be bold.
II.
At last it came into his Thought?To lock it in a Chest?Within the Chancel; and he wrote?Thereon, "Hic Deus est."
III.
A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind?Did long for such a Prey,?Respecting not the Sacred Words?That on the Casket lay,
IV.
Took out the Gold, and blotting out?The Priest's Inscript thereon,?Wrote, "Resurrexit, non est hic":?"Your God is rose and gone."
AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!
Ah! the shepherd's mournful fate!?When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish,?To bear the scornful fair one's hate,?Nor dare disclose his anguish.?Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,?My secret soul discover,?While rapture trembling thro' my eyes?Reveals how much I love her.?The tender glance; the redd'ning cheek,?O'erspread with rising blushes,?A thousand various ways they speak?A thousand various wishes.?For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,?Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,?That artless blush, and modest air,?So artfully beguiling! [2]?Thy every look and every grace?So charms whene'er I view thee,?Till death o'ertake me in the chase?Still will my hopes pursue thee;?Then when my tedious hours are past?Be this last blessing given,?Low at thy feet to breathe my last,?And die in sight of heaven.
[Footnote 2: "Ars celare artem."]
SOME VERSES TO A FRIEND WHO TWICE VENTURED ON MARRIAGE.
BY THOMAS BROWN.
The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean,?He always in danger, she always in motion;?And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase?Twice ventures the Drowning, and, Faith, that's a hard case. Even at our Weapons the Females defeat us,?And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus.?Not to tell you sad stories of Liberty lost,?Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost;?That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station,?Sutes no other States or Degrees in the Nation.?The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty,?For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty??The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble,?And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double.?'Twas invented, they tell you, to keep us from falling;?Oh the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwauling!?How it palls in your Gain; but, pray, how do you know, Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks in your Enclosure??For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage,?You must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg.?If at night you're inactive, or fail in performing,?Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed, next Morning;?Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner:?This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.?Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally, And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily;?And still you must charge--O blessed Condition!--?Tho' you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition:?Till at last the poor fool of a mortified